Chapter 9 - Coins in the gutter

Chapter 9

The Mercy Inn was bustling, warm and loud. The dining hall buzzed with activity. Mugs clinked. A half-drunk bard twanged out something that might’ve been music. A couple of gamblers argued over match odds in the corner while a serving girl expertly swerved between tables.

Alden sat against the far wall, a half-eaten bowl of stew in front of him. His ribs were wrapped, bruised from his last bout.

It had been a week since his fight against the Haggler. And since then, he’d grown stronger. But, as if to match his growth rate, his opponents in the arena had also grown increasingly difficult.

Alden let out a sight and suppressed a wince at the pang of pain that exploded at his side. He ate slowly, forcing his back straight, eyes drifting between reflections in mugs and movements in shadows.

He kept his ears sharp, listening to the bits of conversation from the loud drunkards near him. Despite his curiosity and thirst for knowledge, he kept to himself. His table was empty. Unlike during his barman days.

He didn’t like crowds. Not anymore. Not since he transmigrated. Maybe it was Kellan’s personality affecting his. Or maybe he still hadn’t adjusted to the new normal, but he found the company of strangers hard to enjoy.

As Alden focused on the noise around him, the sound of the door creaking open drifted to his ears. His eyes trailed towards the newcomer.

Broad build, shoddy boots, a face like a smashed fruit and a swagger just sloppy enough to scream drunk.

It was Torren.

Alden recognized the rank 3 arena dog. All bark, all bite. The kind of fighter who earned his coin through brutality and volume. Volatile, undisciplined, and right now, swaying on his feet.

Torren’s bleary eyes scanned the room until they met Alden’s brown ones.

As if finding his target, the man started walking over with a stupid grin on his face.

“Well, well. Silver Hunter,” he slurred. “Heard you been gettin’ lucky in the ring lately.”

The voices in the room dropped a touch at that. A few eyes drifted over. And the waitress discreetly slipped away behind the counter.

“What do you want, Torren?” Alden said, staring at the man.

Torren’s grin widened like he didn’t hear the question. He tapped a finger against Alden’s bowl, nearly spilling it. “You... bumped into me yesterday. Locker corridor. Remember?”

“I didn’t.”

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“I’m saying I wasn’t there, morron.”

Torren’s hand slammed down against the table. The bowl jumped. A couple spoons clattered to the floor somewhere nearby.

“You think you’re somebody now, huh? You win a few matches, get your name called a few times, and suddenly you’re better than the rest of us?”

Alden clicked his tongue. He could see where the conversation was going. His chair grinded against the wooden floor as he slowly stood up.

“If you want a fight,” he started, voice low and even, “You should just say so. Let’s take this shit outside.”

The two arena fighters locked eyes.

For a moment, Torren looked like he might swing. His shoulders tensed; his mouth twitched. But something in Alden’s stance gave him pause.

A glint of clarity returned to Torren’s eyes. He snorted, wiped his nose on the back of his hand, and backed up. “Pfft. Ain’t worth the headache.”

He turned, staggering off toward the bar. Muttering. Sloshing into a chair like the whole thing had just been a misunderstanding.

Alden watched him back away with a frown. He had half a mind to pursue the matter, but ultimately decided against it.

Torren wasn’t worth the trouble.

From a booth tucked into the second-floor balcony, Jarek watched through the lattice rail. Varo sat beside him, silent as ever.

“Wasn’t he supposed to take a swing there?” Varo asked.

Jarek nodded once. “Yeah… Seems like he got cold feet. But it doesn’t matter.”

Varo’s eyes tracked the room.

“No one flinched. No one stepped in. Aside from just a few curious fools, nobody gave a damn about the kid.”

Jarek smirked. “Exactly what I needed to know.”

He drained his wine.

*********************************

A couple days passed in a blur as Alden kept up his new routine of daily fights and grinding. During those days, he could feel as his body continuously grew stronger and more controlled.

His visits to the fog realm had been consistent. And it showed no signs of stopping.

Things were looking good for him. Despite the huge amount of debt he owed, Alden was making steady progress.

Still, all wasn’t bright and sunny.

He had been feeling on edge lately. Perhaps it was due to his rise in the arena, but he often felt like he was being watched. It may have been people slowly taking note of him, or something else entirely.

Still, it kept him on edge.

That day, he exited the arena just after dusk, body sore from another rough win. His shoulder throbbed from a poorly dodged elbow, and his right hand was raw from where he’d punched through someone’s guard.

But he felt good. Solid. Cleaner than he used to be. He got used to fighting.

Alden slipped through the fighter gate at the rear. He kept to the side streets, boots crunching gravel and gutter trash. One hand stayed near his waist.

Inside his tunic, tucked tight and secure, was a small pouch of coin. 30 bronze. 20 for his debt, and 10 for the interest. It wasn’t much. But it was enough to clear part of his debt. Another dent in the mountain.

But progress was progress. Until he could find a better solution, he had to keep paying up.

He walked briskly toward the Vein’s outpost. He didn’t like going there, but the longer he held onto money, the more chances something could go wrong.

And just as he feared, something did.

A small blur slammed into his side as he passed a narrow opening between two buildings.

“Watch it,” Alden growled, hand searching for his bag.

But it was too late. The weight was gone.

He spun around, just in time to see a small boy darting into the alleys. Dirty cloak waved in the wind as he sprinted away.

“Shit!”

Alden chased after the boy, weaving through crates and old barrels. The boy was quick, ducking under a sagging clothesline and disappearing behind a stack of crates. Alden followed without thinking, boots skidding on loose stone.

Then another figure emerged from the side. A sliver of steel flickered under the light from his side.

Alden barely had time to react. He twisted out of the knife’s path and slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, driving him into the wall with bone-jarring force. The blade clattered to the ground, spinning into the grime.

He exhaled, already turning to continue the chase, but a fist crashed into his face.

The world tilted. Pain flared behind Alden’s eyes as he staggered backward, catching himself on a broken crate. The alley spun once before settling into blurry shapes and jagged shadows.

Boots crunched forward. And a voice followed, slow and smug.

“Always knew you were dumb, Silver.”

Alden blinked away the daze, his eyes settling on the emerging Jarek.

The bald bastard stepped from the shadows, sleeves rolled to the elbows, that trademark smirk curling his lips.

The kid and his partner were gone. And so was Alden’s money.

“Just when I started to wonder if you’d forgotten about me,” Alden muttered, scanning the narrow alley for an escape.

Jarek chuckled. “Forget my dog? Never.”

He stepped aside. And just as Alden feared, Varo emerged. The tall man stood there quietly, as menacing as ever.

Alden bit back a curse and forced himself to remain calm. Panicking wouldn’t help in his situation.

“You sure you want to do this? I can scream for the guards you know.”

Jarek gave a lazy shrug. “Give it your best shot.”

The casual way in which the man dismissed the threat told Alden a lot about the situation. Just as he was about to turn around and bolt for the other exit, a soft scuff of boots echoed behind him, loud and deliberate. He turned just enough to glance over his shoulder.

Another figure stepped into view from the far end of the alley, peeling himself from the shadows with the smugness of someone who thought the game was already won.

“Evening, Silver,” Torren called, voice drawling with amusement. “For a hunter, you really suck at spotting traps.”

By now it was obvious to Alden that he fucked up.

He should have seen it coming. Thieves didn’t usually go after people like him: fighters wrapped in bandages and muscle. One glance should’ve been enough to tell a real street rat to back off.

They only targeted him because they were told to.

And Alden had been careless enough to chase the little thieves. But it wasn’t like he could just watch as someone stole from him either. He had bled for that money.

He blew out a breath. He knew that pleading for his life wouldn’t work. Not on people from the Arena.

“Cowards.”

Torren snorted from his back. “Cowards win, Silver. They have the patience to wait until the odds look good.”

Alden ignored the comment. With a sharp motion, he dropped low and snatched the knife the thief had dropped, fingers closing around the worn grip just as Varo lunged.

The first blow came fast. Varo’s boot slammed toward his open chest. Alden rolled with it, the impact still jarring through his bones, but the angle saved him from being critically injured. He got back up, blade in hand, and eyes blazing with determination.

Then Torren was on him.

Alden twisted, barely dodging a punch meant to cave his jaw in. He slashed with the knife, but Torren leaned back, grinning. Varo flanked him again. And the two started to push.

They weren’t rushing. They didn’t need to. This wasn’t their first ambush, they knew that as long as they tired him out, the game would be over.

Jarek’s voice drifted in from behind them, smug and leisurely. “Come on, Silver. I thought you were getting sharper. Show me those flashy moves of yours.”

Alden blocked out the taunt. He ducked under a hook, slid across the alley’s grime-slicked floor, and jabbed at Torren’s thigh. The man grunted and backed away, opening up the way. But before Alden could move, Varo was already there, elbow catching Alden on the temple.

His vision tilted. His knees buckled.

He staggered, but didn’t fall.

He couldn’t.

Alden lashed out with a desperate backhand, forcing space. The knife nicked Varo’s forearm, barely drawing blood.

It cost him.

Torren rushed in, catching him with a hard body shot that folded him over.

Alden wheezed. Pain clawed through his ribs.

He tried to step back. Tried to reset. But they didn’t let up. Varo swept his leg, and Torren grabbed his collar, throwing him into the alley wall.

Alden gasped, the knife slipping from his hand.

Jarek’s laughter echoed, smug and distant.

“Look at you. All that posturing… and this is how it ends? On your knees like a mutt.”

Alden’s ears rang. His limbs screamed. His thoughts frayed at the edges.

He really was going to die. He knew it.

And yet.

Something inside him pulled tight. A thread. A whisper.

He was unwilling.

After all he’s been through, he wasn’t willing to die like some dog in an alley.

Alden’s hand shot out, fingers fumbling across the ground until they found the knife again.

He pushed himself up and twisted, just in time to parry another blow from Varo. Torren stepped in with a haymaker, but Alden ducked, his instincts dragging his body through the motion.

For just a breath, the world slowed.

His chest burned. His vision sharpened. His mind fell into focus.

And something inside him flared.

The knife moved like it had a will of its own. Alden surged forward with shocking speed and slashed. Steel carved into flesh, and Torren howled as a gash bloomed across his side, red and ugly. He staggered back, eyes wide with pain and disbelief.

A gap had opened. And Alden moved. But he was still a second too late.

Varo’s foot crashed into his ribs. The sound it made was sickening.

Alden’s body twisted mid-air, crashing against the alley wall once again before crumpling to the ground.

But he didn’t stop.

Something carried him forward: adrenaline, desperation, and whatever the rest was. It pushed him up.

He stumbled, running despite the pain that burned through his body, sprinting down the alley with every ounce of strength he had left.

Behind him, Jarek shouted something. Varo cursed. Torren screamed.

But Alden didn’t look back.

He just ran.

He zigzagged through the alleys, climbed over trash bins and slipped between crooked buildings, boots splashing through filthy puddles. His lungs burned. His ribs throbbed. But he didn’t stop.

Eventually, he slid into a tight gap between two boarded-up homes and collapsed. His back scraped against the damp stone wall as he sank down, knife still clutched in one trembling hand.