Jess pressed an ice pack against his broken nose, while nearby, Arthur—unconscious from blood loss—was being treated by a dark-skinned elf.
Night Hawk, unusually without a beer in hand, leaned against the wall with his arms spread wide, sitting across from Jess on a bench.
"You shouldn't have lost," Night Hawk exhaled sharply, his tone betraying irritation at Jess's apparent carelessness. Jess remained silent, gazing at Arthur and replaying the fight's final moments in his mind. He recalled how Arthur's sharp analytical ability had exploited Jess's impaired vision—his glasses had been lost, leaving him vulnerable to misjudging distances. Arthur's leg sweep had exploited a gap in Jess's defense, sending him crashing to the floor, followed by a calculated strike to his most vulnerable spot.
Arthur's decisive move of grabbing the knife poised to stab him reflected a fearlessness that seemed beyond his years. His potential and growth were apparent. So, this was why Night Hawk had arranged their fight? Jess glanced once more at Arthur, whose hand was now bandaged with a hemostatic herb, then stood and walked to the door.
"This time, I'll let it go. Next time, let me fight him again," Jess said firmly.
"If you can't control your psychotic bloodlust, there won't be a next time," Night Hawk retorted resolutely. Jess, unfazed, tossed the ice pack into the trash and donned his white coat. Ignoring the blood on his face, he left the gym.
Night Hawk's words meant little to him. The monotonous life of healing could only be broken by pain and death—his own or others'. But he knew he couldn't die yet; not enough people had fallen by his hand. With a sickly grin, Jess considered heading to the front lines. Orcs—he wondered how they'd feel under his blade. Whistling, he strolled back to his clinic down the desolate Etzikri Street, where no one dared approach him.
When Arthur woke, the pain in his hand dragged him back to consciousness. Grimacing, he noticed that the dark-skinned elf was gone, replaced by a sleepy Night Hawk on the opposite bench.
"You're up, huh? Oh, how's your hand? I used your winnings to get some premium stuff for it," Night Hawk quipped, gesturing toward Arthur's left hand. That was when Arthur noticed the itching, burning sensation in his palm.
"What is this...?" Arthur barely began to ask when Night Hawk grabbed his bandaged hand, swiftly tearing off the wrappings. Holding it up for Arthur to see, Night Hawk revealed the wound—stabbed through earlier—now being repaired by writhing black lines that filled the missing flesh.
"This stuff's pricey. I took all your winnings as payment for your little miracle cure. If you're wondering what it is, just call it a healing agent. Smuggled in from goblins. It's a banned substance, y'know," Night Hawk said with a smirk.
As he was about to leave the room, Night Hawk suddenly stopped. "Kid, you've got an interesting trait, y'know that?"
Arthur, still wincing from the discomfort of regenerating tissue, was in no mood to respond. Seeing Arthur's irritation, Night Hawk chuckled, but he carried on, determined to make his point.
"Don't know what you've been through, but you get stronger in adversity. Someone like you shouldn't have been able to take down that lunatic Jess. In our werewolf clan, we'd call that a battle constitution."
"I... can I curse at you, Mr. Night Hawk? Can't you see I'm in pain? Talk later, maybe?" Arthur retorted irritably.
At that moment, the door opened, and Cookie poked his head in, whispering something in Night Hawk's ear.
"Really? He's coming to see me? Must be some trouble if it's been over a decade," Night Hawk said, raising an eyebrow and stroking his sharp chin. "No wonder you don't know him. You were just a pup back then, though so was he." Laughing heartily, Night Hawk howled dramatically before leaving the room.
"Eleven years...?" Arthur's ears perked up. For others, it might have been a passing comment, but Old Ford had once told Arthur that it had been exactly eleven years since the downfall of the Hebrew family. Could it be a coincidence?
Before Arthur could dwell on it, the pain in his palm subsided, signaling the wound's complete healing. Now only an itch remained—no pain, no scar, no evidence of injury. Remarkable as the healing agent was, Arthur couldn't help but question why it was banned. Wouldn't it enable doctors to achieve so much more?
Stepping out of the lounge, Arthur found the atmosphere of the underground gym markedly different. Unlike the earlier match, the place was alive with cheers, and the fighters were battling with ferocity. This was the spirit of the underground arena.
Scanning the area, Arthur saw no sign of Night Hawk, likely preoccupied with "him." Deciding to head home, Arthur walked toward the iron gate leading to the basement entrance, but a familiar figure caught his eye.
It was a middle-aged scholar with a distinct air of intellect—Parish Arlington. He was standing at the training room entrance, conversing with Night Hawk. Strangely, no one else seemed to notice them, not even the usual drinkers who often chatted with Night Hawk. It was as though they were invisible in a psychological sense.
Arthur's conspicuous gaze caught Night Hawk's attention. At first startled, Night Hawk shared the anomaly with Parish, who turned his eyes toward Arthur. Their gazes locked, and both froze momentarily.
Arthur recognized him immediately—Parish Arlington, the water mage who had taken the dwarf Hobick four years ago. Parish, too, remembered Arthur from that fateful night when they'd briefly crossed paths under the Arbitrators' siege.
"Come over here," Night Hawk beckoned after concluding Arthur wasn't an enemy.
Arthur approached, but as he entered a certain range, he heard a soft plop. Suddenly, the cheers and roars of the crowd vanished.
"What is this?" Arthur asked, waving his hand as if feeling the air. Every touch sent ripples spreading outward.
"Not even a greeting? Cold as ever," Night Hawk muttered sarcastically.
Ignoring the remark, Parish extended a finger, touching the void. The ripples Arthur had caused expanded into a translucent hemisphere. Parish explained:
"I call this the Mirror World. A newly mastered ability—it's a water mage's technique."