Yellow Jacket

Warren stood alone in the pit, drenched so thoroughly in blood that the yellow of his jacket had vanished beneath the crimson. The cloth was no longer fabric, no longer something recognizable as clothing. It was a dripping mask, a false skin clinging to him. Even that felt unreal, like a stage prop meant to trick the eyes. The true jacket, the one far too heavy to ever carry blood was not this. This flimsy imitation was nothing more than costume. It was Vaeliyan pretending to be Warren, a pale shadow of his truest self. Yet here, in this place, in this pit, the shadow was more than enough.

The stragglers had already been dealt with. They had begged, whined, screamed bargains into the dirt like the promises meant something. They had tried to barter for their lives with words instead of steel. Warren had heard none of it. To him, there was only the wet crunch of bones collapsing, the metallic snap of truncheon meeting skull, the silence that followed each brutal end. His truncheons rose and fell with merciless rhythm. Each swing was clean. Each impact final. He did not waste motion, did not waste sound. There was no rage. Only brutal efficiency, like a machine of violence, grinding down flesh until there was nothing left but silence.

The crowd had stopped cheering long before the last skull was dust. Their excitement had bled away, replaced by the heavy weight of realization. This was no longer a contest. What they were witnessing no longer resembled entertainment. It was not spectacle, not sport. It was execution, delivered pure and methodical. Cleanup, not combat. Watching Warren was like watching fish thrash helplessly in the jaws of a shark. For a brief moment, at the beginning, perhaps there had been hope for something else, hope that luck or numbers might have shifted the balance. But when blood touched the sand, when Warren's frenzy ignited, hope dissolved. The predator had come alive, and every other body in the pit was nothing but prey. The pit had sealed their fate when they chose to walk onto the sand.

And then came the part that froze even the boldest mouths into silence. The killing was finished. The bodies lay strewn across the sand, and still Warren did not stop. He did not lift his arms for applause. He did not strut or roar or claim glory as other champions would have done. He did not play to the audience. Instead, he bent low to the corpses. His hands worked with clinical precision, movements as unflinching as they had been during the fight. He stripped them, not for riches or trophies, but like a scavenger combing the ruins, reclaiming what mattered. The old ritual came back to him in an instant, as though it had been waiting in his bones all along. His pocket knife drove into the nape of necks, digging, prying. He pulled out fragments with the same detachment he had shown in ending lives. One by one, the bodies yielded to his work. He closed each eye that remained, a final, almost reverent gesture, not for them but for himself, sealing their silence forever.

The gallery froze, caught between horror and fascination. No one could look away. No one could summon a cheer. This was not the theater of violence they had come to witness. This was desecration. This was survival, stripped of its glamour, exposed in its rawest, ugliest form. They had come for blood, and they had gotten it in oceans, but what Warren offered now was something older, something darker. A ritual as old as the hunger itself. A reminder that beneath the mask of entertainment there was always the truth of need and code. Waste nothing. Strip what you can. Leave nothing behind. Warren followed it without shame. He owed the crowd nothing, owed the spectacle nothing. He was here for the code, and the code demanded. Waste nothing. The pit master himself had spoken: the winner takes. Warren would not waste this prize. The bodies were his. Their fragments belonged to him.

Ruby's voice finally cut through the stillness, sharp and commanding. Even her mocking cadence carried weight now, heavy as iron in the air. "Darlings, the royal is over! It stands before you victorious! It collects what It is owed! Just as Demon Foot once took, It now claims the right to take!"

The crowd erupted at last, torn between awe and disgust, split along lines of horror and reverence. Some spat curses from clenched teeth, damning the monster they had just watched work. Others chanted his name like zealots, voices hoarse from obsession. Still others trembled in their seats, pale and wide-eyed, as if they had just glimpsed a story they would never forget. Warren ignored them all. He kept working, truncheons still slick and heavy in his hands, the yellow of his jacket now nothing more than a black-red sheen beneath the lights. It was no longer fabric. It was legend in the making. He carried it forward with no hesitation, no pride, no shame, just the same calm with which he had killed. The jacket, the ritual, the silence: all of it was his truth, and he walked in it without a second thought.

He looked up toward the gallery, blood still dripping from his sleeves, and shouted with a voice that cut through the uproar: "I need bags. I want my prizes."

Ruby leaned forward, eyes glittering as her voice carried across the pit. "So It speaks," she purred. "And why would It need bags?"

Warren tilted his head, nodding to the heap of gear and fragments stripped from the corpses. "I can't just walk out without my gear now, can I?"

For a moment Ruby studied him, then she smiled, her tone rich with amusement and promise. "Very good, ash-marked. Will we see more of you, or is this it for Itself?"

Warren's storm-grey eyes never wavered. His reply was calm, certain, edged with the weight of his violence. "Itself will be back. Don't you worry yourself about It."

Back in the gallery, the cadets leaned forward over the rails, staring down at the carnage below. The air was heavy with smoke and blood, and the silence that followed the royal's end pressed on their shoulders like a weight. The spectacle had been reduced to something else, something colder. Only a handful of them had expected this outcome. Locke (Elian) had suspected Warren might rise to the occasion, but even he hadn't predicted just how devastating it would be. Pat (Jurpat) had kept his silence, watching and waiting, but he alone had braced himself for this exact conclusion. Thirty-one others hadn't seen it coming at all. Some hadn't even believed he'd survive the opening minutes, and those were supposed to be his friends, the ones who knew him best.

They hadn't known it was kill night until it was too late to stop him. They hadn't realized what that would unleash. And now, as the truth sank in, their voices rose in a low, urgent back-and-forth, each one struggling to make sense of what they'd just witnessed.

"Gods above," Reeve (Ramis) muttered, his voice raw with disbelief. "He didn't just win, he butchered them. There wasn't even a contest."

"Don't act surprised," Pat (Jurpat) said flatly, arms crossed with a certainty that cut through the air. "This was always going to happen. You just didn't want to see it."

"You knew?" Nora (Xera) hissed, her eyes narrowing, sharp with accusation. "You actually knew this was possible?"

"I knew what he was capable of," Pat (Jurpat) replied without flinching, his gaze locked on the bloody sand below. "The rest of you chose to pretend. You looked away because it was easier."

Carven (Merigold) shook her head, still watching the pit with wide, unsettled eyes. "I didn't think he'd survive, let alone… this. This isn't survival. It's something else entirely. Something I don't even have words for."

"Don't dress it up," Boris (Wesley) snapped, leaning forward, his jaw clenched. "That wasn't a fight. That was slaughter. The man down there, no, the monster, just tore through them like a dog tearing rabbits apart. There was no mercy in it, no pause."

Star (Vexa) leaned back with a dry, bitter laugh, shaking her head. "And you're shocked? Really? You've never seen a predator before. Not a real one. That's what he is. The rest of them were just meat pretending they had teeth."

Serah (Grace) stirred at that, her voice tight and low. "We came here thinking this would be entertainment. But what I saw wasn't a show. He didn't fight like someone in a pit. He fought like someone cleaning house."

Drenn (Melkor) scowled, glancing toward her. "And what does that make us then? His audience? His accomplices? Because that's what it feels like. We sat here and cheered while he did that."

"Enough," Locke (Elian) cut in, his voice low but carrying weight, silencing the growing argument. "You saw it yourselves. He's not the same as us. He's never been. And now everyone here knows it. He couldn't hide it even if he wanted to."

Junie (Sylen) hugged herself, whispering almost too softly to hear, but the words still carried. "We're supposed to be killers. That's what we trained for, what we told ourselves we were. But compared to him? We're soft. All of us."

Ember (Lessa) leaned forward, eyes glinting with a strange mix of fascination and unease. "Soft, sure. But don't lie to yourselves, part of you enjoyed it. Part of you couldn't look away. That's what makes him dangerous. Not just to them, but to us."

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Veyra (Lupa) shrugged, though her face was pale. "Maybe. I've seen scraps before, nastier than this in their own way. But what he just did was art. Merciless, bloody art."

Auren (Aluminis) drained his cup, his expression unreadable. "Art or not, it marks him. Everyone in this place will remember today. And if we keep talking like this we'll be tied to It"

Keth (Ken) muttered into his drink, "You're all thinking too small. It's not just about today. It's about what comes after. He's drawn attention, and attention down here is a death sentence if you're not ready for it."

Ladmir (Yuri) smirked faintly, though his eyes betrayed unease. "Maybe. But tell me you didn't feel something when Ruby called him It. It wasn't just the crowd that swallowed it. We all did."

Rovan (Robert) frowned, tapping his fingers on the rail. "Feel something? Yeah, I felt it. Felt the ground shift. Like I was watching something horrible ripping Itself from my nightmares."

Leymoor (Toma) muttered darkly, "Nightmare or not, that kind of thing doesn't last. Things like him burn too hot, too fast."

Feran (Fred R.) shook his head. "No. Things like him don't burn out. They carve the rest of us down until nothing's left to challenge them."

Halric (Fred T.) exhaled sharply. "Maybe that's what we need. Maybe he's exactly the kind of monster we send ahead, so the rest of us don't have to die the same way."

Bell (Chime) whispered, "Still… admit it. You couldn't look away. None of us could."

Finally, Rory (Julian), who had been quiet until now, straightened in his seat. His voice carried the steadiness of command, though his eyes were sharper, hungrier. "You're all circling the truth but missing the point. What we saw wasn't just a fighter winning a pit. What we saw was a standard being set. A new reality. He isn't just stronger than you all, he's showing us what the next stage looks like. And if I can do anything to help him climb to High Imperator, I will. Because whatever wars are coming, whatever enemies we face, it's going to take something like that to win."

The conversation faltered there, each cadet caught between pride, fear, and awe. Some stared at the blood-soaked sand, others kept their eyes on the walls, unable to look any longer. The roars of the still-reeling crowd below filled the silence, a noise more alive than any of them felt in that moment.

They hadn't just watched Warren win. They hadn't just watched him survive. They had watched him transform in front of the Ninth Layer, watched him embrace something ruthless and raw, something they didn't yet understand. And now, for the first time, they weren't sure if they were ready to stand beside him, or if they could to stand against him.

Warren walked to the gate, his boots dragging blood and sand with every step, leaving a trail that seemed to stain the very stones beneath him. His shoulders rolled once, tension easing only slightly, and he paused only when he reached the pit master. He tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk ghosting over his lips. "You got a shower back there?" he asked, his tone flat, casual, as if he were simply requesting water after a long training drill rather than standing drenched in the remnants of dozens of lives.

The pit master just gaped at him, mouth half open, lips twitching but no sound emerging. For a man used to barking orders at half-mad fighters, used to the rhythm of shouting rules over chaos, he suddenly looked as if he'd forgotten how to speak altogether. His eyes ran over Warren's blood-soaked jacket, the calm stillness in his storm-grey eyes, and something in his posture faltered. This wasn't the exhaustion of a man who had fought too hard, this was the composure of something alien, something that had walked through carnage and hadn't been marked by it.

Before the pit master could recover, a sultry voice cut in, smooth as smoke and sharp as broken glass. "Yes, we do," Ruby purred, her words rolling out like silk that hid razor edges. "If you don't mind following me."

Her heels clicked against the stone as she appeared, a striking figure framed by the dim, blood-damp light of the pit's hall. The crowd's noise dimmed behind her as though even their hunger for spectacle couldn't quite compete with the presence she carried. She smiled, poised, predatory, and tilted her head just so, the angle both playful and commanding. Her eyes flashed under the harsh light, catching and holding Warren's as she spoke. "I would like to talk to… Itself."

Ruby's grin shifted, a flash of mock disgust curling her lips as she leaned closer. "First of all, I hate that name," she said, her voice sharp with disdain. "Itself? Darlings might tolerate nonsense like that in the pit, but I won't. We're going to workshop it. A beast, a legend, deserves something sharper than a pronoun." Her tone softened into amusement as she added, "Secondly, you put on a good show tonight."

Ruby's grin widened, lips parting into something between amusement and challenge. She seemed unbothered by the correction, perhaps even entertained by it. "And where am I sending all your spoils, cadet?" she asked smoothly. Then, without warning, she raised her hands in the Legion salute. Her right fist struck against her chest with a sharp punch over her heart, and her left arm extended outward, palm open in a challenge to the world. The gesture was sharp, deliberate, unmistakable, as if it were meant to slice through the air itself.

Warren froze. Just for a breath, but that was enough. For him, who could fracture time into choice, who could anticipate the arc of a hammer before it fell, who could weigh the thousand probabilities of a step before taking it, to falter even for an instant was rare. He stood there, blindsided, and that was almost impossible to do when you lived with his range of vision, his layered awareness. Paths of the Future fractured around him, but none of the shards had prepared him for this moment. This wasn't the clean threat of a blade swinging toward his throat or the brute certainty of a hammer descending toward his ribs. This was something else. A different kind of strike. A type of combat he couldn't counter with speed or skill. Not physical, but twice as deadly, and far more difficult to anticipate.

Ruby's eyes gleamed as she held his gaze, her smile shifting into something quieter, heavier. "Not much of a talker, are you, kid?" she said softly. Her tone no longer teased, it cut. "Just come with me. We'll talk."

The words weren't an invitation. They were a command dressed as conversation. Warren stood still for another breath, the weight of the moment thickening around him. Then he nodded once, a sharp, deliberate motion, and stepped forward into whatever game Ruby had just set on the board.

She walked to the end of the hall and stepped into the elevator. Without hesitation, Warren followed, his boots leaving faint smears of blood on the steel floor. The doors slid shut with a heavy thud, sealing them into a narrow space filled with humming machinery and the faint scent of oil, copper, and rust. The small cabin rattled faintly as it began its slow descent, the sound filling the silence between them. Warren could almost feel the weight of the Ninth Layer above, pressing down like an unspoken judgment.

Ruby leaned casually against the wall, one heel lifted, her posture as languid as her voice was sharp. She tapped her nails lightly against the railing, each click deliberate, almost rhythmic. "So, it's no secret that you're either a cadet or a war criminal," she said smoothly, her eyes glittering as they roamed over him from head to toe. "And if you're a war criminal, we'd still offer you a spot in the Legion after that show. Believe me, talent like that doesn't go to waste. So speak up now."

She let the pause stretch, savoring the moment. The hum of the elevator made it feel heavier, like the air was waiting with her. "No confession? Very well. Okay then, cadet. Let's not dance around it. We only speak to the royal winners about this. And if you breathe even a single word of what I'm about to say outside these walls, you're as good as dead." She tilted her head, her tone shifting to something almost conspiratorial. "Because this… this is one of the High Imperator's squad commanders' trials. And you, darling, just completed the most dangerous part of it without even realizing what you were walking into. That's the kind of blind instinct we're always searching for."

Warren tilted his head slightly, eyes steady. He stood relaxed but alert, like a coiled spring hidden beneath calm. His voice cut through the quiet hum of the elevator. "What do you mean I completed the most dangerous part?" he asked, his tone careful, testing.

Ruby's smile sharpened, and she let out a low, amused hum. "Well, you only ever have to do one kill night royal. Just one. That's the rule. The other four are little more than formalities, waves of Broken to smash through, fights that test endurance, not survival. Even facing down an actual Imperator isn't as dangerous as kill night. They won't try to kill you; their goal is to measure, not to end." She leaned in, her perfume mixing with the tang of copper. "We really don't keep med staff for kill night. That's part of the rules. No safety net. If you bleed out, you bleed out. That's why it's the most dangerous part, and you walked through it blind. That makes you either a fool, or someone I'd be very careful not to underestimate."

Warren's expression barely shifted, but his voice carried a note of curiosity. "And can I ask who Lord B is?"

Ruby's eyes sparkled at the question, and she laughed, low and mocking. "Oh, that's not a secret I can hand out freely, darling. That's something you need to earn. And believe me, even asking already paints you as ambitious."

Warren nodded once, then tilted his head. "Are you a duplicate?"

Ruby arched a brow and let out a delighted laugh, sharp and bright in the confined space. "Now that's not a question you ask a lady, young man." Her grin widened into something wolfish. "Some answers taste sweeter when you never get them. A little mystery is good for the imagination, don't you think?"

Her voice dropped lower, playful but edged with hunger, like a knife hidden in silk. "Now, may I please have your name?"

Warren's answer came calm and deliberate, his gaze never wavering. "Vaeliyan."

Ruby laughed softly, the sound rich, sharp, and filled with delight. It rang against the steel walls, a dangerous music. "Oh, really? Vaeliyan. Makes sense." She tilted her head, smiling as though she had uncovered a secret meant only for her. "You really do like to play with your food. But at least you make it seem like a performance." Her smile turned wicked, her eyes hungry, as if she were already planning what to do with him. "And I do love a good performance. More than most things in this miserable place."

Warren's eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice was calm but edged with intent. "I do have one more question. Do I have to do the other types? What if I only wanted this?"

Ruby's grin widened, a sharp gleam of teeth. "No, darling. You can do whichever trials you want, but you must do at least one kill night. That's the rule carved in stone. If you want to do all five as kill nights, I'd be first in line to watch you tear the place apart. I'd adore it. But the rest of Legion Command might call it wasteful, even suicidal. After they see you in action, they won't want to throw a weapon like you away in a blood sport when the front lines are starving for killers."