Bars rattled. Obi rolled his shoulders, and set his feet.
The roar arrived like weather - first a wind, then suddenly thunder.
"LET THE SCRAPPER'S GAUNTLEEET"
(dramatic pause)
"BEGIIIIN!!!"
The crowd went wild.
"WE'RE KICKING THINGS OFF WITH OBI THE LOUUUD!", the voice bounced off railings. "Versuuus… MORROW THE COLOSSUUUS!"
A few laughs leaked out of the crowd. Then the "Colossus" stepped through the gate - a boy built like a broomstick someone wrapped in a tunic. Knees like knuckles. Big eyes. The crowd laughed anyway. The Gauntlet would cheer a brick if it promised violence.
Obi blinked. "Oh no!" he exclaimed, just loud enough for the front row to hear, "they've sent me a siege engine!"
Morrow swallowed so hard the sound traveled to the cheap seats. He raised his hands the way a person raises their hands at an overexcited dog. Obi lifted his own - palms out, the brass glinting - a little bow mid-walk.
"Hey" Obi said softly, too close for the mics. "You getting paid to be brave or to be alive?"
Morrow's mouth worked. "T-to… to-"
"Great answer!" Obi exclaimed. "Here's the deal. We make it pretty, you nap nice, you walk out with all your teeth, which I assume you're renting too. Yeah?"
The guard snapped his baton once. Go.
Obi made a show for the crowd - hopped twice, shoulders loose, grinning. Morrow flicked out a jab that couldn't have broken a fake promise. Obi caught it with his palm, tapped the boy's shoulder like he was ringing a doorbell, then kicked Morrow's ribs.
Air left the "Colossus" in a startled honk. Obi swiveled, turned his wrist, and placed a second neat touch under the jaw, the kind Louissa had once called "mercy in a hurry."
Morrow folded like a paper fan.
The crowd went wild. Boos mixed with cheers. Obi waved at the crowd with both hands, then crouched and set Morrow gently on his side.
"The Colossus fell" Obi announced, to laughter. "By crippling charisma."
He raised Morrow's limp arm like a champion's. The crowd howled. The guard shrugged - clean enough. He jabbed his baton toward Obi's corner. "Water."
Obi jogged back, grabbed the bottle, and drank like he truly earned it. Then he dumped the rest over his hair.
Between rounds, the Gauntlet was all sound bits and quick words between all the cheering.
"...split that guy's eyebrow like a curtain…"
"...Hatewick put him on the floor with the same swing…"
"...graffiti cans? One breath, you didn't even see it…"
Obi let the noise skate over him. He polished his knuckle with the tail of his shirt and threw a wink at an exasperated healer. "No need. I'm allergic to extra taxes."
"Next!!" the caller's voice cracked into the pen.
"HATEWIIIICK versus OBI THE LOUUD!"
"Well, well, well." Obi told himself, "we manifest what we mock."
Hatewick arrived like a walking wall. Baldie, familiar face. And the tattoos? We've seen them before. Broken chain links at the wrists, a crude heart with teeth on his shoulder, and letters hammered across knuckles with spelling that needed attention more than the tournament itself: H-A-I-T.
"Hey, hey, hey! Am I having Deja Vu or something?" Obi asked.
The crowd loved him the way cartoons love falling pianos.
"That your toys?" Hatewick rumbled.
"You already asked. What, is your brain seriously a walnut?" Obi said pleasantly, peering at the man's fist. "And buddy, that tattoo again… Are we saving the "E" for later? I respect budgeting, but come onn!"
A mean ripple of laughter moved through the seats. The guard smacked the gate with his baton, signaling them to hurry.
Hatewick charged like a cart on a hill. Obi took one neat step from where he would have been squished and smacked the big man's ear with a palm. The sound was indecent. Hatewick snarled, pivoted, threw a hook meant to ruin a week. Obi dodged.
He left the hook kissing air and wrote a little note on Hatewick's ribs with the knuckles: "dear sir, your liver."
Hatewick's eyes watered. He blinked furiously and tried to fold Obi into a hug he would not survive.
"Awwee" Obi said, slipping under and around. "You brought cuddles."
He tried a jab at the mouth - not to land, just to guide - and Hatewick bit on it, turning his head. Obi ducked the answering swing, planted a heel, and let gravity do what it does best. Hatewick stumbled. Obi caught the back of his knee slid his shoulder under the man's center, and tilted the world.
A barrel falls fast. I mean, fast enough.
The sand whoomped as Hatewick fell. It was seriously like dropping a piano off a balcony. The crowd went up in a shower of amused sounds.
Hatewick tried to get up on instinct. Obi adjusted his knuckles, with a foot on him
"Say "hate", but add the "E" this time." Obi suggested cheerfully, "Or, the other option would be for you to experience what a smith's hand can do with some brass. Your choice, really! I'm fine with both…"
Hatewick's reply was mostly vowels. The guard, carefully watching, slid his baton between them.
"Enough"
Obi popped up like a cork, bowed with ridiculous flourish, and shouted at the rails: "He spelled N-A-P!'"
The chant started in a corner. "Obi! Obi!" It spread like a grin.
He returned to the pen on a wave of noise.
Whispers again:
"...didn't touch her... couldn't even see…"
"...what even happened!?..."
"The mask..."
"NOWW, THE MOMENT YOU'VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOOR" the caller tore the speakers, quite literally shouting at his heart's content.
(another very dramatic pause)
"THE FINAAALS!!"
The speakers roared again.
"CINDERETTE - versus - OBI THE LOUUUD!"
The gate sighed once again. She walked out, with a weird presence. The crowd's excitement suddenly dissapeared. She was quite short, in a dusty cloak that cut off at the knee, boots that didn't make friends with sand. Her mask was a smooth oval with a shut mouth and blank eyes.
She pulled out two spray paint cans from her cloak.
Obi tilted his head. "So we're decorating, I see! Really love a theme!"
No answer. The mask looked through him.
The baton hitting metal sounded like a proper gong.
Cinderette didn't wind up. She simply twitched her wrists and popped both cans with her thumbs. Color did not pour. White smoke did - fast, aggressive, mean. It hit the air with a bitter bite that crawled up Obi's nose and slammed the back of his throat.
"Ah, of course…" Obi coughed, blinking. "Art."
His vision smudged. The crowd's noise turned wet and far away. He stepped sideways on instinct. She moved fast in the fog, a shape that reappeared only when it was already a problem.
Obi did what every smith learns by the second burn: he reached for his goggles. They were in his pocket because... Of course. They were always in his pocket. We're talking about Obi here, do we really need an explanation?
He snapped them over his eyes with a practiced flick.
He wasn't completely blind. He could see, not perfect, just enough. Edges sharpened. Motion was now lines. He could see where she wasn't, which is half of staying alive.
"Cute" he rasped into the smoke. "But forge fumes showed me worse."
The air dragged strangely at his clothes. Obi froze, thinking. Smoke moves like water if you give it a river. He squinted through the lenses and found what he needed: vents. Low, along the walls. Little squares that never mattered until they did.
He shuffled toward one, counting steps. When his toes kissed a grille, he squatted and slapped the edge. Draft. Weak, but present. He didn't need it strong, he needed it smart.
Another hiss to his left. He slid that way instead, coughing. Cinderette materialized enough to flick a can toward his chest like a nasty bouquet. Obi batted it aside with the back of his wrist, sending the thing skittering.
"Rude!" he wheezed. "No gift receipt?"
Suddenmy, she reappeared behind him, almost, almoost striking... Obi's family jewels.
He did the stupidest smart thing he could think of: he grabbed the can she'd just thrown, thumbed its lip - and pinned it over the vent. The flow coughed, then turned hungry. The smoke thinned in front of him and rolled back at her.
Her outline hiccuped.
"Hello there!" Obi smiled.
He moved like he was late to the bus. Two steps, a bend of the knee, a low sweep that wasn't a sweep so much as an invitation to doubt her own feet. She shifted to compensate - correctly. He expected that. He went the other way, hands light, fingers catching the edge of her cloak.
Obi's shoulder found her center, gravity did the rest.
They landed tangled. She punched - short, efficient. He parried with the back of his palm, let the blow skate off the brass. She went for his eyes. He flicked the lens rim and grinned.
"Please, I'm wearing my good looks."
For a second it was ridiculous - a dance step in fog. He let it be ridiculous. He dipped her like a drama prince, one arm firm across her waist, the other controlling balance.
"If we're doing this, at least buy me noodles." Obi laughed again
She snapped her head forward, a headbutt. More like a mask-butt. But he was already offset - it skimmed his cheek. He spun, bringing her with him, ending in a pin that used the cloak as a trap.
The smoke thinned enough for the crowd to barely see.
Cinderette stilled. Obi loosened first, in case pride needed the courtesy. She didn't swing. He helped her sit and - because he is a problem - offered a hand up like they were finishing a waltz.
The mask said nothing. But you could swear it looked away. She took the hand anyway. Her fingers were cool and steady.
The caller didn't so much declare as surrender to it.
"WINNER? OBI THE LOUUUUD!"
The arena detonated. Sound poured down the rails, clanged on the bolts, ran up into the Tangle and came back twice as loud. Kids on shoulders beat the railings with palms. Vendors forgot to sell. Even the healers smiled grimly like they couldn't help it.
Obi raised a fist, then both, then bowed in four directions because four is funnier than one. He popped the goggles up onto his curls and sucked a breath that wasn't flavored like chemical argument. Cinderette was already walking away, cloak snapping, mask unreadable.
"Hey! Cinderella, or whatever!" Obi called after her.
She took off her mask, and looked back, visibly flustered and blushing, revealing beautiful long black hair.
"It's Cinderette" she smiled.
"Ooh! You got quite the looks, too! I'll be at the forge, from tomorrow on! You'll find it, the best smithy in the underworks!"
The purse looked heavier than he expected when the clerk pressed it into his palm. The brass token for "finalist" became "winner". He hooked both on his belt and tested their weight like a smith testing work. Real. Honest. Earned.
On his way out, strangers slapped his shoulder and shouted his name like they'd been doing it for years.
"Obi! Loudmouth! Walnut-cracker!" He laughed until breathing became an effort. It didn't taste like fame in his mouth; it tasted like belonging.
Obi tapped the purse, then the brass, then his heart, in that order. "World's loudest smith!" he told the night.
And he walked into the noise that was suddenly, gloriously, his.