Sunday morning arrives with the dull grey light of Egozia filtering through my window. I sit on the edge of my bed, watching Cain pace anxiously around our room, muttering to himself.


    "This is impossible," he groans, running his hands through his brown curls for the twentieth time. "They''ll never let me in. The Rusty Spigot is legendary for its security."


    "You''re overthinking it," I say, pulling on my boots. "We''ll figure something out."


    "Easy for you to say! You''re built like a mountain with the face to match." He gestures wildly at me. "I look like someone''s baby brother who wandered off during a family outing."


    I can''t argue with that assessment. Cain''s youthful appearance has always been a liability for him in places that require a certain age.


    "Maybe we should just go to the blimps," he sighs, deflating onto his bed.


    "Too late. We''re committed now."


    A sharp knock at our door announces Anja''s arrival. She bursts in without waiting for an answer, dressed in her usual mix of practical and provocative—leather pants and a fitted jacket that somehow manages to look both utilitarian and dangerous.


    "Ready for some proper entertainment?" she asks, eyes bright with anticipation.


    "Cain''s having a crisis," I explain, nodding toward my despondent roommate.


    "They''ll never let me in," he moans. "I''m too young-looking."


    Anja shrugs. "We''ll need Wentworth''s help then. He''s good with... creative solutions."


    I raise an eyebrow. "You''re suggesting we rely on Covington?"


    "Unless you''ve got a better idea?" She challenges.


    I don''t, so we head to Wentworth''s room. His quarters are in the east wing, where the more privileged students reside. When we arrive, Anja knocks firmly on his door.


    "One moment!" Wentworth''s muffled voice calls from inside.


    I peer through the narrow slit in his partially open door and freeze. The room beyond is chaos incarnate—a madman''s laboratory. Books stacked in precarious towers. Strange brass and copper contraptions litter every surface. Glass tubes bubble with coloured liquids. Diagrams and schematics cover the walls, some pinned haphazardly over others.


    "Bloody hell," I mutter.


    Wentworth appears in the doorway, hair dishevelled, wearing a stained waistcoat with what appears to be burn marks on one sleeve.


    "Ah, punctual as expected!" he exclaims, as if he hadn''t kept us waiting. "Do forgive the delay. I was finalizing a particularly troublesome calibration on my latest project."


    "We need your help," Anja says, pushing past pleasantries. "Cain needs to look older to get into the Spigot."


    Wentworth''s eyes light up with interest. "A challenge of perception manipulation! How fortuitous—I''ve been experimenting with light refraction and minor illusory techniques that might prove applicable."


    "In normal words?" Cain asks hopefully.


    "I can make you look older," Wentworth translates, ushering us inside his chaotic domain. "Give me thirty minutes."


    <hr>


    True to his word, half an hour later we''re walking through Egozia''s lower districts with Cain sporting what Wentworth calls a "Physiognomic Alteration Device"—a thin metal band around his neck, nearly invisible under his collar, projecting subtle changes to his facial features.


    "It creates the impression of maturity through shadow manipulation and minor dermal tension simulation," Wentworth explains proudly as we navigate the narrow streets.


    "It itches," Cain complains, fighting the urge to scratch at it.


    The Rusty Spigot is located in an unassuming building with no sign, just a burly doorman checking people before they enter. The line stretches around the corner, filled with rough-looking characters eager for violence.


    When we reach the front, the doorman gives me a once-over and nods appreciatively at my size. "Fighter or spectator?"


    "Spectator," I answer. No need to draw unnecessary attention.


    He waves me through, then looks at Anja with open admiration. "You''re welcome anytime, darling."


    Anja flashes a dangerous smile and follows me in.


    Wentworth steps up next, standing tall with his aristocratic bearing. The doorman hesitates, clearly suspicious of his refined appearance, but eventually lets him pass after Wentworth slips him something shiny.


    Cain approaches last, visibly nervous. The doorman narrows his eyes, studying him closely.


    "Age?" he demands.


    "Twenty-one," Cain replies, his voice cracking slightly.


    The doorman leans closer, scrutinizing Cain''s face. I tense, ready to intervene if necessary.


    The doorman squints at Cain, tilting his head slightly.


    "Something ain''t right with your face, boy," he says, leaning in closer. "Looks like someone stretched your skin over a different skull."


    My hand drifts toward my concealed knife, but the doorman suddenly bursts into laughter.


    "Whatever you''re using, I''ve seen worse fakes. At least yours doesn''t melt in the heat." He steps aside with a dismissive wave. "Go on in before I change my mind."


    Cain practically sprints past him, and I follow, exhaling slowly. One less complication to deal with.


    Inside, the Rusty Spigot reveals itself as a cavernous warehouse converted into a fighting arena. The space centres around a sunken pit surrounded by tiered seating filled with rowdy spectators. The air hangs heavy with sweat, spilt alcohol, and the metallic tang of blood.


    Two massive men occupy the pit, circling each other like feral animals. One sports a mohawk and metal studs embedded in his face; the other has arms thick as tree trunks covered in crude tattoos. Blotchy images meant to intimidate.


    "Those aren''t fighters, they''re brawlers," I mutter, watching their clumsy movements. "No technique, just brute force."


    Mohawk throws a wild haymaker that Tree-arms easily dodges before countering with a sloppy uppercut that connects with his opponent''s jaw. Blood sprays across the dirt floor as the crowd roars.


    "Look at that form!" Cain shouts beside me, getting into the spirit. "My gran could dodge better, and she''s been dead for six years!"


    Anja snorts with laughter. "The big one''s got the footwork of a three-legged bull. Bet you five silvers he goes down in the next minute."


    "I shall not engage in such crude wagering," Wentworth says primly, then immediately contradicts himself. "However, if I were to participate, I would counter with the observation that the larger combatant possesses superior mass and reach."


    Tree-arms lands another blow, sending Mohawk staggering.


    "Ten silvers says he''s finished," Anja calls out, grinning wildly.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    "You are witnessing the application of basic physics," Wentworth replies, pinching his nose. "Though I must inquire—is the stench always this pungent? It appears someone has combined the worst elements of a brewery, a tannery, and an unwashed regiment."


    I scan the crowd while they banter, mapping exits and potential threats. Old habits die hard. The audience is a mix of dock workers, factory labourers, and the occasional well-dressed patron slumming for entertainment. No Academy uniforms in sight, which is a relief.


    Below, Mohawk manages a desperate lunge, tackling Tree-arms to the ground. They roll in the dirt, exchanging blows that would shatter lesser men''s bones.


    "What a sloppy guard," I comment, unable to help myself. "Captain Maya would have them running drills until their arms fell off."


    "Oh, look who''s suddenly the fighting expert," Cain teases, elbowing me in the ribs. "You gonna show them how it''s done, big man?"


    "I could," I say flatly.


    Anja gives me a measuring look. "You know, that''s not a bad idea. Prize money''s decent."


    "Absolutely not," Wentworth interjects. "Mark cannot risk exposure. The Academy—"


    "Won''t know unless someone tells them," Anja cuts him off with a pointed stare.


    The fight below reaches its conclusion as Tree-arms pins Mohawk, raining down blows until his opponent goes limp. The crowd erupts in a mixture of cheers and boos as money changes hands.


    A stocky woman with a megaphone steps into the pit, raising Tree-arms'' hand in victory while two assistants drag Mohawk''s unconscious form away.


    "Next bout in fifteen minutes!" she announces. "Any challengers for our champion? Double purse for anyone who can last three rounds!"


    "Well?" Anja looks at me expectantly.


    "Three rounds, is that it?" I mutter, watching the champion parade around the pit with his arms raised. The crowd''s roar washes over me, and something stirs in my chest. Not excitement—calculation.


    This brute relies on strength alone. No technique, no discipline, just raw power and intimidation. Against someone with actual training? He wouldn''t last one round.


    "I''m going in," I decide, already moving toward the stairs leading down to the registration table.


    Cain grabs my arm. "Whoa, seriously? What about keeping a low profile?"


    "No one from the Academy comes here," I reply, shaking him off. "And I could use the money."


    Anja falls into step beside me, grinning. "Now we''re talking! I''ll handle your corner."


    "I strongly advise against this course of action," Wentworth protests, hurrying after us. "The risk of injury alone—"


    "He''ll be fine," Anja cuts him off. "You haven''t seen him fight."


    We reach the registration table, where a bored woman with facial scars takes down my details. She barely glances at the false name I give her.


    "Entry fee''s two silvers," she drones. "Sign here acknowledging we''re not responsible for permanent injuries or death."


    I hand over the coins and scrawl my signature on her form.


    "Changing area''s through there," she points to a curtained alcove. "You''re up in ten minutes."


    The changing area is a little more than a dirty corner sectioned off with tattered fabric. The floor is stained with substances I''d rather not identify. Several other fighters are preparing—wrapping hands, stretching, or simply staring at the wall with vacant expressions.


    I realise I need to change quickly. The only clothes I have are my old ones—worn leather pants and a faded shirt that''s seen better days. I really should buy different clothes soon.


    "Need help?" Anja asks, appearing beside me.


    "Just watch my back," I reply, pulling my shirt over my head.


    The cool air hits my skin, and I hear a low whistle from somewhere behind me. I ignore it, focusing on the task at hand. Years of mercenary training have sculpted my body into a weapon—broad shoulders, defined muscles, and a collection of scars that tell their own stories.


    But it''s the tattoo that draws attention. The serpent coils across my chest, its scales seeming to shift in the dim light. Even without calling my weapon, the mark itself commands respect.


    "That''s quite the decoration," a fighter nearby comments, eyeing my tattoo. "Custom work?"


    I don''t answer, just fix him with a stare until he looks away.


    Cain slips through the curtain, carrying a small flask. "Liquid courage?" he offers.


    "I don''t need it," I reply, rolling my shoulders to loosen them.


    "Your opponent is Drax," Anja informs me, peering through a gap in the curtain. "Three hundred pounds of muscle and bad attitude. Favours his right side and telegraphs his hooks."


    I raise an eyebrow at her assessment.


    She shrugs. "I watch fights. Sue me."


    Wentworth joins us, looking thoroughly uncomfortable in these surroundings. "I''ve calculated the odds based on visible musculature and previous performance metrics. Your chances are—"


    "I don''t care about odds," I cut him off, stretching my arms across my chest. "Just hold my shirt."


    I hand him my clothing, standing now in just my worn leather pants. The snake tattoo seems more vivid under the harsh lighting, almost alive against my skin.


    "Next fighter!" a voice calls from beyond the curtain.


    I crack my neck, feeling a familiar calm settle over me. This isn''t about the crowd or the money. This is what I know—combat, pure and simple.


    "Try not to kill him," Anja says, only half-joking.


    I nod once and step through the curtain.


    The crowd''s reaction is immediate—a mixture of jeers, whistles, and muttered comments about the snake on my chest. I ignore them all, eyes fixed on my opponent. Drax is massive, his skin glistening with oil and sweat, his face twisted in a permanent snarl.


    As I step into the pit, the dirt cool beneath my bare feet, I feel strangely at home. This, at least, makes sense to me.


    I am as ready as possible.


    The announcer''s voice booms across the pit. "In the challenger''s corner, we have... The Snake!"


    My name may need work.


    The crowd''s reaction is mixed—some cheering at fresh meat, others booing the newcomer. I don''t care either way. My focus narrows to Drax, cataloguing every detail. His stance is wide, weight is distributed unevenly. He favours his right leg slightly. His knuckles are swollen from repeated impacts without proper technique.


    "You''re dead, pretty boy," he snarls, spitting on the ground between us.


    I don''t respond. Words are wasted energy.


    The announcer raises her hand. "Three rounds or knockout! No weapons, no eye gouging, everything else goes!" She drops her arm. "Fight!"


    The bell clangs, and Drax charges immediately, exactly as I expected. Predictable. Amateur.


    Time slows as my mercenary training kicks in. I have options:


    Option one: Slip his first punch, counter with a cross followed by an uppercut. His poor balance means he''ll drop easily, then I can finish him on the ground.


    Option two: Establish range with jabs, frustrate him, make him overcommit, and then counter when he''s exposed.


    But there''s a third option. The snake tattoo on my chest seems to pulse against my skin. I''ve noticed subtle changes when it''s active—heightened reflexes and increased strength. But what about when it remains dormant? Could the essence still influence my physical abilities?


    Combat is the perfect testing ground.


    I choose option two with a twist. As Drax barrels toward me, I focus on the tattoo, not to summon my weapon but to channel its essence through my body. I feel a strange warmth spreading from my chest down my arms.


    Drax throws a wild haymaker. I slip it easily, the movement feeling unnaturally fluid, and snap out a quick jab that catches him on the nose. Not enough power to break it, just testing.


    He grunts, momentarily stunned by the speed. Blood trickles from his nostril.


    "Lucky shot," he growls, circling more cautiously now.


    I feel different. My movements are more precise, reactions are sharper. The tattoo isn''t just a weapon storage—it''s changing how my body responds.


    Drax feints left, then throws a right hook. I weave under it and deliver two rapid jabs to his ribs. The impact reverberates up my arm, but there''s something else—a sensation like electricity flowing through my muscles.


    The crowd roars as Drax staggers back. I press forward, maintaining perfect distance, landing three more jabs that snap his head back. Each connection feels enhanced, as if the snake''s essence is flowing through my strikes.


    "Stand and fight, coward!" Drax bellows, frustrated by my movement.


    I oblige him, planting my feet. He grins, thinking he''s got me, and launches a powerful straight right. Instead of dodging, I channel everything into my core, feeling the tattoo pulse once, and meet his punch with a perfectly timed cross-counter.


    The impact is devastating. My fist connects with his jaw with a sickening crack. Drax''s eyes roll back as he crumples into the dirt like a felled tree.


    Silence falls over the arena, then erupts into chaos. The fight lasted less than thirty seconds.


    The announcer rushes in, checking Drax''s unconscious form before raising my hand. "Winner by knockout... The Snake!"


    As the crowd''s reaction washes over me, I look down at my hands. They appear normal, but they don''t feel normal. The snake tattoo seems to settle back into my skin, its work done.


    I''ve discovered something valuable. The tattoo''s power isn''t binary—active only when the weapon is drawn. It''s a spectrum, with different levels of enhancement available if I learn to control it properly.


    Anja rushes into the pit, followed by Cain and a reluctant Wentworth.


    "That was bloody brilliant!" Cain shouts, jumping around me. "One punch! Just one!"


    Anja studies my face with narrowed eyes. "You did something different," she says quietly, so only I can hear. "With the tattoo?"


    I nod slightly. "It''s not just a weapon. It''s changing me."


    I''ve barely caught my breath when the announcer''s voice cuts through the cheering crowd.


    "Ladies and gentlemen! It seems our new challenger has made quite the impression!"


    Anja hands me a cloth to wipe the sweat from my face. I scan the crowd, noticing several men pushing their way toward the registration table, eyes fixed on me with predatory interest. Fresh challengers looking to test themselves against the newcomer who just demolished the champion.


    "You''ve got admirers," Anja says, nodding toward them.


    "Bloody hell, that was fast," Cain says, bouncing on his toes with excitement. "One punch and the big lug went down like a sack of potatoes!"


    Wentworth examines my hand with scientific curiosity. "Fascinating. The impact should have caused significant metacarpal damage, yet there''s barely any swelling."


    I pull my hand away, uncomfortable with his scrutiny. "It''s nothing."


    The announcer approaches us, a calculating smile on her face. "The crowd wants more. Two fighters have already paid their entry fee to challenge you."


    "Back-to-back fights?" I ask, rolling my shoulders. I''m barely winded from the first bout.


    "Actually..." The announcer''s smile widens. "They''re offering double the prize money for a special match. Both of them against you, simultaneously."


    Before I can respond, Cain jumps in. "He''ll take it! My boy here eats two-on-ones for breakfast!"


    "Cain," I growl in warning.


    But Anja''s already nodding enthusiastically. "Double the prize money? Absolutely, he''ll do it."


    "I must protest," Wentworth interjects. "The statistical probability of—"


    "Done," I cut him off. The truth is, I''m curious to test my limits with this new understanding of my tattoo''s influence.