Warren stroked his chin as he gazed at the dazzling array of weapons before him. Rows of swords, axes, spears, and other fantastical arms reflected the dim light of the shop, their polished surfaces gleaming.

  Growing up in the 21st century, weapons had never been a necessity for him—at least, not beyond what was legal for self-defense. Guns, maybe, but nothing like these. These looked like they belonged in a fantasy novel, wielded by warriors with years of battle experience.

  That was the problem.

  Warren had zero experience with anything remotely close to this. Picking a weapon without knowing its strengths, weaknesses, or how to wield it properly would be like choosing a car without knowing how to drive. It would only slow him down—or worse, get him killed.

  Still, if he had to choose something, he needed a starting point.

  His gaze eventually landed on a long pole weapon with a curved blade at the end. It looked like a spear—at least, that’s what he assumed.

  Pointing at it, he asked, “What about this? Would you say this would be good for someone with no background knowledge?”

  The weaponsmith followed his gesture and chuckled. “Ah, the glaive. What an interesting choice—and certainly my favorite.”

  “Glaive?” Warren raised a brow. “That’s a spear, no?”

  “No, it’s a glaive.” The man gestured toward the weapon, tapping its long pole and then motioning to the broad, single-edged blade at the top. “The main difference is its intended use. A spear is designed for thrusting, keeping enemies at bay with quick, precise jabs.” He then pointed to another weapon—similar in build, but this time with a pointed tip rather than an edged blade. “Meanwhile, a glaive is meant for slashing, delivering powerful sweeping attacks.”

  Warren frowned slightly. “So, would either of them be a good pick for someone like me?”

  The weaponsmith let out a short laugh. “No. Neither would be good for someone of your skillset.”

  “This is seriously getting annoying… I need to catch up with Ronan soon, anyway. I don’t trust him by himself.”

  Warren let out a quiet sigh, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. Spending this much time just picking out a weapon felt like a waste. He wasn’t looking for something flashy—just something that worked.

  That’s when an idea struck him. The weapon that Silas had been using for a while.

  The guy had zero physical strength and wasn’t exactly combat-ready when they first met. Hell, even now, Warren was pretty sure he’d snap like a twig in a direct fight. But despite that, Silas had managed to get comfortable using a dagger.

  If he could do it, then Warren sure as hell could too.

  “If a dagger is really that easy for Silas to pick up… I’m sure it’ll be the same for me,” Warren muttered under his breath.

  Hearing this, the weaponsmith smirked, as if he had been expecting this realization all along. Without hesitation, he reached behind the counter, retrieving a polished steel dagger with a black handle. The blade gleamed under the dim lighting of the shop, sharp and clean.

  “Dagger. What an excellent choice,” the man said, presenting the weapon. “A small but fierce companion—built for quickness, precision, and close-quarters combat. Unlike a sword, it’s easier to conceal and even easier to release when the moment calls for it. I’d say it’s a good fit for someone of your skillset.”

  He chuckled, leaning against the counter before adding, “But you know… most people don’t go for daggers. Too obsessed with the idea that ‘swords are cooler.’” He scoffed. “And you know what happened to most of those idiots? They aren’t here anymore.”

  Warren snorted at that, watching as the man rubbed his chin in thought before suddenly grinning.

  “How about this?” The weaponsmith gestured toward Warren’s neck. “For this dagger, I only want your scarf. My daughter’s been getting sick lately, and I want to keep her warm.”

  Warren blinked, caught off guard. His scarf? That’s it?

  His eyes softened slightly as he quickly yanked it off, folding it neatly before placing it on the stand. It was worn out and a little tattered, but if it could help keep some kid warm, he wasn’t about to complain.

  With a pleased nod, the man handed over the dagger, and Warren took it carefully, admiring the craftsmanship. It was solid—just the right weight in his hand. He wasn’t exactly a weapons guy, but if he could afford this as a hobby, he might’ve actually kept up with it.

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  “Thanks, sir! I’ll take good care of it,” Warren said with a satisfied grin.

  The weaponsmith waved him off with a chuckle, and with that, Warren turned on his heel, slipping into the bustling crowd.

  .

  ..

  …

  Ronan sat across from the man who had introduced himself as Radimir. The table between them was sturdy, the kind built to endure countless matches of brute strength. The competitor before Ronan had left his seat with his arm trembling, rubbing at his wrist with a look of sheer exhaustion. The crowd murmured in approval, some chuckling at the poor guy’s loss.

  Ronan exhaled through his nose.

  “So that’s it? Just an arm wrestling competition?”

  His gaze drifted to the stacked boxes sitting beside the table—prizes, no doubt. From his position, he couldn’t see what was inside them, but that only made him more curious.

  “Seems like this guy’s beaten everyone so far… soooooo if I somehow beat him, I could win whatever’s in those boxes.”

  He liked the sound of that.

  Only one problem.

  He glanced down at his arms, frowning.

  “I don’t have a pound of muscle on me. In fact, I’m pretty damn skinny.”

  Radimir, on the other hand, looked like he could snap a person in half if he really wanted to.

  Before Ronan could second-guess himself, the showman clapped his hands together, drawing the attention of the crowd.

  “Now! Are you gentlemen ready? It’s the final showdown between Ronan Reed and Radimir Vostok!”

  The audience cheered as both competitors clasped hands.

  Immediately, Ronan flinched.

  Radimir’s grip was strong. His palm was calloused, his fingers pressing firmly against Ronan’s skin. There was an ease in his hold, as if he wasn’t even trying yet.

  “Okay… definitely strong. No surprise there.”

  The match began.

  For the first few seconds, Ronan felt resistance—but strangely, Radimir was losing.

  His arm trembled slightly, his hand shifting downward toward the table.

  “No way.”

  Even with the obvious strength difference, Radimir wasn’t pushing back. If anything, it almost seemed like he was holding back.

  “I’ll probably feel like an asshole for using such a cheap method, but… I have no choice.”

  Ronan activated Endless Legion—his Soul Fragment ability.

  His strength amplified sixfold.

  He felt it immediately—the surge of power, the weight in his muscles increasing. His grip tightened, and the tide of the match shifted.

  “No way I’m losing. Not to this guy.”

  And then—

  Clap.

  The sound of Ronan’s arm slamming against the table echoed through the space.

  For a moment, everything blurred. His mind went blank.

  He had lost.

  Not just lost.

  It happened so fast.

  His arm—it was like it had teleported into a losing position.

  His breath hitched.

  The crowd erupted into cheers.

  Radimir exhaled softly, standing from his seat with an easy smile. There was no trace of exertion, no sign that he had even tried. He bowed slightly, chuckling as he addressed the audience.

  “Thank you, thank you… Don’t praise me so much. This gentleman was quite the opponent.”

  Ronan didn’t move.

  His pulse pounded in his ears.

  His ability had been active. Sixfold amplification. And yet, Radimir had wiped him out instantly.

  This wasn’t normal.

  Then, before he could react, Radimir reached down, gripping his arm and pulling him upright.

  The gesture was friendly—almost too friendly—but then Radimir slung an arm over his shoulders, leaning in close.

  His breath was warm against Ronan’s ear as he spoke in a hushed whisper.

  “Using your Fragment ability? I mean, I don’t really blame ya.”

  Ronan’s stomach dropped.

  “Ya would’ve lost either way.”

  His entire body stiffened.

  He knows.

  Radimir knows.

  That wasn’t possible. No one should be able to see Endless Legion. His ability didn’t leave visible traces. It wasn’t something physical—it worked conceptually, a manipulation of strength through unseen forces.

  And yet, Radimir had not only sensed it but had also acknowledged it outright.

  Ronan forced himself to stay still, to keep his breathing even, but his thoughts were racing.

  Radimir patted his shoulder lightly before pulling away, his expression as composed as ever. The smile remained.

  .

  ..

  …

  Ronan and Warren sat on the rough, uneven ground, the lingering tension from the earlier match hanging over them like a storm cloud.

  For once, Warren wasn’t cracking jokes or making snide remarks. Instead, he was watching Ronan carefully, his brows furrowed in concern.

  “Hey,” Warren finally broke the silence, his voice quieter than usual. “Are you okay? I’ve seriously never seen you this… serious.” He tilted his head, still searching Ronan’s face for any sign of his usual sarcasm. “Was losing that humiliating?”

  Ronan didn’t immediately respond. His arms rested on his knees, fingers idly picking at the fabric of his pants as he watched the people passing by, their laughter and chatter feeling strangely distant.

  Warren waited, expecting some sort of snarky retort—something to reassure him that Ronan was fine, that he wasn’t actually shaken. But when Ronan finally spoke, his voice carried an unusual weight.

  “I-I’m fine,” he muttered, forcing himself to sit up. He stretched his arms over his head, rolling his shoulders before rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t stress about me, ‘kay?”

  That was the Ronan Warren knew—always brushing things off like they didn’t bother him. But something about the way he said it felt off.

  Then, after a moment, Ronan exhaled, shaking his head. “It’s just… something in my gut tells me that guy—Radimir Vostok—he’s not gonna be the last person we meet like him.” His voice dropped slightly, almost as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I don’t know what it is, but I’ve got a bad feeling. Like I just stepped into something way bigger than I understand.”

  Warren crossed his arms, nodding slowly. “That guy did give me the creeps. You’re saying there are more people out there like him?”

  “I don’t know,” Ronan admitted, rubbing his temple. “But if there are, we need to proceed with caution. I seriously don’t wanna make any mistakes while we’re here.”

  There was something about the way he said it that made Warren pause.

  Ronan wasn’t just talking about avoiding trouble. He was talking about regret.

  Warren scratched the back of his head before letting out a sigh. “Alright,” he said, standing up and brushing off his pants. “If your gut’s telling you something’s off, I believe you. Let’s not do anything dumb or make ourselves into targets, yeah?”

  With that, the two of them dusted themselves off and continued their walk, but the tension never fully left Ronan’s shoulders.

  And deep down, Warren couldn’t shake the feeling that Ronan was right.