Thirstfall - Memory of a Returnee

I’m a few steps from the Oathmark when I realize the man is still behind me.

The distance shifts with whatever the street allows, his eyes never resting too long on the target, his body always busy with something else. A stall. A puddle. A patch of wall. A small lie to cover a larger intent.

I stop before reaching the stone circle.

The man slows too.

Instead of hurrying toward the monument, I turn to face him, bend my knees, and sink onto my own heels, low, elbows resting on my legs. It’s a deliberately lazy posture. Almost offensive in how calm it is. Just the kind of silence that says I’ve seen enough and don’t intend to pretend otherwise.

The man stops a few meters off.

Thin beard, worn hood, a small scar cutting the side of his jaw. Not one of the faces I memorized on the way, or maybe just Red Squid repeating the same misery with different skin. He holds my gaze for two seconds. On the third, his throat moves. On the fourth, his weight shifts to his back foot. On the fifth, the fear grows in his eyes, not as panic, but as a calculation reaching its end.

He turns and runs.

I don’t shout. I don’t chase.

Maybe Thomas sent someone. Maybe it’s just a rat who saw a Diver leaving the Central Tavern and decided information was worth money. Maybe it ties to the men Richard beat, or maybe Red Squid simply produced one more hungry shadow that day.

It doesn’t matter. I offered enough threat to make him quit. For now, that’s enough.

I rise, pay the Oathmark fee, and step onto the circle. The stone lights under my feet, the rot of Red Squid folds into bluish light, and Azure Prime pulls me back as if the rich city had never allowed places like that to exist in the same world.

The contrast stays insulting.

I head straight for the southwest plaza, thinking of Richard locked in his own tavern, of Zoe refusing safety so she wouldn’t abandon her father, and of the promise to return tonight.

When I arrive, I don’t find duels. I find training.

The improvised arena is occupied, but with no active Nomine Gladiatus. The group has spread into pairs, not to win, but to trade flaws. Kellan is with Oliver near one of the edges, repeating a short entry while Oliver corrects the moment he plants his foot too heavily. There’s no full friendship there, but less venom. For someone like Kellan, accepting correction without turning it into an insult is almost spiritual progress.

Further on, Mira teaches Rhayne to leave a line of attack without retreating straight back. She demonstrates with her body, shifting the shoulder, turning the hip, leaving the free hand ready to answer. Rhayne copies carefully, not trying to make up for the loss with haste.

That pleases me more than I expected. She didn’t use Void Monarch against Kellan. She lost and kept training. In Thirstfall, that’s a victory the HUD doesn’t show.

Then I see Zhang Xi and Freya.

Freya is kneeling.

Not humiliated, not submissive. She kneels like a student before a master who just revealed a mountain where there had only been mist. Zhang Xi speaks low, one hand raised with two fingers aligned, demonstrating some principle of flow or pressure I can’t make out from here. Freya listens without interrupting. For someone who wears pride as armor, it looks like a mirage.

I stop for an instant.

Zhang Xi beat Freya even with Permafrost. Easily, by Rhayne’s account. And now the Ice Valkyrie listens on her knees, not because anyone forced her, but because her body found something larger than her own pride.

I really do need to revise what I think I know about that monk.

"Look at that," Veric says before I reach them. He comes from the side of the arena, Undertow already on his arm. "The host decided to show up before next season."

His voice has enough venom to be Veric, but not enough to be a real insult.

"It was life or death," I say. "Sorry for the delay."

His face changes a little, but it changes. Veric is good at noticing when a line comes unprotected by irony. And I was honest with them; they earned the respect.

Oliver approaches with the leather contracts in hand. "Trouble with the future manager?"

"Trouble with the future manager almost dying."

That’s enough. He doesn’t ask more here.

Veric rolls his shoulder, impatient, and walks to the center of the arena. "Good. If the tragedy’s over for now, let’s fight before someone decides to take a risk and you have to run off to intervene again."

I don’t answer. He has the right to complain. I arrived late.

Oliver spreads the leather on the plaza bench and turns a finger into an OXI marker, writing the names with a strange concentration.

Dryden Sands.

Veric Azurea.

Then he looks at us. "How much?"

I could pick one percent and keep the original plan. Training, controlled risk, measured progress. But I arrived late, and Veric isn’t Kellan. He doesn’t need to be provoked to take a fight seriously. He needs to be respected enough that the fight says something.

I look at him. "Your call, Veric. Today you’re the guest, and the host showed up late. You decide."

"Ten percent."

Oliver stops the tip of his finger over the leather. No one speaks right away.

I don’t argue. I just watch Veric long enough to be sure he isn’t trying to sound brave in front of the others. "Are you sure?"

"I am." He seats Undertow on his arm. "We get one fight a day. Betting low would be idiotic."

"The wager was symbolic," I say. "Just enough for you all to take it seriously."

Veric raises an eyebrow. "And how would I not take a high bet seriously? Besides, I’ve wanted to fight you since you were a Rank F rat."

Fair.

I bring my hand to Eventide. Unlike Kellan, Veric won’t get a borrowed toothpick. Not because I look down on him, though that day I’d looked down on Kellan plenty. Because Veric deserved my weapon from the start. He has the intelligence, the Rank, the technique, and enough pride to turn any slip into a real cost.

Eventide’s black hilt with its white silk fills my dominant hand. I extend my arm to the side, the sign of an activation about to come.

"I told you I was the host," I say.

Veric sets his base. "So what?"

I look at the leather, at the percentage still unmarked, then at him.

"So in a high-stakes bet, the house always wins."

Oliver lets the air out slowly with a whistle, writes ten percent, and burns the edge of the leather. The blue flame climbs, swallowing the names and the wager.

[Nomine Gladiatus started.]

[Participants: Dryden Sands vs Veric Azurea.]

[Wager: 10% of Rank experience.]

The arena closes around us.

Veric raises Undertow.

I raise Eventide and activate it. The black energy screams, releasing a wave of dust around me.

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