Chapter 15: Former Friend

The Shadow Quarter arena buzzes with electric anticipation. Every stone seat is packed with sweating, shouting spectators. The final match of the arena's bloodiest tournament is about to begin, and the crowd can taste violence in the smoky air.

Leon limps onto the sand, each step sending fire through his wounded leg. His ribs throb beneath torn bandages. The cut on his jaw has reopened during the semifinal, blood crusting along his collar. He looks like he's been dragged behind a horse for miles.

But he's here. Still standing. Still fighting.

The grand prize sits on display beside the tournament master's platform: a crystal vial filled with golden liquid that seems to glow with inner light. The Sanctuary Guild healing elixir. Military grade. Worth more than most people earn in a lifetime.

Worth his mother's life.

Leon's opponent enters from the opposite gate. Tall, athletic, wearing a plain steel mask that covers his features. The crowd erupts as he steps onto the sand. This fighter has torn through every previous opponent with clinical precision.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the tournament master's voice booms across the arena. "Our final match! Leon Graves, the F-Rank survivor who has defied every expectation!"

Scattered cheers mix with nervous laughter. Leon has become something of a folk hero among the desperate gamblers who bet on impossible odds.

"His opponent needs no introduction! The mysterious warrior known only as Varick Steele!"

The masked fighter raises one hand to acknowledge the crowd's roar. His movements are fluid, controlled. Professional.

Leon studies his opponent's stance. There's something familiar in the way he holds himself—the slight forward lean, the balanced weight distribution. Like a memory hovering just out of reach.

The tournament master calls for silence. "Fighters, to your positions!"

Leon walks to the center of the pit. His opponent mirrors the motion, stopping ten paces away. Close enough to see the green eyes behind the mask.

Leon's blood turns to ice.

Those eyes. He knows those eyes.

"Damian?" Leon's voice is barely a whisper.

The masked fighter's shoulders tense. For a moment, neither of them moves. The crowd's noise fades to background static.

Slowly, Damian reaches up and pulls away his mask. Familiar features emerge—the strong jaw, the aristocratic nose, the carefully maintained appearance of someone born to privilege.

"Hello, Leon."

The arena falls silent. Even the most bloodthirsty spectators sense something different about this confrontation.

"What are you doing here?" Leon asks quietly.

Damian's expression remains unreadable.

"Hunter Association business. That elixir was stolen from a military convoy three months ago. I'm here to retrieve it."

"By fighting in an illegal tournament?"

"Sometimes official channels aren't an option. The Association can't be connected to this place. Too many important people in the crowd tonight." Damian gestures toward the VIP section, where well-dressed figures watch from behind silk curtains.

Leon nods slowly. It makes sense. The underground tournament attracts the kind of wealthy clientele who prefer their entertainment bloody and their activities unrecorded.

"And you?" Damian asks. "What brings the F-Rank necromancer to the Shadow Quarter's finest bloodsport?"

Leon's jaw tightens.

"My mother's dying. That elixir is her only hope."

Something flickers in Damian's eyes. Regret, maybe. Or sympathy—quickly suppressed.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Are you?"

"You know I am."

They face each other across ten feet of bloodstained sand—childhood friends separated by class, rank, and choices that can't be undone.

The tournament master steps between them. "Fighters ready? This is it—winner takes all!"

Leon flexes his fingers around his backup weapon. He lost his manna gun in the previous fight, leaving him with a simple crossbow and his undead to summon.

Damian draws his sword. The blade reflects the torches like captured flame. A War-blade's weapon—perfectly balanced, enchanted for durability and sharpness. Worth more than Leon's entire neighborhood.

"May the best man win," Damian says.

Leon says nothing. Words won't change what comes next.

The bell clangs.

Leon immediately raises both hands. "Arouse!"

Blue light swirls around him. His Elite Grave Mage materializes first—spectral bones wrapped in dark energy, blue fire blazing in empty sockets. Then comes his reconstructed assassin, reformed after the previous battle's destruction. Twin knives gleam in her dead hands.

The crowd roars approval. Two undead against one elite hunter. The odds look almost fair.

Damian shifts into combat stance. His sword moves in precise practice patterns, warming up muscles and reflexes. No wasted motion. Pure efficiency.

The assassin strikes first. She flows across the sand like liquid shadow, knives seeking the gaps in Damian's defense. Her first thrust aims for his kidney.

Damian's sword sweeps up in a perfect arc. Steel meets steel with a shower of sparks. The assassin's knife shatters on his enchanted blade.

She spins away, second knife flashing toward his throat. Damian ducks, grabs her wrist, and drives his pommel into her temple. Bone cracks. She staggers backward.

The Mage Zombie attacks while Damian is engaged. Spectral bolts hammer into his back, each impact lighting up protective enchantments woven into his armor.

Damian spins, sword cleaving through the air. The blade passes through spectral ribs, shattering bone into glowing fragments. The zombie's left arm falls away completely.

But the undead don't feel pain. The Mage Zombie presses forward, firing point-blank into Damian's chest. The bolt strikes his breastplate and disperses into harmless light.

Military-grade protection. Nothing Leon's undead can produce will penetrate those defenses.

The assassin rallies, attacking with her remaining knife. She's faster than before, desperation driving her beyond normal limits. Her blade finds the gap between Damian's armguards, drawing a thin line of blood.

Damian's response is immediate and brutal. His sword sweeps low, severing the assassin's legs at the knees. She collapses, dark ichor pooling beneath her. A second strike separates her head from her shoulders.

The Mage Zombie is alone now. It fights valiantly, trading spectral bolts for sword strikes. But Damian's reach and skill advantage proves overwhelming.

He presses forward systematically. Block, strike, advance. Block, strike, advance. Each attack weakens the zombie's cohesion further.

The final blow comes as a diagonal cut that splits the zombie's skull in half. Blue fire gutters out like blown candles. Spectral bones collapse into powder and dissolve.

Leon stands alone in the pit's center. Both his undead are gone. His manna is nearly exhausted. His crossbow holds maybe six bolts.

Damian walks toward him with measured steps. No hurry. No wasted energy. The crowd senses the fight's climax approaching.

Leon raises his crossbow and fires. The bolt flies true, aimed at Damian's heart. Steel rings as his sword deflects the projectile into the arena wall.

Leon fires again. And again. Each shot is knocked aside with casual precision. Damian closes the distance steadily.

At five paces, Leon drops the crossbow and draws his combat knife. The blade feels pathetic compared to Damian's enchanted weapon.

They circle each other slowly. Leon's wounds throb with each heartbeat. Blood loss makes his vision swim at the edges.

Damian attacks with a simple overhead strike. Leon twists aside, the blade missing his shoulder by inches. He stabs upward with his knife, seeking the gap under Damian's arm.

Damian catches his wrist, twists, and sends the knife spinning away. Leon's shoulder pops as the joint stresses beyond its limits.

A boot sweeps Leon's legs out from under him. He crashes to the sand, shoulder screaming. Damian's sword point comes to rest against his throat.

"Yield," Damian says quietly.

Leon tries to rise. His body betrays him, muscles refusing to obey. Exhaustion and blood loss have finally caught up.

But he won't surrender. Not with his mother dying in a few days and this elixir his only hope for her survival.

Leon grabs Damian's ankle and pulls. The War-blade stumbles, sword wavering. Leon rolls away and tries to regain his feet.

Damian recovers faster. His sword's pommel strikes Leon's temple with precise force. Stars explode behind Leon's eyes. The arena tilts sideways.

Strong hands grab his shoulders, lifting him upright only to slam him back down. Leon's vision grays at the edges.

"Stay down," Damian whispers. "Please."

Leon struggles to rise again. His arms shake with the effort. The crowd's roar sounds like distant thunder.

Damian's expression is heavy with regret. He raises his sword for the finishing blow—not to kill, but to end the fight with theatrical flair for the audience.

The pommel strikes Leon's solar plexus. Air explodes from his lungs. Consciousness flees like smoke in wind.

Leon collapses face-first onto bloodstained sand. His body goes limp, finally surrendering to damage that should have killed him rounds ago.

The tournament master's whistle cuts through the arena's roar.

"Winner and champion—Varick Steele!"

The crowd erupts. Coins fly through the air. Spectators climb over each other for better views of the fallen F-Rank who somehow made it to the finals.

------

Damian kneels beside Leon's motionless form. To the crowd, it looks like the traditional finishing gesture—a final insult to the defeated.

But under cover of the arena's chaos, Damian's hands move quickly. He slips the crystal vial from his belt pouch into Leon's torn jacket pocket. The healing elixir settles against Leon's ribs, hidden from view.

"For your mother," Damian whispers, his lips barely moving. "And for what we used to be."

He stands and raises his sword to acknowledge the crowd's cheers. The tournament master presents him with the winner's purse—a chest overflowing with silver coins.

But the real prize is already gone, hidden in the pocket of an unconscious F-Rank necromancer who fought beyond his limits for love.

As the celebration continues around them, Hunter Association agents begin filtering through the crowd. Their presence is subtle but unmistakable to those who know what to look for.

-------

Leon lies still on the sand, unaware that his desperate gamble has succeeded in ways he can't yet imagine. The elixir presses against his broken ribs like a promise of hope.

The city's net is closing. But for now, in the shadow of victory and defeat, two childhood friends find a moment of redemption in the blood-soaked arena where dreams come to die.