The moon sat above the academy like an observer, watching over it.

Night had long since fallen, and Noah was in his dorm room.

He walked out of the shower, towelling off the water from his body.

He'd returned to the academy earlier that evening and had his dinner.

He'd made sure to be seen, as he didn't want any allegations this time.

And now, he quickly dressed, pulling out and wearing his leather cloak.

With that done, he pulled up the dark cloth, tying it over the lower half of his face to complete the ensemble.

He folded the cloak's hood up, then stretched a hand, the spell formation for Null Stride appearing above it.

With an exhale, he disappeared.

An instant later, his body reformed in the gang leader's office. His cloak fluttered behind him as he took a step forward, announcing his arrival.

The gang leader rose from behind his desk, a calm look on his face.

Noah narrowed his eyes at the sight.

There was a look in the man's eyes. Like he knew something nobody else did. Like he had an ace in his sleeve.

Noah had no idea what was up with the man, but at this point in time, he didn't want to know.

Whatever it was, he was sure it could be solved by just killing the man. So if something really happened, he knew who to come see.

The gang leader did not smile as he stepped out from behind his desk.

He guided Noah through a back door, and soon, they were prowling through the alleys of the Broken Lantern District.

They walked fast, the gang leader explaining what he thought Noah needed to know.

"If you want to meet him before the fight, Marlon's rooms are in the fighter quarters. It's a series of rooms behind the ring. They're not that hard to find. Just follow the trail of whores."

"And in order to get entry, you need to follow a few simple rules."

"Knock in the pattern I'll tell you, then you show them the token."

"Remember, right hand, twice, then pause, then twice with the knuckle. They'll know it's not a random person."

Noah pinned the coin sized token to the chest of his cloak, eyeing the leader.

"Why spell it all out?" he asked. "Why help me get straight in?"

The leader's jaw tightened. "The organizer for tonight, Solomon, he's my... rival."

"If you walk in there, it'll be taken the wrong way, and my crew's not ready for a full scrap. We don't need a gang war tonight."

Noah watched him.

The man's face was honest enough. He could see the pragmatic self-interest within them.

There was calculation in every syllable, but there was also a hunt of genuine irritation at the thought of another crew taking what was his.

They came to the narrow wooden door the leader had described.

He pointed at it as if indicating a landmark on a map. "That's it. Knock the pattern, show your token. You'll get in. I'll be elsewhere."

Noah raised his head, taking in the leader's expression.

For a moment, he considered just killing the man and ending their connection right then and there.

He could tell the man had been scheming. He just didn't know how big the scheme was.

But at the same time, he also understood the usefulness of living tools.

The leader knew routes, and probably had debts, and favors that could prove useful one day.

A petty gang leader of the slums could crack open some doors without resorting to violence, which tended to draw attention.

He inclined his head instead. "You may leave."

The leader gave a short, uncertain chuckle and melted back into the shadow of the street.

Noah watched him go, watched the man's shoulders recede and blend with the alleys, then stepped forward to the door and tapped the sequence into the wood.

A narrow panel scraped open, revealing a pair of green eyes.

They flicked once over his leather cloak, then dropped to the token pinned to his chest.

Silence filled the air for a few seconds before the slot slid shut. A moment later, the door creaked inward.

"Inside," the man muttered, reaching out to pluck the token from Noah's chest.

He didn't even look him in the eye, just turned and gestured toward the stairwell.

Noah stepped past without a word.

The door clapped shut behind him, plunging him into dim lamplight.

He descended the narrow stair, boots thudding against wood that groaned with age.

By the time the stair bent and dropped further, he could already hear it.

The muffled roar of a crowd. It was like a beast caged below the city's skin.

He took another step, and the sound grew clearer. He could hear shouting, jeering, and the crash of mugs being smashed.

He emerged into a cavernous pit hall carved out beneath the streets.

Torches burned in sconces high on the walls, smoke curling towards the ceiling.

The stands were already packed, with people packed way too close to each other, their voices overlapping, eager for the night's violence.

The announcer's booming voice echoed from the ring below, promising blood and spectacle.

Noah's eyes, however, weren't on the sand-pit floor.

He scanned the edges, mapping every door and corridor.

It didn't take long to find the route to the fighter's quarters.

It was behind a corridor, with narrow doors set in stone walls, guarded by broad men in iron-studded leather.

He slipped into the passage, but the guards stepped forward, arms out to block.

One glared. "Restricted. Fighters only."

Noah said nothing. He let his mana seep out of his core and into his soul.

His shadows stirred, coiling around his boots like hungry snakes.

The guards froze at the sight of it, then exchanged nervous glances.

In an instant, their arms dropped, their bodies shifting back to give him space.

"Go on through," one muttered, voice suddenly cautious.

Someone had died because they dared stop a mage not too long ago. They wouldn't want to be next.

Noah brushed past them without sparing a glance.

He walked down the corridor until he reached a door labelled, "Marlon."

He didn't bother to knock. He simply set his hand against the handle, and yanked it open.

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