The neon lighting along the western facade of Heavens Arena cast long, crimson bars across the rain-slicked asphalt of the private transport bay.
Inside Intensive Recovery Ward 4, the air reeked of ozone, synthetic iodine, and the lingering sourness of burnt blood. Yuzuki lay flat against the elevated mattress, his chest locked into a rigid orthopaedic brace extending from his lower sternum down to his pelvic crest. Every breath felt like a wet needle dragging through his left intercostal space; the plastic tube of the thoracic chest drain hummed continuously beside the bed, pulling dark fluid into a clear suction canister. His forearms were bound tight in thick, salve-soaked compression wraps over layers of anti-inflammatory gel to keep the torn tendon sheets from pulling away from the bone.
Beneath the rigid thoracic brace, the sutured laceration along his flank pulled painfully whenever the mattress shifted. His left thigh was bound in tight pressure dressings over a deep quadriceps tear, while damaged muscle tissue through his right hip and lower back made even adjusting his weight impossible without assistance. The spinal strain from his rapid spatial transitions had left his lower back throbbing with a dull, constant ache. His aura had crawled back from absolute zero into a thin, unstable reserve. It was nowhere near enough for sustained Ren, but a few precise applications remained possible if he forced them through pathways still scorched and raw from the recoil of Purple.
On the bedside table sat the sapphire-set Olympia crown in its open rosewood box, its gold bands catching the blue flicker of the emergency light bar outside. Beside it lay his original, blood-soaked silk blindfold in a sealed plastic bag.
"They're still broadcasting the hallway feed," Bisky said, her voice unusually flat as she stood by the window, peering down into the crowded plaza through the slatted blinds. Her pink dress was still dusted with pulverised concrete from the 251st floor, and her usual twin-tailed ribbons were lopsided. "The network producers are begging for a shot of you holding the crown. They offered to double the promotional bonus if we let a camera crew in for thirty seconds to record you sitting up."
"I can't sit up," Yuzuki whispered, his throat dry, his speech forced through shallow exhalations to avoid jolting his two fully broken lower-left ribs.
Underneath the simple dark silk cloth tied loosely over his upper face to shield his neurological fatigue from the hospital glare, the Six Eyes traced the environment with agonising clarity. The silk cut the glare, but every aura fluctuation in the surrounding structure remained painfully sharp. The Six Eyes mapped residual aura lingering in the damaged concrete above, the dense, chaotic currents of thousands of people packed into the lower arcades, and several thin, disciplined currents moving through service corridors where Arena staff should have been.
"Bisky," Yuzuki rasped, his left fingers twitching slightly against the sheet. "The secondary corridors..."
"I know," Bisky cut in quietly, her entire posture sharpening as her weight shifted subtly toward her forefeet. "I felt them five minutes ago."
The pattern separated while Yuzuki watched through the fabric. Eight hostile signatures climbed towards the upper tower. Two peeled away from them and began descending through the medical-side service routes. He knew none of them. Their already restrained aura was veiled beneath In, but the Six Eyes still caught the thin distortions left along their paths.
He tried to focus his perception, searching for the strange, restorative warmth that had briefly flickered through his core during the final split-second of Purple's formation. The deep, reversing current that had begun to stitch his damaged tissue before the raw void consumed it. But nothing came. The memory remained, but he could not reproduce it. His core held only the thin, flickering ember of his remaining reserve.
Wing stepped toward the bed, his white shirt rumpled, his face drawn with fatigue. "The Arena Committee issued an emergency advisory. They're claiming a gas leak in the sub-level cooling plant and clearing the medical wards block by block."
"A gas leak," Bisky sneered, her hands clenching into hard fists. "They're trying to funnel us."
"Moving him now is a terrible risk," Wing urged, turning to Bisky. "His chest drain is still pulling pleural fluid, and his vascular pressure is barely stable. Any sudden shift or acceleration down the transport ramp could collapse the left lobe again."
"Staying here is worse," Bisky replied, her eyes fixed on the door. "If they blow this floor, we won't have a ward to treat him in."
"His reserve is barely back above empty," Wing insisted softly, eyeing the vital monitors. "If a fight starts here, he cannot protect the ward and himself."
"Move the other wards east," Yuzuki rasped, his jaw setting tightly despite the sharp pinch in his flank. "The strongest cluster is following me. Put me on the underground ambulance route."
Bisky opened her mouth to object, stepping close to the mattress with a fierce scowl, but Yuzuki's pale face and steady gaze left no room for argument. Through the thin silk blindfold, he watched the two descending signatures shift their vector, trailing his exact ward coordinates.
"If we stay in this wing, thirty patients who can't walk will be caught in the crossfire," he added, his breath rattling against the chest drain. "Move them now."
Bisky let out a long, harsh breath through her nose. "If your drain dislodges on the ramp, I am personally flaying the floor doctors."
---
Inside Chrollo's temporary Floor Master suite in the upper tower, the air was silent save for the quiet tearing of surgical tape.
Chrollo Lucilfer sat on the edge of a low leather sofa, his bare chest crisscrossed with dark hematomas and dense surgical stitches from his semifinal match. Beside him, Machi pulled a long thread of aura-infused filament taut, stitching a deep laceration across his shoulder with mechanical precision. Pakunoda stood near the floor-to-ceiling window watching the rain streak down the glass, while Shalnark rapidly scrolled through an encrypted terminal screen. Shizuku had returned to the Troupe's temporary suite after leaving Yuzuki's blindfold beside his hospital bed, methodically wiping dried blood off Blinky.
"Ten separate maintenance breaches," Shalnark reported, tapping his screen. "Different access points, same timing. Someone is surrounding the upper tower."
"They're moving late," Machi muttered, her fingers flicking as she knotted the thread. "The fight ended hours ago."
"The Dons are not protecting the Arena," Chrollo said quietly, reaching for his high-necked black coat. "They are using its collapse as cover. We are part of the target list."
"The primary elevator banks just locked down," Shalnark added, his eyes tracing the red access warnings flashing across his console. "The secondary routes are being sealed floor by floor. They're forcing all sub-level traffic into the central maintenance channels."
"What about the Yuzuki?" Shizuku asked, tilting her head, her large glasses reflecting the dim room light.
"Bisky and Wing are with him," Chrollo said, his voice calm, entirely devoid of panic despite his heavy injuries. "If we move towards that ward now, we bring our pursuers with us."
"The perimeter is already tightening," Pakunoda noted, looking down toward the service ramps. "They aren't sending standard Mafia soldiers. The aura output in the secondary shafts is heavy, distorted."
"The Shadow Beasts," Shalnark said, a small, dark smile touching his lips as fresh security logs bypassed his encryption tools. "The Dons deployed their full private unit."
As the Troupe moved toward the shadowed service door, Chrollo slipped quietly into the dark, choosing withdrawal over bringing another battlefield towards Yuzuki's ward.
---
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