Chương 73: Chapter 71. Brawl

"–uck!" Valiant's curse hung in the air, cut short as his tiny jaw dropped open. Adom smiled down at the stunned mouse beastkin. There was something oddly satisfying about watching someone's entire worldview shift in real-time. The way Valiant's whiskers froze mid-twitch, how his eyes widened to perfect circles. Careful, he told himself. This kind of ego trip would put him on par with Helios, and the thought of developing an ego that massive made him shudder internally. Best to nip that satisfaction in the bud.

He grunted, shaking off the feeling.

"So, are you going to lead the way or not?" Valiant blinked rapidly, as if rebooting his tiny brain.

"How? Just... how? You're not using magic! You're actually that strong? Did you do another one of your transmutation thingys? Can you do that to me?" His words tumbled out in an excited squeak.

"Give me electrical powers! I've always wanted to shoot lightning from my paws!"

"Electrical powers?" Adom raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah! Imagine me, but with electricity!" Valiant's whiskers vibrated with excitement as he mimed shooting lightning bolts.

"ZAP! ZAP! No one would mess with an electrified mouse! I'd be the terror of the Undertow!"

"A rodent like creature with electrical powers. That's... oddly specific."

"I've given it a lot of thought," Valiant admitted, climbing onto the table to be more at eye level. He still wasn't.

"Think about it—small, quick, and packing a thunderous punch! I'd be legendary!"

"No one would ever see you coming," Adom deadpanned.

"Exactly!"

"Except everyone would see you coming because you'd be shooting lightning everywhere."

"Details, details." Valiant waved a paw dismissively.

"So can you do it or not?"

"No, I can't give you electrical powers," Adom said flatly.

"Why not? You did something to yourself, clearly."

"It's complicated."

"I can handle complicated!"

"It involves alchemical formulations—" That was true.

"I'm listening."

"—ancient forgotten runes—" That was partially true.

"Keep going."

"—and a very specific type of dungeon core manipulation that took years to perfect." A blatant lie that made no sense whatsoever. Valiant deflated slightly.

"Oh."

"Also, you'd probably explode."

"I'd what now?"

"Your body mass is too small to contain that kind of power without extensive preparation," Adom improvised, fighting to keep a straight face.

"The energy discharge would likely launch you through the roof." Valiant opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

"Would I at least get one good zap in before exploding?"

"Valiant."

"Right, right." The mouse beastkin hopped down from the table.

"But seriously, what did you do to yourself? I've never seen a human your age lift something that heavy without magic." Adom crossed his arms.

"Can we focus? I need you to take me to these gangs so I can challenge them. I have other things to do tonight."

"Other things? You just volunteered to fight three of the most dangerous champions in the Undertow, and you're acting like it's an errand you need to squeeze in before dinner!"

"Is that a problem?"

"It's bizarre! Normal people don't—" Valiant threw up his paws.

"You know what? Fine. You want to fight monsters and killers using whatever freakish strength you've given yourself? Be my guest."

"Great. So which one first?" Valiant stared at him for a long moment.

"You're really serious about this."

"I wouldn't have offered otherwise." The mouse beastkin sighed, his tiny shoulders slumping in resignation.

"The Broken Fangs meet at the old fighting pit near the docks. The Nightshades gather in what used to be the Silk Market before it burned down three years ago. The Red Hooks..." He hesitated.

"They're the worst of the bunch. Their territory is the old slaughterhouse district."

"Appropriate."

"Terrifying is what it is." Valiant shuddered.

"Are you sure about this? You could end up dead. Or worse." Adom tilted his head.

"What's worse than dead?"

"You ever seen what an ogre does with the hearts he doesn't eat?"

"Can't say that I have." He'd seen worse.

"Let's keep it that way." Valiant grabbed a small coat from a hook near the door.

"I'll take you to the Broken Fangs first. They're the most straightforward—accept the challenge, fight, win or die. Simple."

"Simple is good." Valiant paused at the door, looking back at Adom with an expression that might have been concern if it wasn't buried under layers of exasperation.

"Just... try not to die, okay? Finding semi-reliable humans is hard enough without them getting themselves killed on a random night in the Undertow." Adom nodded, gesturing for Zuni to hop onto his shoulder.

"I'll do my best."

"That's what worries me," Valiant muttered, pushing open the door. The streets of the Dregs grew darker as Adom and Valiant made their way toward the docks. Oil lamps flickered in windows. Hunched figures huddled around dice games in doorways. A woman argued with a drunk outside a tavern. Somewhere, a baby cried. Two skinny children darted between buildings, clutching something that might have been bread.

Everyone moved with purpose—even those who were just standing still, watching with cautious eyes as strangers passed through their territory. Zuni chirped softly on Adom's shoulder, his quills occasionally rising and falling as they passed particularly suspicious alleys.

"So these three gangs that took your networks," Adom asked, "they're major players in the Undertow?" Valiant snorted.

"Major? Hardly. They're just slightly bigger operations than mine—opportunists who saw weakness after the Children fell. The real power players wouldn't bother with my small networks. We're talking about neighborhood-level stuff here, not the kind of organizations that control entire districts."

"So we're not exactly overthrowing the Undertow's hierarchy tonight." Adom was a bit disapointed.

"No, just reclaiming my modest slice of it. But for me, that's everything."

"I see." Adom stopped suddenly, halfway down a narrow street lined with crooked buildings.

"We need to make a detour," he said. Valiant, who'd been scurrying a few paces ahead, turned back with a frown.

"A detour? The fighting pit is just twenty minutes from here if we keep going straight."

"Is there a vendor nearby? Someone who sells masks or disguises?"

"Masks?" Valiant's whiskers twitched in confusion.

"What for?"

"I'd rather not have my face associated with whatever happens tonight." The mouse beastkin studied him for a moment, then nodded.

"Ooh. Good idea." He pointed down a side street.

"There's a place three blocks that way. Old woman sells festival supplies year-round. Masks, costumes, that sort of thing."

"Perfect." Valiant led them through a maze of increasingly narrow passages until they reached a small square dominated by what looked like a former warehouse. Its windows were boarded up, but light spilled from beneath a cracked door.

"Wait here," Valiant said.

"She doesn't like new faces."

"What about quillick faces?" Adom asked, nodding toward Zuni.

"Let's not find out." Valiant disappeared through the door before Adom could respond. Five minutes passed. Then ten. Adom leaned against a wall, idly scratching behind Zuni's ear spikes while watching the sparse foot traffic cross the square. Most people hurried with their heads down. A few gave him curious glances but seemed to decide he wasn't worth the trouble. Finally, the door creaked open, and Valiant emerged, dragging something white in his paws.

"Best I could do on short notice," he said, handing Adom a simple white mask with two eye holes cut into it.

"She wanted three copper pieces for this piece of garbage. I talked her down to one and a half." Adom took the mask, turning it over in his hands. Plain, featureless, and made of some kind of hardened pulped paper. It would do.

"Thanks."

"So what now? We heading to the pit?" Valiant asked.

"In a minute." Adom held up his index finger, and a tiny flame—no larger than a candle's—appeared at the tip. Carefully, he began etching marks onto the mask's surface, the controlled fire spell burning delicate lines that formed interlocking patterns around the eyes and along the edges. Valiant watched, his nose twitching with interest.

"What are you doing?"

"Runes." Adom didn't look up from his work.

"What kind of runes?"

"One second please." Adom finished the last marking, a curved line that connected to the first rune he'd drawn. He inspected his work, nodded once, then placed his palm over the mask's face. A soft blue glow emanated from beneath his hand, illuminating his fingers from below.

"Whoa!" Valiant's eyes widened.

"What kind of magic is that? Can you teach me? Is it dangerous? Will it explode? Can I touch it? What does it smell like? I can smell ozone, but is that just the ambient—""Valiant."

"Right, sorry." The mouse beastkin took a step back, but his eyes remained fixed on the glowing mask.

"But seriously, what did you just do?" Adom lifted the mask. The runes had settled into the material, barely visible now. Where before it had been completely plain, the mask now had subtle contours—slight ridges above the eyes, a hint of cheekbones, a few decorative lines along the jawline. Nothing dramatic, but enough to give it character. He slipped it over his face, securing it with the attached string.

"How do I look?" he asked. Valiant's jaw dropped slightly. The voice that had emerged from behind the mask wasn't Adom's. It was deeper, resonant—unmistakably adult.

"That's... unsettling," Valiant said, taking a step back.

"You sound like a different person."

"That's the point." Adom ran a hand over his head, making sure the mask's illusion properly concealed his hair.

"But you still look like... well, you. Just with a mask on." Valiant circled him, studying the transformation—or lack thereof.

"You didn't make yourself taller or anything."

"I don't need to. The runes create a perception filter. People will see what they expect to see—a short adult man, not a child. Everyone will perceive me slightly differently, filling in details with their own assumptions."

"And the voice?"

"Basic sonic manipulation. The mask alters the vibrations as they pass through." Valiant's whiskers twitched rapidly.

"That's... slightly terrifying. Where did you learn that?"

"Hmm. I wonder. Where would a mage student learn a magic skill?" Adom's new voice somehow made his tone even drier.

"Perhaps I learned it while shopping for turnips. Or maybe at the local butcher? Oh! Oh! Perhaps the town drunk taught me between hiccups. Certainly not at the Xerkes Celestial Academy of Mystical Arts where I spend every waking hour. That would be ridiculous." Valiant sighed and pinched the bridge of his snout.

"That was on me. Yeah. I walked right into that one." Zuni chirped in what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

"So you're prepared now?" Said Valiant, deciding to ignore the quillick.

"Ready to go challenge the meanest fighters in the Undertow while looking like some mysterious masked stranger?" Adom adjusted the mask, then suddenly froze.

"Wait. Zuni," he said, glancing at the quillick on his shoulder.

"He's too recognizable." Valiant blinked.

"Huh? Oh! Yeah, that's... that's a big problem." Adom thought for a moment.

"Do you have anything else I could use? A small trinket, maybe a band or ring?" Valiant rummaged through his dimensional bag, pulling out a thin copper band with worn engravings.

"Will this work? Got it off a charm-seller years ago. Has some minor enchantment, but nothing useful." Adom took the band, examining it carefully.

"This will do." Just as he had with the mask, Adom etched delicate runes into the copper, the controlled flame spell burning precise patterns into the metal. When he finished, a soft blue glow emanated briefly before fading.

"Let's see if this works." He slipped the band around Zuni's foreleg. The quillick chirped, then shimmered as Valiant blinked in surprise as Zuni's appearance transformed before their eyes. Where the distinctive quillick had been, a common gray squirrel now sat, though the creature's movements and chirps remained unmistakably Zuni's.

"A squirrel?" Valiant said, leaning closer to inspect the transformation.

"Not bad. Common enough not to draw attention, but not so small he'll get lost." Zuni chirped, examining his now-furry tail with apparent confusion.

"Perfect," Adom said with satisfaction.

"Now we're properly disguised. Let's go."

The night air carried the scent of saltwater and rotting fish as they approached the docks. Streetlamps grew scarcer and most buildings here leaned precariously, as though the foundations were slowly surrendering to the constant pull of the nearby ocean.

"Almost there," Valiant said, voice barely above a whisper as he scurried ahead of Adom. The mouse beastkin moved differently here—shoulders hunched, head swiveling constantly, his normally confident stride replaced by something more cautious.

"What exactly am I looking for when we get there?" Adom asked, his deepened voice still strange in his own ears. Valiant paused at an intersection, nose twitching as he sampled the air.

"The old fighting pit is in what used to be a warehouse basement. Big stone circle, maybe forty feet across. Wooden bleachers all around. Smells like blood, sweat, and cheap beer."

"I meant who, not what."

"Oh." Valiant's whiskers twitched.

"We're looking for Greeve. He's the leader of the Broken Fangs. Big guy, missing his left ear, has a scar that runs right down his face—split his nose in half. Looks like someone tried to cleave his head in two but only got halfway."

"Charming."

"He's actually the reasonable one of the three gang leaders." Valiant turned down a narrower street where the buildings pressed in so tightly they nearly touched overhead.

"Got control of the Broken Fangs the same way you're trying to—challenged the previous leader and won." They passed a group of sailors stumbling from a tavern, their laughter cutting through the night. The men gave them a curious glance—particularly at Zuni—but kept moving.

"So this is how things work down here?" Adom asked once they were alone again.

"Fighting for leadership?"

"It's how things have always worked in the Undertow." Valiant hopped over a puddle of something that definitely wasn't water.

"After the mess with the Children of the Moon, everything's been unstable. You should know—you were right in the middle of it."

"I was hoping things had improved since then." Valiant snorted.

"Improved? The exact opposite. The challenge system was supposed to prevent all-out war, but after what happened..." He shook his head.

"Some gangs disappeared entirely. Others merged. And the strong ones—like these three—have been swallowing up whatever they can."

"Including your network."

"Exactly." Valiant clapped his hands.

"The Right of Contest has always been there, but the smaller operations like mine never had to worry about it much before. Now everyone's fair game." They turned another corner, and Adom could suddenly hear a distant roar—like the sound of many voices shouting at once.

"I suppose you guys ban mages and Fluid users to avoid a situation like Gale's?" Adom asked.

"That's exactly it," Valiant replied, grimacing at the memory.

"The Undertow has always had one central principle—power should remain distributed. No kings, no emperors, just different organizations handling their territories. When that guy started to dominate everyone else..." Valiant's tail twitched nervously.

"It wasn't just that he was stronger. It was that nobody could effectively challenge him. One person with that much power goes against everything the Undertow stands for." He turned to Adom.

"Believe it or not, we hate centralized authority down here even more than we hate each other. The emperor can rule the cities above, but the Undertow belongs to everyone. If we allowed mages or powerful Fluid users to participate in our challenges, we'd just be replacing one tyrant with another."

"Makes sense," Adom nodded.

"Besides," Valiant added, "it keeps things... fair, in a way. When it's just muscle against muscle, anyone theoretically has a chance. The moment someone can throw fire or manipulate space, that balance disappears."

"Fair?" Adom raised an eyebrow behind his mask.

"Your champions aren't exactly of similar strength. Hargast is an ogre."

"Maybe not," Valiant conceded with a shrug.

"But I'd still rather face a heart-eating ogre than a mage or Fluid user who knows what they're doing. At least with Hargast, I can see the attack coming."

"Hmm." Valiant glanced up at him.

"You may not realize it, but a lot of people down here are terrified of you mages. Of what you can do."

"I'm aware," Adom said quietly. The roar grew louder as they approached a squat, wide building with boarded-up windows. Two burly men flanked the entrance, arms crossed over massive chests. One had tusks protruding from his lower jaw—half-orc, most likely.

"What if they refuse our challenge?" Adom asked, keeping his voice low.

"Then nothing happens," Valiant replied.

"We walk away. But refusing challenges creates problems for gang leaders. Do it once, maybe you're just busy. Do it twice, people whisper. Do it three times..."

"They get replaced."

"Exactly. Honor requires you to accept." Adom mulled this over as they approached the entrance. If anyone with a strong champion could issue challenges freely, they could potentially take over everything. But a system that despised centralized power would surely have safeguards against that too. There must be unwritten limits to how many challenges one could make before others united against them—an invisible boundary that kept the Undertow's balance of power intact under normal circumstances, he assumed.

They stopped about twenty paces from the entrance. Valiant turned to Adom, his expression suddenly serious.

"Last chance to back out. Once we go in there and issue a challenge, there's potentially no turning back without serious consequences." Adom adjusted his mask again, making sure it was secure.

"I'm ready. Are you?" Valiant took a deep breath.

"As ready as I'll ever be to watch someone who helped take down the Children fight a heart-eating ogre."

"You're finally showing some confidence in me."

"Don't push it." The guards at the entrance stiffened as they approached, the half-orc's hand dropping to the club at his belt.

"What's your business?" he grunted, voice like gravel. Valiant stepped forward, somehow managing to look both nervous and determined.

"We're here to see Greeve."

"Greeve don't take visitors without prior notice."

"Dude, tell him it's Valiant. Valiant Maus. Cisco's nephew. I'm here to invoke the Right of Contest." The guards exchanged glances, surprise evident on their faces. The human one snorted.

"You? Invoking the Right?" He looked Valiant up and down.

"What, you gonna fight someone? The cat's been fed already." Both guards laughed at this, but Valiant didn't flinch.

"My champion will fight," he said, gesturing to Adom. The laughter stopped. The guards scrutinized Adom, taking in the mask, the slight frame, the quillick perched on his shoulder.

"What's with the mask?" the half-orc asked.

"Personal preference," Adom replied. The human guard squinted.

"You look familiar."

"I get that a lot." The guards exchanged another glance, then the half-orc shrugged.

"Wait here." He disappeared inside, leaving the human to watch them with a suspicious gaze. The muffled roar of the crowd continued to pulse from within the building, punctuated occasionally by a particularly loud cheer—or scream.

"Don't stare too much," Valiant murmured to Adom.

"Makes people uncomfortable."

"I'm wearing a mask. They can't see where I'm looking."

"Trust me, they can tell." The half-orc returned a minute later, nodding curtly.

"Greeve says come in. Fight's almost over. He'll see you after." Valiant visibly swallowed, then nodded.

"Let's go." This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The interior was poorly lit by scattered torches. They followed the half-orc down a narrow staircase, the roaring growing louder with each step. The air became thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and something else—excitement, maybe. Or fear. The two often smelled similar. At the bottom of the stairs, a short corridor opened into a vast circular chamber. The fighting pit Valiant had described.

Stone bleachers ringed a sunken arena where two figures circled each other—one massive and hulking, the other smaller but quick. Blood already stained the sand covering the pit floor. The half-orc led them to a section of seats off to one side, where a cluster of particularly tough-looking individuals sat watching the fight.

At their center was a man who could only be Greeve—enormous, scarred exactly as Valiant had described, with a face that looked like it had been assembled from parts that didn't quite fit together. Everyone's eyes were fixed on the fight, barely registering the newcomers. In the pit, the massive fighter—a bald man with arms like tree trunks—lunged forward, catching his smaller opponent with a crushing blow to the ribs.

The crowd roared as the smaller man crumpled, tried to rise, then collapsed face-first into the sand.

"Winner!" shouted someone from the opposite side of the pit.

"The Broken Fangs' own Stone-Fist!" Cheers erupted, coins changed hands, and several people shouted for more ale. The victor raised his bloody fists, basking in the adulation. It was only then that Greeve turned his attention to them, his mismatched eyes—one brown, one milky white—narrowing as they approached.

"Valiant," he said, voice like a boulder being dragged across gravel.

"Heard you were looking for me." Dozens of eyes turned to stare at them. Adom felt the weight of their gazes, calculating, assessing, dismissing. Beside him, Valiant straightened to his full height—which was still quite small.

"Greeve," Valiant began, his voice surprisingly steady.

"I've come to invoke the Right of Contest. Your champion against mine for control of the territory and assets you took from my network last month." A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd. Greeve's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his good eye—surprise, perhaps. Or amusement.

"That so?" he drawled, looking from Valiant to Adom.

"And this is your champion? The man in the mask?"

"Yes," Valiant said firmly. Greeve leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"And who might you be, masked man? Got a name?" Adom had considered this. In stories, masked vigilantes always had some dramatic alias. But that felt unnecessary here.

"Just a friend," he replied evenly. More murmurs from the crowd. Greeve's scarred lips twitched, almost forming a smile.

"A 'friend' willing to fight Hargast for a mouse's honor?" He gestured toward the far side of the pit where a hulking figure sat apart from the others. Even seated, the ogre—it could only be Hargast—towered over everyone nearby. His grey-green skin was marked with tribal scars, and a necklace of what looked disturbingly like small bones hung around his thick neck. Very stereotypical.

"That's correct," Adom said. Greeve studied him for a long moment, then barked out a laugh.

"You've got guts, I'll give you that." He leaned back, crossing massive arms over his chest.

"But I'm curious. What's with the mask? We don't usually get mystery fighters in the pit."

"Personal reasons."

"And the rat on your shoulder? That your good luck charm?" Zuni chirped indignantly.

"He's a... squirrel," Adom corrected.

"And yes, something like that." Greeve's gaze hardened slightly.

"The rat stays outside if it's got any tricks."

"He's just a pet."

"Make sure it stays that way." Greeve shifted his attention back to Valiant.

"You really want to do this, mouse? You know what Hargast does to the hearts of those who challenge him." Valiant swallowed visibly but stood firm.

"We invoke the Right of Contest."

"Your funeral." Greeve shrugged, then raised his voice.

"We have a challenge! The Right of Contest has been invoked!" The crowd's attention fixed on them fully now, a hundred pairs of eyes suddenly alive with interest. The noise dropped to a low murmur as Greeve continued.

"Valiant of the..." he paused, frowning slightly.

"What do you call your little operation these days?"

"The Whisperers," Valiant said, the name clearly improvised on the spot. Adom resisted the urge to look down at him. The Whisperers? Really?

"Valiant of the Whisperers," Greeve announced, voice carrying throughout the chamber, "challenges the Broken Fangs for control of the harbor district information network. His champion will face Hargast in single combat. No magic, no Fluid arts" Greeve's eyes narrowed, scanning Adom from head to toe.

"Just to be clear. You're not a mage or a Fluid user, are you?"

"No," Adom replied evenly. Greeve rose from his seat, his massive frame unfolding as he stepped closer.

"See those?" He pointed to several crystals embedded in the pit's walls, their surfaces dull and cloudy.

"They detect mana. Start channeling, they light up like festival lanterns." He leaned in, close enough that Adom could smell stale beer on his breath.

"As for Fluid—we'll know the moment you try it." Suddenly, Fluid energy rippled across Greeve's skin—a cold yellow light that cast harsh shadows across his scarred face. The display wasn't subtle; it was a warning.

"You look too small to challenge Hargast," he growled, "which tells me you've got something hidden. Try using it, and if it's against the rules, we will have a problem." The Fluid receded back beneath his skin.

"Do we understand each other?" Adom and Valiant exchanged a brief glance before answering in unison: "Absolutely." The murmurs grew louder. Someone laughed. At the far side of the pit, the ogre stood, his massive form unfolding until he stood well over seven feet tall. His small eyes fixed on Adom with what might have been hunger.

"The challenge will commence once the pit is cleared," Greeve declared.

"Prepare yourselves." As attendants rushed to drag away the unconscious fighter and rake the bloodied sand, Greeve turned back to them, his voice lower.

"Any last requests, masked man? A quick prayer to whatever gods you follow?" Adom shook his head.

"Just one question. How exactly does this work? What are the victory conditions?" Greeve's mangled face twisted into what might have been a smile.

"Simple. You win by submission or knockout."

"And if neither happens?"

"Then it continues until one does." Greeve's good eye gleamed.

"Or until one of you dies. Hargast prefers the latter."

"I see."

"I should warn you," Greeve added, almost conversationally, "Hargast has never accepted a submission. And he's never lost."

"There's a first time for everything," Adom replied. Greeve studied him a moment longer, then shrugged.

"Your life, your choice. Pit will be ready in five minutes." As Greeve turned away to speak with his lieutenants, Valiant tugged at Adom's sleeve, pulling him slightly aside.

"You still sure about this?" the mouse beastkin whispered urgently.

"That's not just any ogre. That's Hargast the Heart-Taker. They say he's killed fifty men in that pit."

"Then it's time someone taught him some manners."

"This isn't a joke, Adom!" Valiant hissed.

"Look at him. Really look at him." Adom did. The ogre was massive, with muscles that bulged beneath his leathery skin. His hands were the size of dinner plates, and when he grinned at something one of his companions said, his mouth revealed rows of yellowed, pointed teeth. But Adom had faced worse. Much worse.

"I can handle him," he said quietly.

"You better," Valiant muttered.

"Because if you don't, I've just signed your death warrants." In the pit, the sand had been raked smooth, covering whatever blood had been spilled in the previous fight. The crowd's energy was building again, an electric tension that hummed through the air.

"The pit is prepared!" announced a thin man standing at the edge of the arena.

"Champions, approach!" Hargast moved toward the pit's entrance, each step making the wooden bleachers vibrate slightly. Adom carefully put Zuni on the ground just beside Valiant.

"Watch him for me," he said.

"What do I do if you die?" Valiant asked, his whiskers trembling slightly.

"Heh. I'm not gonna die." With that, Adom turned and walked toward the pit entrance, conscious of every eye in the place following his progress. As he stepped down into the pit, he heard Greeve's voice boom out over the crowd.

"The challenge has been accepted! By the Right of Contest, the victor claims all! Let the fight... begin!" The crowd's roar swelled as Adom stepped fully into the pit. Coins flashed in the torchlight as bets exchanged hands, voices rising over each other in a chaotic auction.

"Twenty on the ogre in the first minute!"

"He doesn't even have a weapon. Fifty says the masked man doesn't last thirty seconds!"

"I'll take that! Hundred says Hargast eats his heart before midnight!" Adom's gaze swept the audience, tracking the movement of money and the gleeful anticipation on faces that had paid to watch someone die. His eyes landed on a familiar small figure—and narrowed. Valiant, that scheming little rodent, was frantically passing coins to a bookmaker. Where the hell is he even taking this from? Does he have a dimensional bag? Adom nearly shouted across the pit. The absolute audacity!

Here he was, about to risk his life for the mouse's information network, and Valiant was gambling on the outcome? Then he caught the beastkin's words as they carried through a momentary lull in the noise.

"All of it on the masked man! Every copper I have!" Zuni chirped encouragingly from beside Valiant, his permanent smile somehow seeming even wider as he bounced excitedly on his haunches. Well. At least the treacherous mouse was betting on him to win.

"You might want to focus on me instead of your friends," rumbled a voice like stones grinding together. Adom turned to find Hargast looming over him, blocking out the torchlight. Up close, the ogre was even more imposing—scarred green-gray skin stretched over muscles that bulged like small boulders. The bone necklace clicked softly as he shifted his weight.

"Hey, do you really eat people's hearts?" Adom asked, looking up at the massive creature. Hargast's heavy brow furrowed.

"What do ya think?" His voice carried a surprising lilt.

"I don't know. I thought ogres preferred onions." The ogre's eyes widened slightly, then narrowed.

"We do like onions," he admitted gruffly.

"Layers. Complex flavor. Heart thing's mostly exaggerated. Was only one time, really."

"Huh." Adom tilted his head.

"So you do kill people?""'Course I do." Hargast shrugged massive shoulders.

"Not all of 'em though. Mostly the real pricks. Rapists. Slavers. People who need killing." He gestured vaguely at the crowd.

"This is the Undertow, not a charity ball. Not exactly overflowing with innocent souls." The ogre leaned down slightly, his breath hot against Adom's mask.

"Tell you what—I like you. Got guts, walking in here like this. So I'll just break a few bones and let you live. How's that sound?" His mouth twisted into what might have been a sympathetic grimace.

"Not sure what you were thinking, but maybe don't kill yourself like this?" Before Adom could respond, the crowd's impatience erupted.

"Fight already!"

"Break his skull!"

"Blood! Blood! Blood!" Hargast's expression hardened.

"Well, they're paying for a show." He took a step back, raised his enormous fists, and lunged forward with surprising speed.

"Night night, masked man!" [Flow Prediction] Time seemed to slow. Adom watched the ogre's massive fist approach, cutting through the air toward his face. He tracked the trajectory, noting the slight overextension in Hargast's shoulder, the way his weight shifted too far forward. Was it just him, or was the ogre moving really, really slowly? Fighting people like Gale and Helios had apparently recalibrated his sense of "dangerous." Adom simply took a single step to the side.

Confusion flickered across Hargast's face as his momentum carried him forward, his fist whistling through empty air where Adom's head had been a moment before. The ogre's small eyes widened as he realized he'd missed, his head turning in slow motion to locate his target. Adom almost smiled. He could see the exact moment the ogre understood what was about to happen—the dawning realization, the attempt to shift his weight, already too late. Night, night, Ogre.

Adom thought, carefully measuring his strength as he drove his fist into the ogre's exposed midsection. WHACK. The sound was not the dull thud of flesh striking flesh, but something sharper, like a hammer striking wood. Adom felt the ogre's muscles compress under his knuckles, felt the exact moment to pull back to avoid doing permanent damage. He had more control of [Silverback's Might] when using [Flow Prediction] it seemed.

When time slowed in his perception, he could feel each muscle fiber, each tendon adjusting with more precision. The slower world gave his mind time to fine-tune exactly how much strength to apply. It was simple physics: the same force applied more precisely created better results with less collateral damage. A useful discovery. Very useful. Hargast's massive body lifted completely off the ground.

His expression froze somewhere between shock and disbelief as he sailed backward across the pit, arms splayed wide, legs trailing behind him like a rag doll thrown by a petulant child. He hit the stone wall with a sickening crunch, the impact knocking dust from the ceiling. The ogre slid to the ground, gasping as all the air evacuated his lungs at once. Silence fell across the pit like a physical weight. The crowd, mid-cheer just seconds ago, froze with drinks halfway to lips and coins suspended between hands.

Every eye fixed on the scene—the massive ogre champion crumpled against the wall, a wheezing lump of defeated flesh, and the masked figure standing calmly in the center of the pit, not even breathing hard. Someone's mug slipped from nerveless fingers, the crash of pottery against stone startlingly loud in the absolute silence. Hargast tried to rise, managed to get one knee under him, then collapsed again, clutching his midsection.

Vibrant bruising was already forming across his torso—a perfect imprint of Adom's fist centered in a rapidly darkening circle.

"I..." the ogre wheezed, voice barely audible, "I yield." Silence. Absolute silence. Adom turned to face Greeve, who stood at the edge of the pit, his mismatched eyes wide with disbelief.

"I believe," Adom said, his magically deepened voice carrying easily through the stunned quiet, "that counts as submission." Damn. That was cool. I must look so cool right now. Then remembered Helios and his ego, and winced. Be modest, Adom. Let's be modest. Valiant was the first to break the silence. The mouse beastkin leapt onto the bookmaker's table, sending coins scattering, and pumped his tiny fists in the air.

"That's right! THAT'S RIGHT! Pay up, you mangy lot of street trash! The Whisperers are BACK!" The stunned silence lasted only a moment before pandemonium erupted.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?"

"HE CHEATED! CHECK THE MANA CRYSTALS!"

"NOBODY BEATS HARGAST!"

"IT'S A TRICK!" People leapt to their feet, pointing accusingly at the dull crystals embedded in the walls, which remained stubbornly unlit. Others shouted for the fight to continue, claiming Hargast had merely stumbled.

"He must've used Fluid!" a woman with scarred cheeks shouted, jabbing a finger toward Adom.

"You all saw it! No one's that strong naturally!"

"Check him! Strip the mask!" Adom tensed, shifting his weight slightly as several Broken Fangs members moved toward the pit's edge. Was he about to face a mob? He scanned the crowd, calculating escape routes, when Greeve's voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

"SILENCE!" The roar died instantly. Greeve stood at the pit's edge, his scarred face unreadable as he stared down at Adom. He raised a hand, and the yellow Fluid energy from before rippled across his skin, more intense this time, crackling between his fingers.

"Approach," he commanded. Adom walked forward, stopping at the base of the steps leading up from the pit. Greeve descended until they stood face to face, close enough that no one else could hear his murmured words.

"You hiding something, masked man?"

"Nothing against the rules," Adom replied quietly. Greeve's good eye narrowed as he studied Adom's mask, searching for any hint of deception. A muscle worked in his jaw.

"Boss," one of his lieutenants hissed from above.

"It had to be Fluid! Nobody hits that hard without it. He must've masked it somehow." Greeve didn't respond, still staring at Adom. The Fluid energy writhed more intensely around his hand as it hovered near Adom's chest—close enough to feel its cold emanation but not quite touching. Is he going to try something? Adom wondered, readying himself. Was he— Greeve sighed heavily, the Fluid energy dissipating as he lowered his hand.

"No," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"No Fluid. No mana." He turned to face the crowd.

"He won fair and square." Angry mutters rippled through the audience, but no one dared contradict him openly.

"BUT HOW?" someone finally shouted from the back. Greeve shrugged massive shoulders.

"Don't know. Don't care. Rules are rules." He turned back to Adom, his voice dropping again.

"Though I'd be very interested to learn your secret someday." From the side of the pit, Valiant had already scurried to the bookmaker and was collecting his winnings, stuffing coins into a small pouch that bulged comically against his tiny frame.

"I KNEW IT!" the mouse beastkin crowed, dancing a little jig that sent several coins spilling onto the floor from his tiny dimensional bag. So it was a bag. That was the smallest one Adom ever saw.

"NEVER DOUBTED FOR A SECOND! THE WHISPERERS RISE AGAIN!" He pointed at various stunned gang members.

"YOU! And YOU! And especially YOU! All work for ME now! HAHAHAHA!" Greeve's face twitched in what might have been amusement before he composed himself. He turned to address the entire gathering, voice carrying to every corner of the pit.

"By the rules of the Undertow and the Right of Contest, witnessed by all present, I declare the champion of the Whisperers victorious! The harbor district information network, its assets, and its personnel now belong to Valiant Maus and his organization." The announcement landed with all the grace of a dropped anvil. Some of the Broken Fangs members looked outraged, others confused, and a few—surprisingly—seemed almost relieved. Near the pit entrance, two men were helping Hargast to his feet.

The ogre's face was a mask of pain and bewilderment as he clutched his midsection, staring at Adom. Zuni darted across the sand, quills bouncing with each hop, and leapt up to Adom's shoulder with a triumphant chirp. Valiant wasn't far behind, skidding down into the pit and racing toward Adom with his arms outstretched.

"WE DID IT! YOU DID IT!" he shouted, launching himself at Adom's legs. Adom sidestepped smoothly.

"What are you doing?"

"Let me hug you, you absolute genius!" Valiant spun in a little circle, coins still falling from his overstuffed bag.

"You made me rich AND got me my men back! HAHAHA!"

"Glad I could help with your gambling addiction."

"It's not addiction if you win," Valiant replied sagely, then turned to face the crowd.

"ALRIGHT, EVERYONE WHO WORKED THE HARBOR DISTRICT! YOU REPORT TO ME AGAIN STARTING RIGHT NOW!" A group of about fifteen people shifted uncomfortably near the back of the crowd. A tall woman with a scar running down her neck stepped forward.

"We answer to the Whisperers again?" she asked, looking uncertainly between Valiant and Greeve. Greeve nodded once, his expression grim but resigned.

"That's how it works. You know the rules." The woman sighed, then offered Valiant a stiff half-bow.

"Welcome back, boss." Valiant practically vibrated with glee.

"Oh, this is just the beginning! We've got two more stops to make tonight!" Adom glanced down at him. Valiant gestured excitedly at the still-dazed ogre.

"We're going to own half the Undertow by sunrise!" The crowd had started to disperse, some grumbling about lost bets, others discussing in hushed, incredulous tones what they'd just witnessed. Greeve remained at the pit's edge, watching Adom with an unreadable expression.

"I assume we're done here?" Adom asked him. Greeve nodded slowly.

"For now. Take your people and go." He glanced at Valiant, who was now directing his reclaimed informants with exaggerated authority.

"And maybe keep your... enthusiastic friend under control. Not everyone appreciates a gloating victor."

"I'll do my best." As they prepared to leave, Hargast limped over, still supported by his companions. The ogre stopped a respectful distance away, wincing with each breath.

"You," he grunted, fixing Adom with a pained stare.

"What are you?" Adom considered the question.

"Just someone who knows how to throw a punch."

"Bullshit," Hargast said.

"Twenty years fighting, never felt anything like that." He shook his massive head.

"If you ever want work that pays better than following this rodent around, come find me."

"I'll keep that in mind." Valiant, who had been proudly strutting among his reclaimed informants, spun around.

"HEY! No poaching my champion, you oversized garden statue!" Hargast's lips twitched.

"Still got a mouth on you, I see."

"And I've got my network back, so my mouth can say whatever it wants!" Valiant retorted, though he prudently remained behind Adom as he said it. A few of Valiant's people approached.

"Oh! Hey, you three, can you please head to the Nightshades and Red Hooks. Tell them I'm coming with my champion to issue formal challenges tonight. Tell them to prepare."

"Boss, you sure that's wise?" one asked.

"Warning them?" Valiant shared a glance with Adom, then continued."Trust me. After what they just heard about Hargast, they'll think I'm acting out of desperate bravado. They'll accept the challenges just to make an example of me." Huh. That's actually... pretty smart of Valiant. The informants nodded and disappeared into the streets.

"They'll never expect what's coming," Valiant said, turning back to Adom.

"They probably think you got lucky or Hargast was having an off night. The Undertow runs on reputation, and right now, you don't have one."

"And after tonight?" Valiant grinned.

"After tonight, that will change dramatically." They left the fighting pit with Valiant leading the way. The mouse beastkin practically bounced with each step.

"One down, two to go!" he declared as they emerged into the night air.

"Next stop, the Nightshades!" Adom adjusted his mask, ensuring it was still secure.

"Are you sure you want to continue tonight? Your people might need time to reorganize."

"Are you kidding?" Valiant spun to face him, eyes bright with excitement.

"Strike while the iron's hot! Word will spread through the Undertow like wildfire. If we wait, the other gangs will have time to prepare." He rubbed his paws together gleefully.

"Besides, I want to see the look on Selina's face when her precious panther champion gets tossed around like a ball of yarn!" Zuni chirped from Adom's shoulder, seemingly sharing in Valiant's enthusiasm.

"Fine," Adom sighed.

"Lead the way."

One hour later... The abandoned Silk Market was a maze of half-collapsed wooden stalls and tattered banners, illuminated by scattered torches that cast twisting shadows across the cobblestones. Unlike the fighting pit, this challenge would take place in the open air, with spectators perched on rooftops and balconies surrounding the central market square. As they approached, Valiant's excited chatter died away. He suddenly looked nervous.

"Selina fights differently than Greeve," he whispered.

"The Nightshades aren't just thugs—they're assassins, information brokers, blackmailers. They don't believe in fair fights."

"You're telling me this now?" Adom asked, adjusting his mask.

"Just be careful. Dasha—their champion—she's fast. Really fast." The crowd parted as they entered the square, whispers spreading like wildfire. News of Hargast's defeat had clearly preceded them. That was fast. In the center stood a slender panther beastkin, her black fur gleaming in the torchlight. Unlike Hargast's brutish presence, Dasha exuded lethal elegance.

She wore minimal leather armor that left her limbs free to move, and her claws—both natural and the metal extensions fitted over her fingers—glinted wickedly. Beside her stood a woman Adom presumed was Selina—tall, pale, with hair so blonde it appeared white in the flickering light. Her eyes narrowed as she spotted them.

"So," she called across the square, "the mouse comes to challenge with his mysterious champion." Her voice carried a slight accent Adom couldn't place.

"We heard what happened at the pit. Impressive... if true." Valiant stepped forward, somehow managing to look commanding despite his size.

"Selina of the Nightshades, I invoke the Right of Contest for the return of my merchants' quarter network and all associated assets." Selina's lips curved into a cold smile.

"And if we refuse?"

"Then word spreads that the Nightshades fear a fight they cannot win," Valiant replied.

"How long before your own people start questioning your leadership?" The crowd muttered. Selina's smile faltered slightly.

"Very well," she said finally.

"Dasha will fight your champion. The usual rules—no magic, no Fluid." She looked directly at Adom.

"And no tricks." Dasha stretched languidly, rolling her shoulders.

"This won't take long," she purred, her tail swishing behind her. Adom stepped forward, studying his opponent. Where Hargast had been all brute force, Dasha was clearly built for speed and precision. Her muscles rippled beneath her fur, coiled and ready.

"Begin!" Selina shouted, stepping back. [Flow Prediction] Unlike Hargast, Dasha didn't rush in. She circled, analyzing, tail flicking methodically. Adom mirrored her movements, keeping his distance. The crowd grew restless, muttering at the lack of immediate action. Dasha lunged suddenly. She was like a blur. Black and silver. Adom sidestepped, but she anticipated this, changing direction mid-air with feline agility. Her claws raked across his shoulder—not deep, but enough to draw blood.

"First blood," she hissed, eyes gleaming. Adom touched his shoulder, feeling the wetness. The cut stung, but wasn't serious. He'd been too slow—or rather, she'd been faster than expected. [+3 White Wyrm's Body] [+2 Healing Factor] Hey, at least I got something out of it.

"You're not going to knock me out with one punch," Dasha taunted, resuming her circling.

"I'm not some lumbering ogre." She was right. This fight required different tactics. Adom adjusted his stance, centering his weight more, preparing for rapid movement. Dasha attacked again, this time feinting left before diving right. Adom read the movement but still barely avoided her main attack, catching another shallow cut across his forearm. The panther beastkin laughed, a throaty sound.

"Too slow, masked man." Adom remained silent, calculating. He needed to anticipate better, commit to his movements more fully. With [Flow Prediction] active, he could see her intentions forming before she moved, but her natural speed made capitalizing on that knowledge difficult. The next time she attacked, he was ready. Instead of dodging, he stepped into her path, forcing her to adjust. As she twisted, he struck—not with full strength, but with precision—catching her side with a short, sharp blow.

Dasha grunted, eyes widening in surprise as she skidded sideways. The crowd gasped. She touched her ribs, wincing.

"Lucky hit," she snarled, but her confidence had clearly faltered. Now Adom advanced, no longer waiting for her attacks. He moved deliberately, controlling the space between them. When Dasha darted in, he was there to meet her, blocking her path and forcing her to retreat or risk another precise strike. Frustration showed in her movements—more aggression, less calculation. Exactly what Adom wanted.

"Stand still!" she hissed, launching a flurry of attacks that Adom neutralized with controlled movements, each time positioning himself to limit her options. When she overextended on a desperate lunge, Adom saw his opportunity. He sidestepped her claws, grabbed her extended arm, and used her own momentum to slam her into the ground. The impact knocked the wind from her lungs.

Before she could recover, Adom pinned her, applying carefully modulated pressure to her shoulder—enough to immobilize without causing permanent damage.

"Yield," he said quietly. Dasha struggled, then went limp as Adom increased the pressure slightly.

"I... yield," she gasped. The crowd erupted into a mixture of cheers and disbelieving shouts. Selina stood frozen, her composed facade cracking. Adom released Dasha and stepped back, offering a hand to help her up. She ignored it, rising with a wince.

"Who are you?" she asked, rubbing her shoulder.

"Just someone who knows how to read his opponents," Adom replied. Valiant was practically dancing with excitement, hopping from one foot to another. Zuni chirped happily beside him.

"By the Right of Contest, the merchants' quarter network and all associated assets now belong to the Whisperers," Selina declared formally, though her voice was tight with suppressed anger.

"Two down!" Valiant crowed, hurrying to Adom's side.

"You're amazing! But are you okay? Those cuts—""They're nothing," Adom said, wiping blood from his shoulder.

"Let's move on." As the crowd dispersed and Selina's people reluctantly gathered to acknowledge their new leadership, Valiant grabbed Zuni and hugged the quillick tightly.

"We're going to rule the Undertow by morning!"

Two hours later... The slaughterhouse district carried its name honestly. The stench of old blood and decay hung in the air, turning stronger as they approached the Red Hooks' territory. Their headquarters was a three-story abattoir, its stone walls stained dark with years of butchery. By now, a substantial crowd followed them—Valiant's reclaimed informants, curious onlookers, and those eager to witness the masked champion's third challenge.

The story of his victories had spread like wildfire through the Undertow, growing with each telling.

"The Red Hooks are the worst," Valiant warned, his earlier exuberance tempered by obvious anxiety.

"Their leader, Rukkus, he's... not right in the head. And the Butcher—" He swallowed.

"They call him that for a reason." As they approached the abattoir, figures emerged from the shadows—men and women with red hooks tattooed on their forearms or necks, all armed, all watching with predatory focus. The massive doors of the abattoir swung open. A mountain of a man stepped out—easily seven feet tall, with shoulders like a bull and arms corded with muscle. His face was a nightmare of scar tissue, one eye milky white, the other glittering with malice.

In his hand, he carried a massive cleaver crusted with what looked like dried blood.

"The Butcher," someone whispered behind them. Behind him came a smaller figure—a wiry man with a shock of red hair and a necklace made of what appeared to be human teeth. Ugh. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Valiant Maus," the man said, his voice surprisingly soft.

"Come to lose everything, have you?"

"Rukkus," Valiant replied, standing straighter.

"I invoke the Right of Contest for the return of my eastern district network." Rukkus ran a finger along his necklace, toying with one of the teeth.

"I've heard strange tales tonight. Your masked friend beat Hargast with one punch. He outmaneuvered Dasha like she was a kitten." His eyes fixed on Adom.

"But the Butcher isn't like them. The Butcher enjoys pain." The massive man grinned, revealing blackened teeth. He dragged his cleaver across the ground, creating a sound like a dying animal.

"No magic, no Fluid," Rukkus continued, circling them.

"Just flesh against flesh. Blood against blood." He stopped, his smile widening.

"Fight till submission... or death." Adom studied the Butcher carefully. Unlike his previous opponents, there was no calculation in those eyes—only hunger. This wasn't just a fighter; this was a sadist who lived for combat. The fight area had been prepared in advance—a crude ring marked with splashes of red paint that Adom suspected wasn't paint at all. What the hell is wrong with these people? The crowd pressed back against surrounding buildings, leaving the center clear.

"Begin whenever you're ready," Rukkus said, stepping back with a theatrical bow. The Butcher didn't wait. He charged with surprising speed, cleaver raised high. [Flow Prediction]"Whoa!" Adom dodged the initial swing, feeling the air displacement as the massive blade whistled past his head. The Butcher's momentum carried him forward, but unlike Hargast, he recovered quickly, pivoting with unexpected agility for his size. The second attack came low, forcing Adom to leap backward.

The Butcher pressed forward relentlessly, each swing of his cleaver driving Adom further back. This wasn't working. Unlike Dasha, who could be countered with positioning, or Hargast, who overcommitted to his attacks, the Butcher combined raw power with controlled aggression. He didn't expose weaknesses; he created openings through sheer pressure. Time to change strategies. When the next attack came, instead of retreating, Adom stepped into the Butcher's space. The move surprised his opponent, disrupting his rhythm.

Adom struck hard at the Butcher's cleaver arm, aiming for the nerve cluster near the elbow. The Butcher grunted, his grip on the weapon loosening momentarily—but not enough to drop it. He slammed his free fist into Adom's chest, sending him staggering back.

"You hit hard, little man," the Butcher growled, voice like gravel.

"But not hard enough." Adom steadied himself, re-evaluating. The Butcher was stronger than he'd anticipated, and far more resistant to pain. Direct attacks wouldn't work; he needed to be smarter. He circled warily, watching the Butcher's movements. The man relied heavily on his right side, favoring his cleaver arm. There was a slight hitch in his left knee—an old injury, perhaps. The Butcher attacked again, a diagonal slash that would have bisected Adom if it had connected.

Adom ducked under it and drove his fist into the Butcher's left knee with carefully controlled force—enough to cause pain without shattering the joint. Getting the hang of it. He thought. This series of brawls had become an opportunity for him to learn how to control his skill. And it was working. The Butcher roared, leg buckling slightly. Adom followed through immediately, hammering two rapid strikes to the man's ribs before dancing away from the retaliatory swing.

"I'll skin you alive!" the Butcher snarled, fury replacing his earlier confidence. The fight intensified. The Butcher abandoned technique for rage-fueled power, each attack wilder than the last. Adom remained disciplined, targeting weak points systematically—the injured knee, the overextended elbow, the unprotected ribs. Blood streaked the Butcher's face from a cut over his eye. One arm hung slightly lower than the other, the accumulation of Adom's precise strikes taking their toll.

But still, he kept coming, driven by something beyond pain or reason. The crowd had fallen silent, watching in awed disbelief as the masked challenger systematically dismantled the Butcher. When the Butcher lunged forward in a desperate attack, Adom was ready. He stepped aside, caught the cleaver arm at the wrist, and applied a joint lock. It wasn't much. He just stopped using [Flow Prediction] for less than a second and...

"AAAARGH!" The sickening crack of breaking bone echoed through the slaughterhouse district. The cleaver clattered to the ground. The Butcher dropped to one knee, his right arm hanging uselessly.

"Yield," Adom said firmly, standing over him. The Butcher looked up, his one good eye burning with hatred.

"Never," he spat, then lunged for Adom's legs. Adom sidestepped the clumsy attack and delivered a final, precise strike to the base of the Butcher's skull—just enough to render him unconscious without causing permanent damage. The Butcher collapsed face-first onto the bloody ground. Silence stretched for several heartbeats before Rukkus began to slow-clap.

"Well played, masked man," he said softly.

"Well played indeed." I do not like this guy. Thought Adom. Valiant stood speechless, actual tears welling in his eyes. Behind him, his reclaimed informants stared in disbelief. Zuni chirped excitedly, bouncing on his haunches.

"By the Right of Contest," Rukkus declared, his voice carrying across the silent crowd, "the eastern district network and all associated assets now belong to the Whisperers." Valiant finally broke his stunned silence, rushing forward with Zuni in his arms. The mouse beastkin was openly weeping.

"You did it," he choked out.

"You actually did it! All three! In one night!" Tears streamed down his furry face.

"I can't believe... I never thought..." Unable to complete his sentence, Valiant simply hugged Adom's legs, Zuni sandwiched between them chirping happily.

"Thank you," Valiant whispered.

"Thank you."