Loa leaned closer, whispering into my ear. "It's stacked. Deliberately. Every match forces us into the Warlock's line of fire. He's not just here to win—he wants to break us."

  I kept my voice steady. "Then we break back."

  The crowd's energy churned hotter, tension mounting with each etched name. The Core's glow dimmed once the last bracket solidified, but the aura it left behind pressed heavy, as though the crystal itself relished the blood it was about to draw.

  The cloaked werewolf had drifted to the side, his casual stance masking the way his claw hovered near his hip, as though comfort came only when a weapon was close.

  Even shrouded, I could sense his restraint: he knew when to stay quiet, which made him all the more dangerous.

  Gim finally slammed the ledger shut with a snap, nearly toppling the pile of tokens and foul "souvenirs" Bash had dumped earlier. "All right! That's the lot of you. If you're not signed, you're not fighting. So get out of my line and into the holding wards before I file a sanitation complaint with the Soverign."

  A few laughs rippled, uneasy at best. None of the warlords dignified him with a reply. Bash simply hoisted the dreadpede's ruined head back onto his shoulder like a grotesque trophy, while Vaine stepped aside with practiced grace, making space for others to pass.

  The Rust Syndicate didn't move until their commander barked a metallic laugh that rattled bolts in the ceiling.

  Xiecruel clanged his axes together.

  "Ya heard the goblin! Off we go, mates. Let the Core fatten us with foes till we're fit to feast!"

  His crew erupted in another holler, their voices grinding like ship-chains against stone.

  My crew? Not so loud.

  Mina rolled her shoulders with a grin that didn't reach her eyes, Loa kept her eyes low. Zest hadn't stopped sparking, though Oath kept him grounded with her presence.

  Dime pressed tighter to Amber, whose talons still scraped rhythm against tile. Viz worried, Rox fretted, Nex seethed. And Skadi, true to form, seemed almost too delighted, tails twitching like she was waiting for someone to ask her to stir the pot.

  "Eyes up," I told them, steady but not sharp. "Every one of those names is a weight on the scale. Whether they tip it against us depends on how we fight—together. Don't let the Core's matchups shake you before the sand's even wet."

  They nodded, some with more confidence than others.

  My gaze shifted to Match Seven.

  Delta + Beta Orseod vs. Barbrute Warlord + Brutal Breath.

  Bash turned his head toward me, jaw stretching into that jagged grin again.

  "Dessert," he rumbled, tapping his chest with a fist the size of an anvil. "Core says dessert comes sooner."

  Delta cracked his neck once, expression cool as ice. "Funny. Delta hope for something to sharpen teeth on."

  Beta, at his side, flicked one ear back and held his anxious gaze on me.

  Despite Delta not looking cowed, I could feel the weight pressing on them. The Orseods were capable, but Bash was a living calamity, and his partner Brutal Breath was rumored to be no less savage.

  Loa exhaled softly. "That's not a fight won on muscle alone. They'll need—"

  "I know," I cut in, before her worry spread. "There's no need for them to fight. Delta. Sorry. I know your love to fight, but forfeiting your match would be most appropriate."

  Delta Orseod gave me a defiant growl. "But Delta trained hard to this point! You mustn't—"

  His complaint hadn't completed when another ripple of noise erupted from the entrance. It wasn't the heavy tread of ogres or the refined gait of some noble-scaled warlord. This was a different kind; more chaotic, more playful, yet no less dangerous.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Two figures burst into view, both of them monkey beastmen clad in loose, combat-tattered gis. The first was tall and lean, a woman with long fur the color of teal and eyes that gleamed like amber lanterns. Every step she made was punctuated with a sharp "Kiai!" or a loud "Hah!" as though even her warm-up stretches demanded a battle-cry.

  My [Insight] clicked the name into place—Lenteara of the Monkei Might.

  Behind her lumbered a brute of muscle and menace, a mountain of gorilla bulk dressed in a blackened robe stitched with bone charms. Wreckong. His chest-beats thundered louder than Bash's knuckle cracks, each slam followed by a deep rumble that sounded like the drum of war.

  He punctuated every gesture with exaggerated sound effects of his own—"Bwoom! Shakow! Wrrrraahhh!"—as though his body itself was an instrument of intimidation.

  The crowd parted with a mix of annoyance and admiration. Some laughed at their antics, but none laughed long; both carried themselves with the confidence of fighters who had nothing left to prove.

  "Yeeeeeeeah!" Lenteara barked, performing a spinning kick that whistled so close to the wall I swore I heard the stone complain. "The arena is ready for us! The sands are trembling already!"

  Wreckong answered with a booming chest thump and a growl that turned into a mock explosion noise. "Krrr-KROOOM! The Monkei Might are HERE! Let the weaklings scatter like coconuts!"

  Loa's eyes lidded slightly in a fashion of analysis, while Mina gave a sharp snort. "Are they fighting or auditioning for a street parade?" she muttered, though I saw the way her jaw tightened. She recognized noise when it masked discipline.

  Sure enough, Lenteara dropped low into a perfect stance, fists tucked, breathing even despite her racket. Every movement she made was honed. Her noises weren't for show. They were rhythm, pacing, the tempo of her martial focus.

  Wreckong mirrored her with rawer energy, his foot stomps vibrating the tiles under us.

  "THOOM! THOOM! Wreckong smashes mountains before breakfast, Lenteara! This bracket is nothing but pebbles waiting to crack!"

  From across the way, Dariel of the Pilfers—the one matched against them—clicked his tongue. He tried to look unimpressed, but the way his Gnawrat King companion shifted restlessly told me their confidence was already being tested.

  I folded my arms.

  "Loud. Annoying. But sharp. Don't let their antics fool you," I said mostly for my crew’s ears. "Noise is their weapon. Rhythm keeps their tempo. Break it, and you break their flow."

  Zest sneered, sparks trailing from his antlers. "Or just blast them so hard their rhythm goes flying out the window."

  "Subtlety, Zest," Oath warned, though her own smile betrayed she enjoyed the jab.

  Lenteara pivoted mid-room, fixing me with a sudden grin as though she's heard every word. Her fist shot up, her knuckles gleaming with faint ki. "Chimera Crew! We'll see you in the sand! Be ready, 'cause we don't fight quiet—we fight alive!"

  Wreckong followed with another booming chest-thump, then clapped his hands so loud it echoed like a cannon. "BOOOOM! The Monkei Might will leave dents in history!"

  The Monkei pair strutted past, their aura of energy lingering like a ringing bell even after they vanished into the holding wards. And judging by the brackets, they wouldn't be my problem just yet. But Dariel's.

  I might've lingered on the possibility of his identity longer, if the Core hadn't unveiled Match Thirteen.

  Dariel + Gnawrat King vs. Lenteara + Wreckong.

  My eyes tracked the cloaked werewolf instantly. His ears twitched under the hood, and though his posture remained controlled, the shift in his aura was sharp enough to make my instincts prickle.

  He was very focused on Match Fourteen.

  Blatt + Croscythe vs. Nyx + Rina.

  The moment Rina's name appeared, Dariel's composure cracked. His breathing hitched like someone punched the air out of him. He stared at the crystal, but I wasn't looking at the brackets anymore. I was looking directly at him.

  That spark of recognition that had nagged me since he arrived… finally found form. He had the stance of someone once human.

  He was like me.

  Another human, remade in flesh and bone that didn't belong to him. Another exile walking among monsters.

  A Zeldrimon.

  And the name that cracked him: Rina. I didn't need to ask. His reaction told me more than any confession would. She was his. Or had been.

  I didn't call it out. Instead I turned slightly, just enough to meet his gaze beneath the hood when it flickered toward me.

  His eyes widened again, this time not at the brackets—but at me, because he saw the truth mirrored there. Recognition of recognition.

  Before either of us could break the silence, his partner shifted.

  The Gnawrat King stepped forward, his enormous form blotting out half the crystal's glow. He was massive, fur matted but not filthy, whiskers twitching like steel threads. And his hind leg—replaced by a jagged yet gleaming crystal limb that radiated faintly with life-force.

  Oath's handiwork.

  My breath caught.

  I knew him.

  A long time ago, before this Crew had even taken shape, I'd saved a ragged rat-beast on the fringes of a collapsing nest. He hadn't been a king then, just another critter fighting to breathe another day.

  But when his dark eyes found me now, they glimmered with memory.

  "Rat King remembers you. Remembers you two. Merecritt… and Osseod."

  He nodded once to Oath, who had stepped closer in disbelief.

  "You… survived," Oath murmured, staring at the crystal limb she'd once given. Her eyes glistening with the brink of tears almost mirrored my own. "And more than that, you've… thrived."

  The Rat King's whiskers twitched into something like a smile. "Because of you. Because of… mercy. You are friends."

  The lobby had gone quieter than I'd expected. I was again watching Dariel.

  His hood still shadowed his face, but I'd already seen enough. His secret was mine to keep—or to use. And though his gaze dropped back to the brackets, it never strayed far from mine after that.