Not long after accepting the real money job, while still sitting in the processing area, they spot an hunter official coming towards them.
’Graves and Traven you are summoned back to the debrief room imdiately,’ the official tells them without a second glance going back towards the debrief room expecting them to be on their feet behind him.
The Association debrief room feels like a courtroom. Harsh lights reflects off monitoring crystals embedded in the walls. Leon sits stiff-backed, dical tape binding his ribs, while Elise remains silent beside him.
Across the tal table, Brock shifts uncomfortably. Maris stares at her hands. Trenton avoids eye contact entirely.
"Explain the separation," the lead official says.
Brock clears his throat. "Goblins forced us apart. Combat situation. No choice."
"Leon wandered off," Maris adds quickly. "We couldn’t find him."
Trenton nods. "The healer slowed everyone down. We had to prioritize survival."
Three different stories. Three different lies.
The official’s expression never changes throughout. He gestures to the monitoring crystals. "Standard dungeon recording. Let’s review."
Blue light projects the tunnel junction. Crystal-clear images shows Brock’s deliberate hand signal. The coordinated sprint. The triggered collapse that sealed Leon and Elise behind tons of rubble.
Evidence. Undeniable.
"Abandoning teammates is grounds for imdiate failure." The official’s voice carries no emotion. "Collect your belongings and surrender your temporary licenses."
Security escortes them out in silence. Brock’s face burns red, Maris looks ready to cry, Trenton keeps muttering about unfair treatnt.
Leon feels nothing, they’d made their choice.
The official turns back to him. "Your tactics were exemplary. Especially for F-Rank." He slides a leather pouch across the table. "Qualification bonus. Well earned."
Heavy coins clinks inside. Leon pockets the pouch without counting.
"Thank you, sir."
Outside the Association building, Elise pauses on the marble steps. "What now?"
"dicine first."
The pharmacy sits three blocks away in a better district. Leon pays premium prices for treatnts that may buy his mother a few more weeks. Half his bonus vanishes into glass bottles and paper packets.
Still not enough. Never enough.
Elise watches him count remaining coins. "There has to be another way."
"Like what? F-Ranks earn copper. My mother needs silver."
It’s ti to go for real money pay. ’Let’s get going Elise, before night ets us here in the upper district. We still have that real money to earn’
Night falls as they walk through the Shadow Quarters. Torchlight flickers off broken windows. Desperate voices haggles over scraps.
The mud-stained flyer catches Leon’s attention:
UNDERGROUND TOURNANT
dical Elixir Grand Prize!
Entry: 50 Silver Winner Takes All No Rules. No rcy.
An address in the deepest slums follows. Leon morized it, so they don’t use the location according to what they post on the board
"You’re not thinking—" Elise starts.
"My mother’s dying."
"That’s suicide."
Leon folds the flyer. "Maybe. But it’s a chance."
The hidden markets operates after midnight. Weapon dealers hawks modified gears from card tables. Potion sellers mixes questionable brews in dirty beakers. F-Ranks trades everything they own for one more day of hope.
Leon asks questions. The tournant is real. Dangerous. Most fighters never make it past the first rounds.
"Entry fee’s steep," an old woman warns. "Only one winner walks out with the prize."
Leon had sat beside his mother just before morning and he had felt sothing within him stir at the way she appeared. She looked smaller than before, pale skin stretched tight over sharp bones. The dicine helps her breath easier but that can’t stop the underlying decay. Her condition had given him the decision he will make.
The remaining coins covers tournant entry exactly. No backup plan. No safety net.
Leon registers under his family na only—"Graves." The clerk doesn’t ask questions.
Hark runs an equipnt stall near the tournant entrance. The elderly dealer recognizes Leon’s manna gun imdiately.
"Need tuning for the fights?" Hark’s hands are steady despite his age. "Crowd loves a dark horse. But dark horses die quick without proper gear."
Leon pays for ammunition upgrades. Specialized rounds designed for close combat. His remaining silver disappears into Hark’s palm.
"Rules are simple," Hark explains while working. "Single elimination. Fight until surrender or death. Magic’s allowed. Healing between rounds costs extra."
Other competitors gathers in the shadow. Scarred veterans with haunted eyes. Desperate F-Ranks willing to risk everything. A few mid-tier hunters fallen on hard tis.
Leon recognizes the type. People with nothing left to lose.
"First match," the tournant coordinator announces. "Graves versus Korren the Bonecrusher."
Leon’s opponent stands seven feet tall. Muscle layers on muscle beneath crude tattoos. Forr military, judging by his posture. Discharged for sothing violent.
The crowd erupts as odds flashed on betting boards. Twenty-to-one against Leon. Easy money for anyone stupid enough to back the skinny F-Rank.
"Place your bets," the matchmaster bellows. "This one’s going to be quick!"
The fighting pit was carved from stone beneath the city, torches provides flickering light while blood stains from previous matches have mixed with the sand .
Leon steps through the entrance gate. His manna gun feels heavy in his grip. His zombie waits in the shadows, invisible but ready.
Korren cracks his knuckles. "Nothing personal, kid. But I need that prize money."
Leon checks his interface one final ti, full manna, Elite Grave Mage ready. Everything he’d learned in the qualification dungeon will be tested here.
The crowd’s roar fades to background noise. Leon focuses on his opponent’s stance. Weight distribution. Weak points.
The match-master raises his hand. "Fighters ready?"
Leon nods.
"Begin!"
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