The fountain wasn't a fountain. In Victor's old life, a fountain was marble. It had cherubs pissing crystal-clear water into a blue pool. It had coins at the bottom that tourists threw away for luck.
This was a stone trough.
It sat in the center of a muddy square, fed by a cracked pipe that wept a slow, brown trickle. The stone was slick with green algae. The smell hit Victor before he even reached the line a copper tang of rust mixed with the sour stench of unwashed bodies.
Victor stood at the back of the queue. There were maybe twenty people ahead of him. They didn't look like people. They looked like piles of rags held upright by misery.
He watched them.
Observation mode.
A woman near the front dipped a cracked clay pot into the water. Her hands shook. She had sores on her wrists. Malnutrition, Victor's brain supplied. Vitamin deficiency. Immune system shot.
Behind her, a man with one ear shoved a child out of the way. The child didn't cry. He just stumbled, corrected his balance, and waited.
Nobody spoke. The silence was heavy. In the ring, silence meant focus. Here, silence meant fear.
Victor looked at his own hands. They were trembling, too. Not from fear. From a lack of fuel. His stomach felt like it was digesting itself. The pain was a sharp, twisting cramp that came in waves.
He needed calories. He needed protein. He needed to not pass out in the mud.
"Move up, Leaker."
The voice came from behind. Victor didn't flinch. He turned his head slowly, keeping his chin tucked. Old habits.
The man behind him was short but broad. He wore a leather apron stained with something dark. A butcher? No, a tanner. The smell of ammonia clung to him.
"I said move," the tanner grunted. "You're wasting space."
Victor looked at the gap in the line. Three feet. He stepped forward, dragging his feet through the sludge. Conserve energy. Lift the leg only as high as necessary.
He felt the tanner's eyes on his back. Assessing. Measuring.
In Vegas, people looked at Victor Vance and saw a mountain. They saw the belts. They saw the highlight reels of him separating men from their consciousness. They gave him space.
Here, the tanner looked at Elian's skinny shoulders and saw a victim.
This is the weight class logic, Victor thought. I am a featherweight in a heavyweight division. And I don't even have a jab.
He finally reached the trough. The water was murky, swirling with sediment. He didn't care. He cupped his hands. The water was freezing. It numbed his fingers instantly.
He brought it to his lips.
It tasted like iron and dirt. He drank greedily, gulping it down. Once. Twice. The cold liquid hit his empty stomach and sent a shockwave through his system. He gasped, water dripping down his chin.
He went for a third handful.
A hand clamped onto his shoulder. Heavy. Rough.
"That's enough, rat," a new voice said.
Victor froze. He didn't pull away. That would trigger a grip reflex. Instead, he relaxed his shoulder, letting it drop.
He looked up. A man in a rusted chainmail vest stood over him. He had a club tucked into his belt. A guard? No. A thug collecting a toll.
"Water's free," Victor said. His voice was still raspy, the throat muscles weak.
"Water's free," the thug mocked. He grinned, revealing gaps where teeth should be. "The trough belongs to the Iron Coin. You pay the tax."
The Iron Coin. Elian's memories flickered. Gangsters. Smugglers. The guys who ran the docks.
"I have no money," Victor said. Fact.
"Then you don't drink."
The thug shoved him.
It wasn't a hard shove. In the gym, it wouldn't have moved Victor an inch. But Elian's body had no ballast. No core stability.
Victor flew sideways. His foot caught on a cobblestone. He went down hard, his hip slamming into the wet pavement.
Pain flared. Bright and hot.
Laughter rippled through the line. The tanner stepped over him to get to the water.
Victor lay there for a second. The mud was cold against his cheek. He listened to the laughter. He listened to the splash of water.
Get up.
He rolled onto his knees. His hip throbbed. Probably a deep bruise. That would affect his mobility. He ran the diagnostic. Right hip compromised. Left wrist sprained from the earlier fall. Energy reserves at critical.
He looked at the thug.
The man was turning away, bored. He didn't see Victor as a threat. He saw him as debris.
Victor stood up.
He could try a kidney shot. The thug's lower back was exposed. If he stepped in, pivoted, and drove his knuckle into the floating rib...
Victor looked at his fist. The skin was translucent. The bones were bird-like.
I'd break my hand before I bruised his kidney.
The math didn't work.
Victor turned and walked away.
It was the hardest thing he had ever done. Walking away from a fight. His pride screamed. The ghost of the Champion roared in his head, demanding blood.
Shut up, Victor told the ghost. You're dead. This body is alive. Let's keep it that way.
He limped out of the square, heading deeper into the Warrens.
Night came fast in Harborwatch.
The two moons rose, casting strange, double shadows across the alleyways. Luna Major painted the stone in stark silver, while Luna Minor bled a faint, sickly red into the corners.
The temperature dropped. Victor shivered. His tunic was basically a rag with holes. He hugged himself, rubbing his arms to generate friction heat.
He needed food. The water had only woken up his stomach. Now the hunger was a physical presence, a claw scraping at his insides.
He navigated the maze of the Warrens. Elian's memories served as a GPS.
Left at the hanging laundry. Right at the collapsed shed. Avoid the street with the red lantern that's where the pimps work.
He found himself behind a tavern. The "Salty Dog." The smell of roasting meat wafted from the open back door.
Victor stopped. His mouth watered so hard it hurt.
He crouched behind a pile of crates. Stakeout.
A scullery maid stepped out, carrying a bucket. She dumped it into a larger barrel near the alley entrance. Slop. Potato peels, gristle, burnt crusts.
She went back inside, slamming the door.
Victor stared at the barrel.
In his penthouse in Vegas, his chef used to make him egg white omelets with spinach and feta. He used to complain if the spinach was wilted.
Now, he was looking at garbage and seeing salvation.
Calories are calories, he told himself. Protein is protein. Pride has zero nutritional value.
He moved. Low crouch. Silent steps.
He reached the barrel. The smell was rancid sour beer and rotting vegetables. He reached in. His hand closed around something solid. A half-eaten pork rib. Cold, greasy, covered in ash.
He pulled it out.
"Skreee!"
Victor jerked his hand back.
Something leaped from the shadows of the barrel.
It wasn't a cat. It was a rat. But not the rats Victor knew. This thing was the size of a terrier. Its fur was patchy and mangy, revealing scabbed skin underneath. Its eyes glowed with a faint, red luminescence.
Threat Level F, Elian's memory whispered. Corpse Rat.
The rat hissed, baring yellow teeth that looked like needles. It wanted the rib.
Victor stepped back, creating distance.
"It's just a rat," he muttered. "I fought a guy named The Sledgehammer. You're a rodent."
The rat lunged.
It was fast. Faster than a dog. It launched itself at Victor's throat.
Victor's brain saw the trajectory. Parry left. Counter right.
He raised his left arm to block.
The rat twisted in mid-air. Its jaws clamped onto Victor's forearm.
"Ah!"
Pain. Sharp and stinging. The teeth sank in.
Victor didn't panic. Panic burns oxygen. He reacted.
He swung his arm down, smashing the rat against the side of the barrel.
Thud.
The rat didn't let go. It shook its head, tearing at the skin. Blood welled up, warm and wet.
Victor gritted his teeth. He grabbed the rat's neck with his right hand. He could feel the pulse, frantic and fast. He squeezed.
His grip was weak. The rat squirmed, its claws raking across his chest.
Leverage, Victor thought. I don't have strength. I need leverage.
He fell backward, pulling the rat with him. He slammed his back against the ground, using gravity to pin the creature. He drove his knee up, catching the rat in the soft underbelly.
The rat squealed, its grip loosening for a fraction of a second.
Victor ripped his arm free.
The rat scrambled to recover, scrabbling on the cobblestones. It coiled to spring again.
Victor looked around. Weapon. He needed a weapon.
His hand touched a loose brick.
He grabbed it.
The rat flew at his face.
Victor didn't try to block this time. He ducked. The slip was sloppy his legs were too slow but it was enough. The rat sailed over his shoulder.
Victor spun. He didn't stand up. He stayed low.
As the rat landed and turned, Victor threw the brick.
He didn't throw it like a baseball. He threw it like a shot put, putting his whole body weight behind the motion. Hip turn. Shoulder rotation. Release.
The brick spun through the air.
Crack.
It caught the rat mid-turn. A wet crunching sound. The rat collapsed, twitching.
Victor scrambled forward. He didn't wait to see if it was dead. He grabbed the brick again and brought it down.
Once. Twice. Three times.
The twitching stopped.
Victor fell back against the wall, chest heaving. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He was gasping for air, black spots dancing in his vision.
Ten seconds. The fight had lasted ten seconds.
And he was exhausted.
He looked at his arm. Four puncture wounds. Bleeding, but not spurting. He needed to wash it. Infection would kill him faster than starvation.
He looked at the rat. It was a mess of fur and blood.
He looked at the pork rib, lying in the dirt where he'd dropped it.
He picked up the rib. He wiped the dirt off on his tunic.
He took a bite.
The meat was tough, cold, and tasted like ash. It was the best thing he had ever eaten.
He chewed slowly, forcing his jaw to work. He swallowed. He felt the food hit his stomach.
"Round Two," he whispered to the dead rat. "1-0 for the underdog."
He found a place to sleep in the rafters of an abandoned warehouse near the docks.
Elian had used this spot before. It was high up, accessible only by climbing a stack of rotting crates. Most thugs wouldn't bother. Monsters couldn't climb well at least, not the low-level ones.
Victor lay on a pile of old sailcloth. It scratched his skin, but it was dry.
He couldn't sleep. The adrenaline from the rat fight was fading, replaced by a deep, aching soreness. His arm throbbed.
He held his hand up to the moonlight filtering through the broken roof.
He tried to do what he had done in the alley. He tried to feel the energy.
Qi.
Durn had used it. That blue haze. It was power. Real, tangible power.
Victor closed his eyes. He focused on his breathing. Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for four.
He felt it.
It was subtle, like the static electricity before a thunderstorm. It was in the air around him. A hum. A vibration.
He visualized pulling it in.
The energy responded. It flowed into his nose with his breath. It felt warm, like swallowing hot tea. It moved down his throat, into his chest.
He tried to hold it there. He imagined a box in his chest, capturing the light.
Stay.
The energy swirled in his chest for a heartbeat. It felt good. It felt strong. For a second, the pain in his arm faded.
Then, it was gone.
It didn't fade away. It leaked out. He could actually feel it seeping through his skin, dissipating into the night air.
He tried again. Harder. He tensed his muscles, trying to physically trap the energy.
In. Warmth. Power.
Out. Cold. Empty.
It was like trying to carry water in a net.
"Leaker," he whispered.
The word tasted bitter.
In the gym, Victor had seen guys with bad genetics. Guys with short reach, or glass jaws, or slow-twitch muscle fibers. They could train for ten years and still get knocked out by a talented rookie.
Was this it? Was he genetically capped at zero?
No.
Victor sat up. The sailcloth rustled.
The energy did go in. He felt it. It flowed through his meridians he could feel the pathways now, faint lines of heat tracing his nervous system.
It flowed in, and it flowed out.
Flow.
He looked at the moonlight.
A car engine works by burning fuel. The fuel doesn't stay in the engine. It explodes and leaves. If you plug the exhaust, the engine dies.
A river has power because it moves. A dam has power because it holds.
Everyone here was trying to be a dam. They stored Qi. They built reserves.
Victor laid back down.
He couldn't be a dam. He was a river.
A river with no water in it yet.
"I need to fix the plumbing," he muttered.
He checked his body again. The wounds on his arm had stopped bleeding. The dizziness was fading. The pork rib was processing.
He had calories. He had water. He had a weapon (the brick was tucked in his belt).
Tomorrow, he needed something else.
Information.
Elian knew the Warrens. He knew where to hide and where to beg. But Elian didn't know how the world worked. He didn't know the rules of Qi, the tiers, the politics.
Victor needed a trainer.
But trainers cost money. And Victor had zero copper.
He closed his eyes. The image of the tanner stepping over him at the fountain played in his mind on a loop.
Disrespect, his old coach used to say, is just fuel. Burn it.
Victor Vance drifted into a fitful sleep, dreaming of bright lights, roaring crowds, and a giant rat wearing a championship belt.
Morning in the Warrens was not beautiful.
It started with the sound of coughing. Thousands of people waking up with fluid in their lungs. The smog from the industrial district drifted down, yellow and heavy, mixing with the morning mist.
Victor woke up stiff. His neck was locked. His hip was a bruise the size of a dinner plate.
He did a system check.
Hunger: Present, but manageable.
Thirst: Moderate.
Pain: 7/10.
He sat up and stretched. His joints popped like firecrackers.
He climbed down from the rafters. The descent was shaky. His grip strength was pathetic. He had to be careful not to slip.
He hit the ground and walked out into the sunlight.
The street was already busy. People rushed past, heads down, eyes on the mud. Everyone had somewhere to be, some scrap to chase.
Victor merged with the flow. He kept his head up, scanning.
Threat assessment.
Two men arguing over a cart. Loud, but not dangerous.
A group of children chasing a dog. Harmless.
A patrol of city guards marching down the main avenue.
Victor stopped.
The guards wore polished steel breastplates, not the rusted junk the local thugs wore. They carried halberds that hummed with a faint, white light.
Qi weapons, Victor realized.
The leader of the patrol was riding a horse. But not a horse. It was taller, with scales along its neck and eyes that burned like coals.
Plainsteed, Elian's memory supplied.
The rider was looking at the crowd with bored disdain. He wore a blue cape.
Victor watched them pass. He watched how the crowd parted like the Red Sea. He watched the fear in the eyes of the tanner from yesterday, who was bowing so low his nose almost touched the muck.
Power.
It wasn't just about punching hard. It was about structure. Hierarchy.
Victor needed to know where he stood on the ladder.
He turned toward the Market Square.
The market was the heart of Harborwatch's lower district. It was a chaos of noise and color. Stalls sold everything from rusted tools to questionable meat.
Victor walked through the aisles. He wasn't looking to buy. He was looking to learn.
He saw a blacksmith hammering a glowing piece of metal. The smith didn't just swing the hammer. He breathed in sync with the strikes. Every time the hammer hit, a spark of red light flared. The metal seemed to yield faster than it should.
Fire Qi, Victor analyzed. Industrial application.
He saw a baker kneading dough. Her hands moved in a blur, faster than humanly possible. The dough rose instantly under her touch.
Time is money. Qi saves time.
He stopped at the edge of the square. There was a large wooden board posted with parchment notices. A crowd was gathered around it.
Victor pushed his way to the front. Being small had one advantage: he could slip through gaps.
The notices were jobs.
WANTED: DITCH DIGGERS. 5 COPPER/DAY. BRING OWN SHOVEL.
WANTED: RAT CATCHERS. 2 COPPER/TAIL.
Victor touched the brick in his belt. Two copper a tail. He could have made two copper last night.
Then he saw the big poster in the center.
It was drawn in bold, black ink. It depicted two men fighting. One was holding a severed head.
THE BLOOD PITS
Tonight!
Main Event: The Butcher vs. The Iron Ox
Entry: 1 Silver
Wagering Open
Victor stared at the poster.
The Blood Pits. Elian knew them. They were the underground arena run by the gangs. Death matches. unregulated. Brutal.
Victor felt a strange pull in his chest. It wasn't fear.
It was nostalgia.
He remembered the smell of the canvas. The heat of the lights. The roar.
That's where the money is, the ghost of the Champion whispered.
But he looked at his hands. The scabs. The thin wrists.
He couldn't fight. Not yet.
"Looking for work, boy?"
Victor turned.
A man was standing next to him. He was old, maybe sixty, with white hair tied in a tight bun. He wore a simple gray robe that was clean a rarity here. He leaned on a wooden staff.
His eyes were sharp. They didn't sweep over Victor like the others. They locked on.
"I'm looking for money," Victor corrected.
The old man chuckled. It was a dry, rasping sound. "Aren't we all. You have a look about you. Hungry eyes."
"I haven't eaten properly in years," Victor said.
"Not that kind of hunger." The old man tapped his staff on the ground. "You look like a wolf that woke up in a sheep's body."
Victor stiffened. He sees me.
"Who are you?" Victor asked.
"I'm just a teacher with no students," the man said. He gestured to the Blood Pits poster. "You like the violence?"
"I like the technique," Victor said automatically.
The old man raised an eyebrow. "Technique? In the Pits? There is no technique there. Just meat smashing meat."
"There's always technique," Victor said. "Even when it's sloppy. The Butcher overextends his right. The Ox drops his guard when he kicks."
He hadn't seen them fight. He was just analyzing the drawing on the poster. The artist had captured the stances.
The old man looked at the poster, then back at Victor. He looked surprised.
"You see that in a drawing?"
"I see it everywhere," Victor said. "Balance. Leverage. It's all math."
The old man stared at him for a long moment. Then he reached into his robe.
He pulled out a coin. It glinted in the sunlight. Silver.
A silver coin was worth 100 coppers. It was a fortune. It was a week of food. A month of rent in a flea-bitten room.
Victor's eyes tracked the coin.
"I have a job," the old man said. "But it requires a strong back. And you..." He poked Victor's chest with the staff. "You are made of twigs."
"I can work," Victor said. "I'm stronger than I look."
"Doubtful." The old man flipped the coin. "But you have good eyes. Come to the East Gate at noon. Ask for Master Oren."
He caught the coin and shoved it in victor's pocket .
"Don't be late," Oren said. "And wash your face. You look like a corpse that dug itself out."
The old man turned and walked away. He moved with a strange rhythm, his staff tapping the stones lightly.
Victor watched him go.
Master Oren.
The title implied a cultivator. Tier 5 at least.
Victor looked at the sun. It was mid-morning. He had two hours until noon.
He touched the spot on his chest where Oren had poked him. It didn't hurt.
He had a lead. He had a potential job.
And he had two hours to figure out how to walk across the city without collapsing.
Victor Vance started walking. He kept his chin down. He kept his breathing steady.
One step. Two steps. Breathe.
The bell had rung. Round Two was underway.