The fog didn't lift.
It peeled away.
Layer by layer, like skin torn from something alive.
Sound returned first—the low groan of wood, the distant clang of iron, voices shouting in languages rough enough to scrape the ear. Then came color: rust-red hulls, banners stained too dark to tell whether the marks were paint… or blood.
And finally, the law changed.
Veron felt it the moment the White Arrow slid out of the fog.
Not a place.
A rule.
The air itself pressed heavier, as if the world demanded something in return for allowing them to breathe.
He stood at the bow, hands resting loosely at his sides, posture relaxed—yet utterly still. His eyes moved slowly, absorbing everything without urgency.
Beside him, Dren leaned against the railing, arms crossed, weight shifted casually to one leg. Anyone watching would think him bored.
Anyone who knew better would feel the wrongness of that calm.
Captain Haisen exhaled through his teeth.
"The East," he muttered. "Darinvale. Port of Blood."
Dren let out a soft, amused huff. "Warm welcome."
Veron's lips curved faintly. "At least they're honest."
Behind them, Marin hugged her cloak tighter, eyes darting across the harbor. Children darted between ships like rats—too fast, too sharp—hands vanishing into pockets before reappearing empty. Men argued openly over crates of weapons. A body lay half-covered near a pier, ignored by everyone except the flies.
She swallowed.
"This place…" Her voice trembled despite her effort. "No one looks afraid."
"They don't have time to be," Dren said lightly.
Marin glanced at him—then at Veron.
Neither of them looked unsettled.
That scared her more.
The gangplank slammed down.
Chaos rushed to meet them.
Darinvale stank of salt, iron, sweat, and old death. Ships leaned against one another like drunks. Lanterns burned even in daylight, their light weak and jaundiced. Guards stood at intersections—not to keep order, but to collect coins with lazy hands and bored eyes.
Veron clapped Haisen on the shoulder once. "Send my regards to the Gray Crow."
Haisen inclined his head. "I will."
They stepped onto the dock.
Dren glanced sideways. "Plan?"
"Money," Veron replied. "Information. Then we leave."
Simple.
Lucen exhaled in relief. "Finally. I come ba—"
"Hey."
Three men blocked the group's path.
Leather armor. Crude blades. Smiles sharpened by habit. The leader rolled a coin between his fingers.
"Dock tax," he said. "New faces pay."
Dren tilted his head, eyes half-lidded. His voice dropped—soft, almost kind.
"Walk away."
The leader laughed. "Kid, this isn't—"
Haisen's voice drifted from behind them, dry as old paper.
"Careful. These aren't the ones you tease."
City guards approached then, slow and theatrical. One of them yawned.
"Let's not add another corpse this morning," he said—to the thugs.
Lucen stepped forward quickly, hands raised. "No trouble. I'll pay."
Coins exchanged hands.
The thugs stepped aside.
They took two steps.
Then the air collapsed.
A pressure slammed down like an invisible fist. Breath vanished. Sound warped.
Marin blinked—and Veron was no longer beside them.
He stood among the thugs.
In his hand—
A head.
Blood dripped steadily from the severed neck, pattering onto the ground.
No one saw him draw the sword.
No one saw him move.
The leader's body folded to the ground a heartbeat later.
Shock rippled through the dock. Screams rose as women recoiled from the bloody scene.
Dren stepped toward the remaining two, eyes cold now.
"Run."
They did.
People scattered in fear. Thugs vanished. Guards froze.
Ronal whispered, horrified, "There was a monster… right between us."
The old man swallowed hard. "And his friend too. I didn't recognize him at first, but those bandaged hands… he's the Sealed Hand…"
Marin's breath caught.
"The… what?"
Veron dropped the head at the guards' feet.
"Dispose of it. Take his money."
Then he turned.
Gone—both of them—melting into the crowd as if Darinvale itself swallowed them.
The streets tightened as they moved inland.
Crowds pressed close. Deals whispered. Knives flashed and vanished.
Above a massive stone wall, letters were carved deep and proud:
DARINVALE — CITY OF THE FREE
Veron looked up.
"Freedom without order," he said quietly, "is just another kind of slavery."
Dren snorted. "Mad place."
"In every mad place," Veron replied, "there are mad opportunities."
"Wait—!"
Lucen emerged from an alley, straightening his coat as if dignity could be ironed back into it.
"I know this city. You'll need me."
Veron walked past him without slowing.
Dren paused just long enough to speak.
"Don't bother us."
Lucen nodded solemnly.
Then followed them anyway.
"I noticed you didn't say no," he said cheerfully.
Dren sighed. "I warned you."
Lucen smiled wider.
The Inn of the Sky's Paradise sagged between two buildings like it was ashamed to exist.
Inside: hard eyes, scarred knuckles, the low hum of danger.
Veron sat and ordered water.
Dren ordered a cup of coffee.
Lucen jumped straight into it.
"Darinvale runs on blood. Black markets. Slaves. And arenas—illegal fights. Big money."
Veron's eyes sharpened.
That evening, the southern arena breathed.
Mist curled low. Shouts thundered. The scent of iron coated the tongue.
Veron spoke quietly to the guards.
Coins changed hands. A name was signed.
Thirty thousand Rizo.
Dren.
The manager arrived, eyes lighting up.
"Thirty thousand Rizo—that's a good amount of money. What's the fighter's name?"
"Dren," Veron said calmly. "The Sealed Hand."
Lucen froze.
"Thirty thousand?!" he hissed. "Where will we—"
Veron corrected him gently.
"Not we. You. The fight is under your name, friend. Dren warned you. Did you forget?"
"Whaaat?!" Lucen blurted, face twisting in shock and anger.
Then, softer, Veron added, "Don't worry. Dren won't lose."
Bandages came off.
A tattoo revealed itself—ancient, burning faintly beneath the skin of Dren's arms.
Black wraps were tied.
Minutes passed.
Then the announcer roared:
"DREN — THE SEALED HAND!"
"VERSUS— GONK THE BLOODSHIELD!"
The southern arena breathed under the evening sky.
The two fighters entered.
Gonk strode across the arena, gesturing for the crowd's cheers.
Dren waited, letting the roar wash over him, centering himself before the fight began.
Dust exploded as Gonk charged.
Dren took the hit—slid back—blood on his lip.
Then he closed his eyes.
"Let's finish this before he starts," he breathed.
Everything slowed.
Step.
Turn.
Grip.
Gonk's balance vanished.
The giant staggered.
The crowd fell silent.
Dren stood still.
Above, Veron whispered—
"Now… it begins."
Dren moved.
And the world held its breath.