Leonhart, Pride Kingdom.

  A sleek black car idled near the edge of the Warrior’s District, its tinted windows shielding the group inside from the neon-lit streets. Inside, a handful of young men lounged, their conversation laced with boredom and routine.

  “I swear, Magnus is working us to the bone,” one of them groaned, stretching his arms behind his head. “Who are we picking up this time?”

  Across from him, a boy with chiseled arms and sharp, calculating eyes continued his workout, his fists striking the air with controlled precision.

  “Henry?” the first boy prompted.

  Henry Angelo—no relation to King Carter—rolled his shoulders and exhaled a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. His presence commanded attention. “What is it?” he muttered, rubbing his wrist.

  One of the boys tossed him a key, nodding toward the glove compartment. “Magnus sent us after someone.”

  Henry flicked the cigarette into an ashtray, his interest only mildly piqued. “Who?”

  A photo slid across the seat toward him. He picked it up, eyes scanning the image—a martial artist.

  “You know how Magnus is,” the boy added. “He’s obsessed with finding fighters who don’t rely on magic.”

  Henry smirked, cracking his knuckles. “That just means he’ll be easy to catch.”

  The engine rumbled to life as the car pulled away, vanishing into the neon glow of Leonhart’s streets.

  Leonhart Arcade – Neon Clash

  The arcade buzzed with flashing lights and the rhythmic beeps of games in motion. At the center of it all, a boy clad in a jacket embroidered with a golden dragon, loose shorts, and short, tousled hair stood firm, his fingers dancing across the controls of an old-school fighting game.

  “Damn, Dragon’s on fire!” a girl cheered as she watched the screen light up with another victory.

  Dragon Case barely acknowledged the praise, his eyes locked onto the game. “Trying to beat my own high score,” he muttered, his focus unwavering.

  Beside him, a boy held a straw up to his mouth. Dragon took a quick sip without breaking concentration. “Thanks,” he murmured before diving back into the game.

  The electric hum of the arcade was abruptly shattered as Henry Angelo shoved past the crowd. “Move,” he barked, forcing his way through before slamming a firm hand onto Dragon’s shoulder.

  Dragon barely flinched, still absorbed in the screen. “What?”

  Henry smirked, running a hand through Dragon’s hair as if claiming ownership. “Dragon Case, you’re coming with us.”

  Before anyone could process what happened next, Dragon’s grip shot up like a viper, seizing Henry’s wrist in an instant. With fluid precision, he twisted, flipping Henry over in a single, effortless motion. The next moment, Henry found himself sitting neatly in a chair, blinking in mild shock.

  The arcade went silent for a beat before a few snickers broke out. Dragon, meanwhile, didn’t even glance back—his eyes remained glued to the game.

  Henry stumbled to his feet, shaking off the dizziness as his vision cleared. “What the hell?!” he snapped, his frustration boiling over. Without hesitation, he raised his leg high and brought it down like an axe, aiming to smash Dragon’s collarbone.

  But as the dust settled, the crowd gasped—Dragon stood unfazed, one hand casually gripping Henry’s ankle. His expression remained as indifferent as ever.

  “Can you stop? You’ll break the game,” Dragon said, his tone more annoyed than angry. “Then I’ll get really mad.”

  Henry snarled and yanked his leg back. “Is he another one for my bastard list?!” he barked before knocking over a cup of water, sending it spilling onto the arcade machine.

  The screen flickered, then went dark. The machine let out a low hum before dying completely.

  The arcade fell silent.

  Dragon stared at the blank screen, his eye twitching. Slowly, he stood up, the air around him shifting.

  Henry grinned, rolling his shoulders. “Finally! I was starting to think you were all talk—”

  Before he could finish, Dragon struck.

  With blinding speed, he snapped his fist forward, striking Henry’s chest with a Wing Chun chain punch—one, two, three—his blows landing faster than Henry could react. Henry staggered, trying to weave away, but Dragon pressed forward, his movements smooth and relentless.

  Dragon’s hands became a blur, transitioning into Wing Chun’s bil sao (thrusting palms) to knock Henry’s guard aside before landing a precise ging sao (elbow strike) to his ribs. Henry grunted and tried to counter, but Dragon easily deflected with a pak sao (slap block), redirecting his force and closing the gap.

  The arcade crowd erupted as Dragon unleashed a rapid flurry of strikes, forcing Henry back step by step, his smirk long gone.

  Henry groaned, his face bloodied, but he wasn’t done yet. Gritting his teeth, he lunged and snatched Dragon’s wrist, trying to regain control.

  Bad move.

  With a sharp twist, Dragon shifted his stance, using Henry’s own momentum against him. In one swift motion, he flipped Henry over his shoulder, sending him crashing onto the arcade floor with a bone-rattling impact.

  The air left Henry’s lungs in a ragged gasp, but before he could recover, Dragon was on him.

  He unleashed a barrage of chain punches—ten rapid strikes—each landing with pinpoint precision. The brutal rhythm echoed through the arcade, the blows too fast, too relentless for Henry to resist.

  “Magnus sent you, huh?” Dragon muttered, standing over him, his voice calm but sharp. “He’s been chasing me for two years now.” He crouched down, grabbing Henry by the collar. “Where is he?”

  Henry groaned, spitting blood onto the floor. His body ached, his pride shattered.

  “T-the warehouse… on the outskirts…” he wheezed.

  Dragon let go, standing up and dusting off his jacket. “Alright.”

  Without another word, he stepped onto Henry’s chest as he walked past, pushing him down like an afterthought before heading for the exit. The arcade doors swung open, the neon lights flickering against his jacket as he disappeared into the night.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of Leonhart, Mel and Althara walked through the neon-lit streets, their black jackets blending into the city’s underground atmosphere. Both wore dark shades, concealing their distinctive purple eyes—a rare trait that would make them easy to spot.

  Althara sighed, adjusting her glasses. “It’s hard to see in the dark with these on.”

  Mel kept scanning their surroundings, his voice low but firm. “We’re the only ones here with purple eyes—if anyone recognizes us, we’re done.”

  She exhaled, understanding the risk. “If you really want to get to King Carter, you’ll have to go through Magnus first. He’s the one running the trade in strong people. He picks people who can fight, not just those with magic.”

  Mel hummed in thought. “How do I meet him?”

  Althara hesitated, her fingers twitching. “I… don’t know. If he sees me, he’ll recognize me, and it’s been a long time since I was here.”

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Mel smirked slightly. “Then we just have to make him notice me.”

  Althara narrowed her eyes. “And how do you plan to do that?”

  Mel slid his hands into his pockets, a sly grin forming beneath his shades. “Simple. If Magnus is looking for bidders, I’ll just have to play the part—filthy rich, arrogant, and impossible to refuse.”

  Unbeknownst to everyone, another player had entered the scene.

  On the shadowy side of Leonhart, King Dorian of Bloodthorn Dominion ascended a narrow alleyway staircase, his figure cloaked in all black, shades concealing his unmistakable red eyes.

  Ashley’s voice crackled through his earpiece. “Why are you dressed like that? You look ridiculous.”

  Dorian tapped the device with a smirk. “I’m the only one with red eyes. If they recognize me, I’m as good as dead.” With that, he switched off the earpiece and surveyed his surroundings.

  “I know Melanthius is here. Ashley spotted him—now I just need to figure out why.” His voice was low, cautious, as his footsteps echoed against the worn pavement.

  A shiver ran down his spine as he glanced at the darkened streets. "Damn… This place is unsettling."

  Still, he pressed forward.

  Bimoth, Cassius, and Amara stood at the outskirts of the kingdom, gazing over the vast city below.

  “I’m too big. I’ll draw too much attention. I’ll wait here and watch for anything sketchy.” Bimoth rumbled, settling onto the edge of the cliff with a heavy thud.

  Cassius and Amara sat beside him.

  Amara hesitated before speaking. “K-King Bimoth, why did you come here?”

  Bimoth raised a hand dismissively. “No need for ‘King.’ You’re both older than me.” His deep voice carried weight, despite his youth. He crossed his arms, staring ahead. “My brothers betrayed me for the Seven Deadly Kingdoms… and I have a feeling they’re here.”

  Amara nodded solemnly. “We came because our friend did something horrible and ran here.” Her voice softened. “Akoni… I just wish we had more time with him.”

  Cassius remained silent, his expression unreadable.

  Their Freshman Year...

  A younger Akoni sat on the dormitory steps, furrowing his brow in concentration. A notebook hovered inches above his palm before dropping to the ground.

  “Darn.” He muttered, trying again—only for it to fall once more.

  Before he could reach for it, Cassius snatched it up with a grin. “Whoa, when I saw your Black Card performance, I was amazed.”

  Amara plopped down beside Akoni, offering a friendly smile. “We’re the three freshman Black Cards. We should be friends.”

  Cassius jabbed a thumb toward his chest. “Then I should be the leader! I’m taller and stronger than both of you!” he declared confidently.

  Amara winced, covering her ears. “He’s loud, isn’t he?” she muttered to Akoni, who nodded.

  Cassius nudged Akoni’s thigh. “Scoot over.”

  Akoni shifted slightly, letting Cassius sit beside him. “You don’t talk much, huh?” Cassius noted.

  Akoni merely shrugged. “Not much…”

  Cassius leaned back against the steps, staring at the sky. “Damn, soon we’ll all be rulers, huh?”

  Amara groaned. “I just hope I don’t turn out like my mom. She’s so snobby. Bleh.”

  Cassius chuckled. “My mom is barely home. And when she is, she’s probably cheating on my dad—who’s also always cheating.”

  Akoni, without hesitation, said, “My parents wish I were dead.”

  The mood shifted instantly.

  Cassius blinked before muttering, “Jeez… maybe don’t drop that on people you just met.”

  Akoni flinched slightly, but Amara placed a gentle hand over his. “Don’t worry. Just… be careful who you open up to.”

  Present…

  Mel sat in an opulent restaurant, dressed in a sleek tuxedo, his expensive sunglasses glinting under the golden chandeliers. Every detail of his outfit—from the polished cufflinks to the designer shoes—screamed wealth.

  He snapped his fingers. “Waiter!” His tone carried the entitlement of a man who owned the place. He crossed one leg over the other, leaning back with an air of arrogant nonchalance.

  A weary-looking waiter hurried over and bowed. “Yes, sir?”

  Mel barely spared him a glance, rolling his eyes. “I want the most extravagant entrée you have. A5 wagyu filet mignon, slathered in caviar butter and wrapped in edible gold. Pair it with the oldest, most expensive wine hidden in the depths of the kitchen’s cellar. And bring me more cutlery—real silver, not whatever peasant metal you’re using.”

  The waiter stiffened but nodded, bowing low. “Of course, sir.” His sigh of exhaustion was barely concealed as he turned to leave.

  “Wait.”

  The waiter froze, shoulders tensing before he turned back, forcing a polite smile. “Yes, sir?”

  Mel casually pulled out a thick wad of knightcoins and slipped them into the waiter’s pocket. “A tip.” His smirk was unreadable—somewhere between amusement and generosity.

  The waiter’s eyes widened in surprise before he bowed once more, this time with genuine gratitude. “Thank you, sir.” He said before hurrying off, still dazed by the unexpected windfall.

  Mel sighed, adjusting his posture with a casual stretch. “Good thing prison had its fair share of rich snobs,” he muttered, taking a slow sip of water. His sharp eyes flicked around the restaurant, scanning for any potential leads. “Althara’s got the lookout covered, so that’s handled. Maybe I should start talking about fighting.”

  Leaning back, he lazily propped his feet up on the table, ignoring the disapproving stares. He turned to the person next to him with an almost bored expression. “Did you know that if you punch someone in the jaw just right, they’re more likely to collapse than actually pass out?”

  The diner blinked, nodding nervously before quickly returning to their meal.

  Mel sighed just as the waiter returned, elegantly placing the extravagant dish and wine before him. “Anything else, sir?” the waiter asked, his tone polite but wary.

  Mel yawned, twirling a knife between his fingers. “Yeah, just looking for a fight, you know?” His words were casual, but his gaze was sharp, watching the waiter’s reaction.

  The waiter stiffened slightly. “A fight? What do you mean, sir?”

  Mel took a slow bite of the caviar-buttered filet mignon, chewing thoughtfully before glancing up. “You know… something underground. A place where people are sold to fight, not just for magic, but real strength.” His tone was light, but there was an edge to it.

  The waiter swallowed hard, hesitated for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Enjoy your meal, sir.” He quickly turned on his heel and walked away, his pace a little faster than before.

  Mel exhaled, slumping into his chair. “Well, that was a bust.” He took another bite, grimacing slightly. “And caviar isn’t all that great. Maybe I’ve been around too many fish people.”

  Suddenly, three men in sharp tuxedos loomed over Mel, their presence suffocating. One of them slid into the seat across from him, resting an elbow on the table. “You said you wanna fight, huh?”

  Mel flinched, nearly tipping backward—before smoothly levitating midair and settling back into his chair as if nothing had happened. He cleared his throat, grabbed his wine, and took a sip—only to immediately cough at the bitter taste. “I, uh… yeah. I want to fight someone.” He recovered quickly, masking his nerves behind a smirk.

  The man across from him studied Mel for a moment, then gave a sharp snap of his fingers. Before Mel could react, the chair beneath him was yanked away. Instinctively, he landed on his feet, tensing for a fight.

  The man stood, adjusting his cuffs. “Come with me.”

  Mel hesitated for a split second, his fingers twitching at his side. Then he exhaled, forcing a casual nod. “Okay…” he muttered, following them as the air around him grew heavier.

  Meanwhile, Dorian strolled through the bustling streets of Leonhart, adjusting his hair with an annoyed sigh. "This place is way too bright," he muttered, shielding his eyes from the neon signs and glowing street lamps.

  As he turned a corner, movement in a nearby alley caught his attention. He stopped, narrowing his eyes.

  A boy was curled up on the ground, trembling as four girls surrounded him. One of them sneered, shoving him back down when he tried to lift his head. "You dumbass, did you really think you were hot enough to talk to her?" she spat, her voice dripping with mockery.

  "I-I’m sorry!" the boy stammered, his arms thrown over his head as they rained down blows.

  Dorian exhaled sharply and turned away, walking without a second glance. “His own fault for being so weak,” he muttered under his breath.

  One of the girls, emboldened by his retreat, grabbed a metal bat and sneered. “You don’t know who you’re messing with, do you? General Magnus would kill you for this!” She raised the bat high, ready to bring it down—

  But in an instant, Dorian vanished into a swirling flock of bats. They darted through the alley, reforming right in front of her. Before she could react, he snatched the bat from her hands and snapped it in two like a twig.

  “General Magnus?” His voice was calm, but there was a sharp edge beneath it.

  The girls shrank back, their bravado evaporating. “Y-yeah,” she stammered, trying to recover. “He’s my friend, and he’ll kick the shit out of you!”

  Dorian’s crimson eyes flickered with amusement. In a blur, he grabbed her by the jaw, silencing her with a firm grip. “Ashley told me a long time ago that Magnus sells people to fight,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “A moral codist like Mel wouldn’t just let that slide. If Magnus really is involved in something like that… it might explain why he’s here.”

  His grip loosened as a pang of nostalgia hit him. God, I miss those two. Mel, with his unshakable ideals. Elowen, with her sharp tongue and unwavering loyalty. For a moment, he almost smiled.

  The girls used his distraction to scramble backward, but Dorian’s focus snapped back. He held the trembling girl’s jaw, his voice smooth but unyielding. “Now… where is Magnus?”

  She clawed at his arm, eyes darting around in panic. Then, as if remembering something, her breathing steadied.

  “If anyone tries to hassle you for my location, tell them I’m in the red tavern.”

  “H-he’s in the red tavern!” she blurted. “That’s all I know, I swear! Please, let me go!”

  Dorian studied her for a long moment, then released her with a smirk. “Good girl.” He took a step back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Now do yourself a favor—don’t pick on the weak anymore.”

  With that, he turned, his silhouette fading into the shadows. Just before disappearing completely, he lifted a hand in a lazy wave.

  “It’s not cool, ya know?”

  Then he was gone.