The vast warehouse space was quiet. The slanting evening light, filtering through the high, grimy windows, cut angles across the worn concrete floor. Veronica’s final words, announcing the Trial by Combat, were powerful. Fiona, the prosecutor, gave a crisp, professional nod. Without a word, she turned and moved towards a section partially concealed by one of the heavy velvet drapes near a support column.

  Olt stood near the center table. The weight of the Pacifier sheaf was heavy across his back. He watched Fiona retreat, then glanced towards Ganjo and Rebecca. Their faces were stunned with disbelief. He took a slow, deliberate breath and moved slightly away from the table. Finding a relatively clear patch of concrete amidst the scattered debris , he carefully unslung the sheaf and drew the Pacifier. The machete felt heavy and solid in his grip. The dark, etched blade absorbed the light. He knelt, placing the weapon respectfully near the edge of the designated combat area marked out on the floor.

  Straightening up, Olt began to stretch. He rolled his shoulders. The movement was stiff, pulling at the lingering soreness in his ribs. He flexed his legs, trying to work out the tension that had twisted deep within him since the previous night’s attack. With each deep breath, he consciously attempted to center himself.

  Ganjo and Rebecca broke from their stupor simultaneously, moving quickly towards Olt. Worry and frustration were evident on their faces. Mariah followed a step behind them, hovering nearby. Her dark eyes were fixed on Olt with an unnerving blend of scientific curiosity and genuine concern.

  "Olt, what are you doing?" Rebecca said urgently with disbelief. "Are you serious? You don't have to do this."

  "I know Mariah healed you, but you're most likely still banged up," Ganjo added with raw concern. "And Fiona's a pro. You can just tell by her demeanor. You got no experience against someone like that."

  Olt continued stretching, rotating his neck slowly. He didn’t look directly at them. He was focused somewhere on the far brick wall.

  "I know, but I accepted. I have to do this."

  I made my choice.

  Rebecca stepped closer, trying to catch his eye.

  "But why? What changed your mind?” Her eyes suddenly widened. “Did… did you actually take the potion? Is that why you accepted?"

  Olt paused his stretching. He finally turned, meeting their worried eyes. He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then nodded.

  "Yeah. I did. Yesterday, thanks to Mariah."

  And it was… a lot.

  "Mariah!" Rebecca snapped, whirling around to face her. "You helped him take the potion? Yesterday? And you didn't think to mention this to us?"

  "He asked me to," Mariah said defensively, flushing slightly under their combined glare. "He was determined, and after what happened… I thought…"

  "You thought?" Ganjo cut her off. "Damn it, Mariah! We needed to know!"

  Ganjo ran a hand over his face, then sighed heavily. He turned his attention back to Olt, though his annoyance with Mariah lingered.

  "Ah, damn it. Just like I thought."

  He glanced towards Veronica, who was watching their exchange with detached amusement from across the space. Then he returned his attention back at Olt.

  "Okay, look. Veronica's not stupid. She's testing us. All of us. And she's probably judging us on our weakest link."

  Ganjo saw Olt’s expression flicker and quickly clarified.

  "I’m not trying to offend you. Just being real. You're the one with the least experience here. You’re a teacher. Fighting was a hobby for you. You're the biggest risk."

  Olt nodded slowly, accepting the blunt assessment without offense. It was the truth.

  "I get it. It makes sense. I am the biggest risk. If she's going to invest in us, she needs to know if I can handle it."

  Ganjo shifted his stance, moving closer.

  "Alright, listen up. Fiona is most likely gonna want to overwhelm you by being fast. She’ll use her Aether for speed and precision strikes. You gotta stay grounded. Use your weight, your base. You’re stocky, use it to your advantage. Don't try to match her speed, you can't. Look for openings – right when her Aether flares, or just after she commits to a big move. That's when they're sometimes vulnerable for a split second. Use your blocks, absorb what you can, protect your head and core."

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  Ganjo paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.

  "And if… whatever happened last night… when your Aether kicks in, use it, but don't rely on it. Since you don’t have any real training with it, it can be unpredictable."

  "Focus, Olt," Rebecca added with controlled intensity. "Use your head. You're smart. Don't just react to her attacks. Look for patterns, anticipate her movements. Think two steps ahead."

  Olt nodded again, absorbing their advice. The frantic energy inside him started to coalesce into a tense focus.

  "Okay, got it."

  Olt took another deep breath, pushing the lingering fear and the memories of the Aether trip aside.

  Across the warehouse floor, Carl Winger watched them. A smugly relieved expression settled on his face now that the financial penalty was decided and the physical confrontation wasn't his problem. There was still a chance he would not have to pay the amount they wanted. Olt was just a rookie. But of course, since none of this was legitimate, Carl didn’t hold his breath.

  Lyona looked on with quiet worry.

  The thirty minutes bled away. The low murmur of conversation ceased. From behind the velvet drape, Fiona emerged. She had shed her advocate's attire and now wore practical, dark combat gear. She wore fitted pants, sturdy boots, and a sleeveless top that showed toned, muscular arms. Her hair was pulled back even tighter. Her expression focused and businesslike. She moved towards the designated combat area with the confident stride of a seasoned fighter, ready for the sentencing trial to begin.

  Fiona walked with purpose towards the center of the warehouse floor. The designated arena space, a large rectangle marked out in faded yellow paint on the worn concrete, lay waiting under the slanting evening light. Grimy skylights set amidst the exposed steel beams and ductwork of the ceiling. The vast brick walls, showing patches of decay and water stains, absorbed the low ambient light from the scattered lanterns. Along the base of the walls, there was makeshift padding. They appeared to be old tarps draped over low barriers. It was clear that they offered minimal protection, looking more like part of the general disarray than a safety feature. Scraps of paper, bits of unidentifiable debris, and what looked like discarded sacks littered the blue-grey concrete surrounding the yellow fighting area. It was a mess and clearly set up in a hurry.

  Olt, having finished his brief conversation and rudimentary stretching, stood taller now - although still shorter than Fiona. Many people stood over him. He wasn’t a dwarf, but he wasn’t tall either. And in the world of professional fighters, many stood ‘tall’. He would need to get used to it. The initial shock of the challenge seemed to have settled into a quiet determination. Clad in the traditional Advocate gear, he looked strangely formal amidst the industrial decay. He walked towards the edge of the yellow rectangle, leaving the Pacifier machete resting near the boundary line. He met Fiona near the center circle painted on the mat.

  The eyes of everyone were present. Veronica was watchful and calculating. Ganjo and Rebecca were tense with worry. Mariah leaned forward with intrigue. Lyona was anxious, and even Carl Winger looked on with a morbid curiosity. They were all fixed on the two figures in the arena.

  Fiona offered Olt a brief, almost imperceptible nod. It was a professional acknowledgment, usually given before combat. Olt returned it stiffly.

  Veronica, observing from the side, gave a subtle nod. It was the only signal needed.

  The fight began not with a clash, but with caution. Olt and Fiona started circling each other within the confines of the yellow mat. Olt adopted a basic defensive stance, remembering Jeffrey’s advice – stay grounded, use his base. His movements were deliberate, perhaps a little stiff from his recent injuries, but focused. He kept his hands up, watching Fiona intently.

  Fiona was a study of fluid motion. She was lighter on her feet, circling more quickly. Her posture was relaxed but ready. She tested Olt’s defenses immediately, feinting with a quick jab towards his head, then shifting low with a probing kick aimed at his lead leg. Olt reacted, blocking the jab clumsily but managing to pull his leg back just in time to avoid the kick.

  Fiona flowed back, circling again, her eyes assessing his reactions, and his balance. She threw another quick combination of a left jab, followed by a straight right aimed at his chest. Olt brought his forearms up, absorbing the blows. They weren't powerful strikes, more like range-finders, but he felt the solid thud against his guard.

  Okay… that one took 5 RP… I have 95 left. Not bad.

  The thought surfaced, startlingly clear amidst the physical sensations. It wasn't just the sting of impact he felt; it was a distinct internal knowing. It was a quantifiable measure of his own resilience ticking down. It was so different from the overwhelming, raw pain and helplessness he’d felt against the red-haired woman. This was immediate data, translating his vulnerability into something he could track, something he could potentially manage.

  Fiona continued her probing attacks. A swift side-kick glanced off Olt’s blocking arm. A quick flurry of light punches tested his guard. Olt focused on his defense, parrying, blocking, shifting his weight, trying to anticipate her next move as Rebecca had advised. He didn't try to match Fiona’s speed. He knew he couldn't. He waited, watching her movements, looking for the patterns, for the slight telegraphing of an attack. He was looking for the briefest opening Ganjo had mentioned. The tension built with each circling step, each blocked strike, each silent assessment across the dusty yellow mat.

  Fiona, seeing Olt holding his ground with conventional blocks and parries, decided it was time to escalate. A subtle shift occurred in her posture. It was a gathering of internal energy. Then, it manifested. A steady, bright blue light pulsed to life beneath her skin, tracing the network of veins across her arms, neck, and torso. The glow wasn't flickering or unstable; it was a consistent, powerful radiance. The air around her seemed to shimmer almost imperceptibly. A low, resonant hum, felt more than heard, emanated from her. The lanterns hanging nearby seemed to dim slightly in comparison to her internal luminescence. The shadows around her deepened.