The departure of Jax left a void in the room, both literal and psychological. The empty cot was a constant reminder of the Vanguard's reach. Ryu's paranoia intensified, but so did his desperation. Fear didn't pay for food. With his meager earnings from the docks barely enough to sustain him, he was forced back to the only other source of income he knew: the arena.
He told himself it would be different this time. He would be smarter, faster. He wouldn't fight clan members. He would pick his opponents carefully, aiming for a quick, small payout. He signed up for a low-tier match, his name added to the roster with an indifferent flick of a clerk's wrist.
His opponent was not a hulking brute like Grak. He was a wiry, agile fighter named Silas, another dust-rat known for his cunning rather than his strength. Silas had a reputation for fighting dirty, for exploiting every weakness, for turning a match into a psychological battle as much as a physical one. The crowd, smaller and more discerning than for the main events, appreciated his style. They called him the 'Coyote.'
From the moment the match began, Ryu was on the defensive. Silas was a blur of motion, feinting and weaving, his attacks not powerful but precise. He didn't aim for knockout blows; he aimed for joints, for eyes, for exposed nerves. He kicked dirt into Ryu's face, used the arena walls to launch himself at unexpected angles, and constantly taunted him with a stream of insults designed to break his focus.
"Come on, dust-rat," Silas sneered, dancing just out of Ryu's reach. "You're slower than a broken-down cargo hauler. Did you come here to fight or to take a nap?"
Ryu tried to stay calm, to remember the discipline he'd tried to teach himself. He watched Silas's feet, tried to anticipate his movements. He managed to land a few glancing blows, but Silas was like smoke, frustratingly elusive. The match dragged on. Ryu was growing tired, his lungs burning, his bruises from the docks aching with fresh intensity. Silas, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself, his grin widening with every failed punch Ryu threw.
The turning point came when Silas faked a lunge to the left, and Ryu, expecting another peripheral attack, moved to block it. It was a feint. Silas spun the other way, his foot sweeping out and catching Ryu's ankle. Ryu stumbled, his balance gone. In that instant of vulnerability, Silas was on him. He didn't go for a flashy finishing move. Instead, he drove his elbow into Ryu's already bruised ribs, then used a submission hold, twisting Ryu's arm behind his back until the pain was a white-hot scream.
Ryu had a choice: tap out and accept another humiliating defeat, or let his arm break. The shame was a bitter pill, but the thought of being unable to work at the docks was worse. He slammed his free hand against the dirt floor. Submission.
The crowd offered a smattering of applause for Silas's clever victory. As Silas released him, he leaned in close, his voice a venomous whisper in Ryu's ear. "You don't belong here. You have the heart of a fighter, but none of the tools. Go back to the docks before you get yourself killed." It wasn't advice; it was a dismissal. A confirmation of his own deepest fears.
As Ryu limped away, Silas collected his winnings. But he didn't leave. Instead, he was approached by a well-dressed man who had been watching from the shadows near the fighter's exit. Ryu recognized the charismatic smile immediately. It was Vex. Vex clapped Silas on the shoulder, his expression one of paternal pride. "A fine display of strategy," Vex said, his voice too low for anyone else to hear. "You see? It's not about brute force. It's about will. You have that will. We can help you sharpen it."
Ryu froze in the shadows of the exit tunnel, his blood turning to ice. Silas, the cunning dust-rat who had just dismantled him, was being recruited. Vex was not just collecting the broken; he was gathering the clever, the ruthless, the survivors. The Vanguard was building an army not of brutes, but of predators.