Before I even see him, almost the entire crowd starts chanting his name. A thunderous chorus, rhythmic, encouraging—the cry a city sends up when it summons its hero.

"Cassio!"

"Cassio!"

"Cassio!"

The judge hasn’t even announced our names yet, and they already have this much energy. I didn’t know Cassio was this popular before I met him on the front lines. After all, this bastard was a cold, soulless bully whose arrogance preceded his fall.

Apparently, in Azure Prime he was loved. He doesn’t even hide his real name behind a ring name.

I look up, and above me, the ocean sky of Thirstfall is turning. The blue is thickening into amber along the eastern curve, the trapped sea-light above bending into the long, slow oranges of late afternoon. Strands of water above us catch the lower angle and refract it sideways, throwing rippling caustics across the arena floor in patterns no land sky has ever produced.

Twilight in Thirstfall doesn’t fade.

It tilts.

The temperature drops by a breath. The air around the perimeter pillars feels heavier, denser, the way water feels heavier than air without being colder. Something is moving toward me through the crowd.

And then he steps through the south gate.

Cassio Veil is tall. Taller than I remember. Broad across the shoulders, narrow at the waist, a long-limbed elegance built for reach rather than mass. His armor is platinum-blue plate, ornately worked at the pauldrons and the gauntlets, every line catching the dying caustic light from above and throwing it forward as he walks. A long blue cape trails behind him, heavy at the hem, weighted to fall correctly. His hair is dark, swept back from a sharp forehead, cut close at the temples. The jaw is razor-cut. The eyes are pale blue, almost gray—aristocratic eyes, raised to expect a specific angle of recognition from every room they enter.

The Herald of the Spear. That’s how he’ll be known one day in the future.

’Of course... If he survives from today.’

In his right hand, the weapon. A long spear with a leaf-shaped head of polished steel, runed along the blade in spiraling script, the haft wrapped in dark blue leather. Even in this life, even at Rank C, the weapon already breathes the same arrogance the wielder does. I remember it’s a blood soul weapon, like Horizon armor.

He walks to the center of the arena with a slow, rehearsed gait—every step of every entrance he has ever made, calibrated through years of practice and arriving here polished. He raises the spear above his head. The crowd loses what little remained of its composure. Scales fly. OXI Candies, somehow, are thrown.

I just stand there.

He plants the spear butt against the stone. Tilts his head, studying me with the half-amused expression of a craftsman noticing his next piece of wood.

"So you’re the one who bought the show."

"That depends on what’s being sold."

"A lesson." His smile widens. "Sharma asked me, personally. He said: Cassio, do me the courtesy of teaching this child his place. And how could I refuse a King?"

"Strange. Last I checked, kings sit on thrones, not balconies. Are you sure you weren’t mistaking a balcony for one?"

A low ripple of laughter cuts through the front rows. The closest spectators heard. Cassio’s smile thins by half a degree.

"Cute. Children always speak loudest before they’re broken."

"Old men always quote children’s-broken before they’re winded. We have something in common."

The laughter spreads further now. Cassio’s pale eyes narrow.

He’s exactly the same. The Cassio I crossed in Abyss was this man—just a few years older, a few inches scarred, a few medals heavier. Same arrogance. Same chin-tilt when he listened for applause. Same belief that a louder voice and a sharper spear was the same as a deeper mind.

The judge approaches the perimeter. I watch his eyes track upward, toward the high seat under the dark awning, where Rahul Sharma sits with the glass cane balanced across his thighs. The judge is asking, silently, whether to step in.

Rahul makes a small gesture with two fingers. ’Let it run.’

The judge backs off.

Cassio rolls the spear once in his palm. The leaf-head catches the orange light and throws it across the dust between us.

"I’ll make you a deal, Uncle Den." He pitches the war name with mocking weight. "Fifteen strikes. That’s how many it takes me to put this through your heart. Survive seventeen, and I’ll buy your funeral wine myself."

The crowd whoops.

"Generous," I say. I don’t move. I don’t even shift weight. "Then let me return the courtesy."

I let the next sentence wait. Just a full second. The crowd quiets because they sense it before they hear it.

"If you don’t finish me in fifteen, Cassio Veil..."

I lift my eyes to meet his. Pale gray to dark brown. Steady. No theater.

"...I’ll cut the tendon in your right hand. Slowly. So that the next time you raise that spear in front of a crowd, the only person who notices the tremor will be you. You won’t bleed out. You won’t lose your name. You’ll just lose the exact angle of the wrist that makes the spear sing. And every match after this one, you’ll be wondering whether tonight is the night the audience finally hears the wrong note."

Silence.

It rolls across the Oathring in a single wave. Even the bookmakers stop calling odds. Somewhere in the third tier, someone drops a clay cup. The sound is loud enough to count.

The half-amused expression on Cassio’s face hasn’t moved. But the small muscle beside his right eye twitches once. Half a millimeter. Just enough that I know I hit something. He didn’t expect a counter that targeted what he loves about himself instead of what other men would call a wound.

But he recovers fast. The smile returns wider.

"You have a writer’s tongue, child. Let’s see if you have a writer’s body to back it up."

"Let’s."

The narrator-judge raises both arms over his head.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the Oathring—" his voice booms across the perimeter, the showman in him coming alive now that the air has finally turned dangerous, "—in the south corner, the pride of Azure Prime, the spear that has not bowed in thirty-two consecutive bouts, CASSIO... VEEEEILLLL!"

The crowd detonates.

"And in the north corner, the challenger, fresh meat with apparently a great deal to say—UNCLE... DEN!"

A scattered, polite applause. A few jeers.

I let them have their applause.

Cassio lifts his spear into a high guard. The leaf-head levels exactly at the center of my chest. The shaft does not tremble.

I touch Eventide at the clip on my belt, but I don’t draw.

The judge drops his arms.

"Fight!"