Chapter 127: Fired Grounds

Chapter 127: Fired Grounds"And here’s Ravel Cyn!" the Announcer’s tone turned sly. "Primed Epics’ rising star—a hunter who thrives on chaos. Last fight, he left his foe broken and twitching. He’s here to climb, and he’s not stopping for anyone!"

Ravel’s skill tree flashed up, its crimson lines stark:

???? Shard User: Ravel Cyn

???? Skill Tree: Threaded Marrow

???? Spinebite (Level 2/5): Vertebrae latch onto foes, disrupting nerves.

???? Segment Recall (Level 2/5): Bones return, cutting through anything in their path.

⚙ Dorsal Feed (Level 2/5): Gains strength from inflicted pain.

???? Reactive Twist (Level 2/5): Twists his body unnaturally to dodge or attack.

???? Heartstring (LOCKED): X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X X

"Spinebite digs into your nerves!" the Announcer purred, his voice curling through the arena like smoke on a cold night. His silver microphone twirled between his fingers, catching the flickering torchlight. "Segment Recall slices on the way back, Dorsal Feed fuels him with your pain, and Reactive Twist? He’s a snake in human skin. Heartstring’s locked—but not for long, I bet!"

Elias tightened his grip on the platform railing, the rough wood digging into his palms. His shard pulsed faintly against his chest, a steady thump that matched the unease coiling in his gut.



Down below, Elara Croft stood in the center of the gravel pit, her dark hair pulled tight, her military uniform sharp against the dim glow.

He hadn’t seen her in months—not since the resort attack turned everything to chaos and loss. Back then, she’d had a spark, a dry edge to her words, but now she looked carved from ice—rigid, unyielding, a soldier who’d pushed too far into the cold.

He sucked in a breath, the air thick with the metallic tang of the system’s energy and the faint char of burnt gravel.

She’s been alone too long, he thought, his eyes tracing her stance. Locked herself away after the resort—training, fighting, hardening.

How much has she buried? Her Ikona, Cubes, hovered at her side, its crystalline surface shimmering with a chill that made the nearby torchlight waver.

He wondered if she’d slept since then, or if the weight of it all just kept her moving.

His gaze flicked to the others around him, the shard users lining the platform in a tense, scattered crowd.

Kikaru stood a few paces away, her arms crossed tight, her sharp eyes locked on the fighters below. Her shard pulsed faintly under her jacket, a quiet hum that matched the tension in her jaw.

Tidwell leaned against a post, his usual grin tight and forced, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm on his thigh—his Ikona, a wispy cloud, drifting lazily above his head.

Junijo paced near the edge, his lanky frame hunched, his chameleon-like Ikona flickering nervously between purple and orange.

A wiry man with a scarred jaw stood further back, his shard glowing at his wrist, his face unreadable. Beside him, a woman with braided hair shifted her weight, her cheek twitching, her Ikona—a shimmering orb—hovering close.

The silence between them was heavy, a shared dread that pressed against Elias’s skin like damp cloth.


The gravel crunched below as Ravel Cyn paced, his vertebrae Ikona spinning behind him in a slow, eerie orbit.

Clack.

Clack.

The bones rattled with each step, a sound that grated against the quiet.



Elias studied him, noting the hunch in his shoulders, the restless twitch in his hands. There was hunger there, sure, but something else too—anger, frustration, a man clawing at something he couldn’t quite reach.

He’s not just fighting for shards, Elias thought. He’s fighting something bigger—something that’s eating at him.

The Announcer strutted forward, his blazer flaring as he raised the mic. "Let’s hear from our fighters! Ravel, what’s driving you tonight?" His voice boomed, echoing off the arena’s walls, a theatrical edge that made the air feel tighter.

Ravel stopped, his boots grinding into the gravel. He turned, his scarred jaw catching the torchlight, and his voice came out rough—not a growl, just worn.

"Vincent’s got three shards now. Thinks he’s untouchable." He cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp in the stillness. "I’m tired of watching him climb while I’m stuck scrabbling down here."

Elias’s stomach twisted. Three shards. The memory hit hard—Vincent standing over Randalp’s broken body, blood soaking the gravel, his face blank as he claimed the prize. Ravel wasn’t just chasing power; he was chasing a way out of the shadow Vincent cast. Elias glanced at Elara, her face still a mask. She’s seen him too, he thought. She knows what three shards mean.

The Announcer leaned in, his grin widening. "Big dreams, huh? Gonna knock Vincent off his throne?"

Ravel’s smirk was thin, more exhaustion than bravado. "Yeah. Starting with her." He jerked his head toward Elara, his vertebrae spinning faster, a low clatter filling the air.

The Announcer spun to Elara, mic swinging. "And you, Croft? What’s your stake in this?"

Her voice sliced through, cold and flat. "I’m here to win." The words landed like ice on stone, no hesitation, no flourish—just fact.

Ravel let out a short, bitter laugh, stepping closer. "That’s it? No grand speech, no heroic bullshit?" His boots crunched the gravel, his eyes narrowing. "You’re all the same—military drones, marching to someone else’s orders."

Elara’s head tilted slightly, her gaze locking onto his. "Why’d you join the Primed Epics?" Her question was simple, direct, cutting through his jab like a knife through fog.

Ravel blinked, caught off guard for a heartbeat. He scratched his jaw, the vertebrae slowing their spin just a touch. "’Cause I’m done being a pawn," he said, his voice softening, almost tired. "The military’s got you on a leash—rules, ranks, orders you don’t even question. Epics don’t care about that. They let me fight my way, take what I can grab."

Elias shifted, his grip tightening on the railing. He’s not ranting, he thought. He’s spilling something real. Ravel wasn’t some wild rebel spouting slogans—he sounded like a guy who’d been kicked down too many times, reaching for a lifeline. Elias glanced at Kikaru, catching the slight frown on her face. She felt it too.

Elara’s eyes stayed steady, her voice calm but probing. "What’s the trade-off? You get your freedom, but what do they take?"

Ravel’s smirk faded, his jaw tightening. "They don’t take anything I ain’t willing to give," he said, his tone hardening a bit. "It’s a mess out there, yeah—fights, blood, no promises. But it’s my mess. I choose who I swing at, not some officer behind a desk."



She stepped forward, just one measured step, the gravel shifting under her boots. "And if they turn on you? What then?"

He snorted, shaking his head. "They won’t. Long as I’m useful, I’ve got a place. That’s more than the military ever gave me." His eyes flicked over her, a spark of defiance flaring. "You ever think about what happens when they don’t need you anymore? When the orders stop coming?"

Elara didn’t flinch, her voice still ice-cold. "I don’t fight for them. I fight for me."

Ravel’s laugh was sharper this time, edged with disbelief. "Bullshit. You’re too deep in it—too loyal to that system. You think it’s keeping you alive, but it’s just keeping you in line."

Elias’s chest tightened, his thoughts racing. He’s digging at her, he realized. Trying to find a crack. But Elara wasn’t budging—she was a wall, deflecting every jab without giving ground. She’s too steady, he thought. Too controlled. That’s not strength—it’s a shield. He wondered how long she could hold it up, how much pressure it’d take to break through.

The Announcer swooped in, his voice a theatrical boom. "Oh, the sparks are flying! Ambition versus discipline—who’s got the edge?" He strutted between them, his blazer flaring, his mismatched glasses glinting wildly.

Ravel took another step, his vertebrae spinning faster, the clacking growing louder. "You don’t get it, do you?" he said, his voice dropping, raw now. "Vincent’s up there, three shards, laughing at us. I’m not staying some nobody they can step on. I’ll take your shard, then his—whatever it takes."

Elara’s eyes narrowed, her shard pulsing cold against her chest. "Talk’s cheap," she said, her voice sharp as a blade’s edge. Cubes flared at her side, its crystalline glow spiking, frost creeping along the gravel.

The Announcer’s voice thundered overhead. "Here we go, folks! BEGIN!"

The gravel exploded under Elara’s boots as she lunged forward.

Her hands slashed out, Glacial Constructs surging to life. A jagged wall of ice ripped up from the ground—thick, spiked, brutal—cutting Ravel off mid-stride. The air snapped cold, torchlight flickering as frost bit into the arena’s edges.

Ravel twisted, Reactive Twist bending his spine like rubber. His boots skidded, gravel spraying, but he dodged the wall’s razor tips by inches. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath puffing white in the chill.