Midnight.
The sky above the Crossline Bridge was black and bloated, choked in the kind of cloud cover that felt heavy enough to crush the city if it fell. Below it, in the cracks of the underworld, things stirred—hushed voices, shifting steel, the clinking of metal against bone.
The fight pit wasn't what Jace expected.
It was worse.
Underground. Lit by half-dead bulbs strung on rusty chains, flickering like candles in a crypt. The walls were old concrete, graffiti layered over ancient runes that glowed faintly whenever someone with spirit energy walked past. The air was thick—sweat, blood, smoke.
And hunger.
So much hunger.
Dozens crowded the circular pit—cultivators, watchers, gamblers. Most leaned against walls, hoods pulled low, eyes glinting. Some sat cross-legged in the shadows, exchanging quietly glowing talismans. All of them were here for one thing:
Violence.
"Welcome to the Hollow," Reya said beside him, her voice calm, even bored. She was wearing a fitted black combat vest and fingerless gloves. "This place doesn't care who you are. Doesn't matter who your teacher is, who your parents were, what path you walk. All it sees is blood."
Jace took a breath. "And if I die?"
"Then someone stronger walks out." She shrugged. "That's how it works down here."
She stepped closer, lowered her voice. "But if you win? If you survive this? You'll earn your first anchor. Your core will stabilize. You'll start leveling. Real progress."
Jace didn't know what an anchor was.
But he didn't ask.
Because across the pit, someone dropped into the ring with a wet, metallic thud.
His opponent.
The guy was huge. Not bodybuilder big—wrong big. His arms looked like they'd been stitched from different people. Pale skin fused with darker patches, glowing veins running along each bicep like crackling power lines. His eyes were white. No iris. Just the cold emptiness of someone who had fed too long on things that weren't his.
Reya leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "Don't let him touch you. He drains through contact. If he latches, you'll feel like your soul's being peeled off bone."
"Fantastic," Jace muttered.
The announcer—some skinny punk with mirrored shades and a throat tattoo—raised a mic.
"First blood match!" he called out. "One round. No rules. One walks. One rots!"
The crowd roared.
Jace stepped into the pit.
And it started.
No countdown.
No warning.
The big man lunged like a bear, faster than he had any right to be, hands out, hungry.
Jace ducked low, barely rolling under the lunge, and came up with a snap kick to the side of the man's knee. It connected—but didn't budge him.
Shit.
The man spun and backhanded Jace across the face. Hard.
Jace flew back, slammed into the stone wall, ribs cracking. He coughed blood.
Pain bloomed white-hot through his side. He could feel the breath rip out of him, his heart hammering wildly.
No plot armor. No miracle dodge. This was real.
He forced himself up.
The man came again.
Jace reached inward.
To the mark.
It answered.
Not with warmth, not with comfort. With need. Desire roared inside him, not for pleasure, but for more. For survival. For victory. For violence. It surged out of him like fire licking gasoline.
The crowd felt it.
A few even backed away.
The man hesitated. Just for a second.
Jace moved.
Faster this time. He ducked under a punch and drove a fist into the big man's throat. Followed it up with a knee to the gut, then a spin-punch to the jaw. The momentum knocked his opponent off balance—but not down.
The man caught his arm.
And drained.
Jace screamed.
It felt like ice pouring into his bones. His memories flickered—his first kiss, his mother's voice, a night watching the stars—and then the drain deepened, pulling on his soul itself.
He slammed his head forward, breaking the man's nose.
No effect.
He needed power. Now.
He let go.
Let the hunger consume him.
His mark burned. A flare of red and violet light lit his chest. The craving inside him tore through his spine—and fought back. Power poured from his core, not just resisting the drain, but flooding into the man like poison.
The big man screamed and staggered back, clutching his head.
Jace didn't stop.
He tackled him. Fists flew. Bone broke. He hit the man until the concrete cracked beneath him, until the face beneath his knuckles was pulp, until the thing that attacked him was nothing more than blood and twitching ruin.
Then silence.
And the crowd erupted.
Reya stepped down into the pit, blood splattered across her boots, smirking.
"Well," she said. "That was educational."
Jace swayed.
His left eye was swollen shut. His ribs felt shattered. His breathing was wet and sharp.
He collapsed.
Reya caught him before his head hit the ground.
"You did good," she whispered. "But this is just the start."