The line stretched down the narrow street, a snake of gaunt faces and hollow stares. Smoke clung to the crowd, choking every breath. It mixed with the stink of sweat and rot—the unmistakable smell of Varcath's gutters. Men and women huddled close against the chill, their breath ghosting in front of them, paper forms clutched in shivering hands. The only sound was the shuffle of boots on soot-streaked cobblestones and the occasional murmur of curses.
Rael Valen pulled his scarf higher over his mouth and nose, though it didn't do much. Smoke worked its way into everything here—clothes, lungs, bones. He stared at the back of the man in front of him, a hunched figure coughing deep, hacking gasps into the air. Each cough made Rael's shoulders tense. No one moved to help. No one even looked.
Above them, Bloodsport posters loomed, pasted haphazardly to the soot-blackened brick walls. They screamed out names in bold, red ink: "The Iron Widow—Champion of Silver Rank!" "Redstone Returns for Revenge!" Smiling faces stared down, their eyes too bright, their bodies too polished. Heroes carved from the dirt and turned to gold—false idols for the masses.
Rael didn't look at the posters. He'd seen too many of them already.
Instead, he gripped the registration paper in his pocket, crumpling the thin sheet between his fingers. It was flimsy, the kind of greasy paper that soaked through at the touch, stained by the ink of a cheap pen. One signature. That was all it took to throw yourself into the gears of Bloodsport and hope they didn't crush you.
"Hope you brought a coffin," someone muttered.
Rael turned his head just enough to see the speaker. A young man grinned at him from a few spots back in the line. His face was pale, cheeks sunken, and his teeth were yellowed from whatever scraps passed for food these days. But his eyes glimmered with that same bitter humor Rael had seen before—the kind that found comfort in dragging others down.
"I don't need a coffin," Rael said quietly.
He turned away before the man could respond. It wasn't worth the effort.
The line shuffled forward, closer to the building. The Bloodsport office squatted against the end of the street like a rusted old machine that had seen too many years of neglect. Its iron doors were streaked with peeling red paint—once meant to mimic blood, now just rust. A cracked metal sign creaked on its hinges above the entrance: BLOODSPORT OFFICE—DISTRICT 14. REGISTER HERE.
Rael stared at it, jaw tight.
"This is for Eren," he thought. "For my brother."
The memory of last night dug its claws into him: Eren's thin body curled beneath a tattered blanket, his chest heaving with each rattling breath. The boy's face was pale, too pale, his lips dry and cracked. Rael had stayed awake for hours listening to that cough—sharp, wet sounds that never seemed to stop.
Doctors cost money. So did food, and rent, and debts. Money is what Rael didn't have. Not anymore. He'd carried crates at the docks until his back screamed, broken fingers mending wrong after every accident. He'd worked the furnaces in the metal yards, breathing soot and smoke for pennies until they laid him off. And now, the debt collectors knocked harder every day, their voices louder, their threats sharper.
Bloodsport was the only way out. It was the same for everyone here.
The door banged open with a crash, and a man stumbled out, clutching his stomach. Blood seeped between his fingers, his coat stained dark and wet. His eyes were wide, empty with shock as he staggered past the line. No one moved. No one spoke.
Rael stepped forward as the door swung shut again.
The air inside was worse. It hit him like a wall—thick, greasy with sweat and oil. The Bloodsport office was lit by flickering lamps bolted to the walls, their yellow light too dim to banish the gloom. A long iron desk stretched across the room, manned by three clerks who looked as though they'd grown from the building itself—gray-skinned, sunken-eyed, faces blank as machine parts.
Rael walked up to the counter and slid his paper forward. The clerk in front of him didn't look up, snatching the sheet with stained fingers. He flicked his gaze across the inked signature.
"Name?" the clerk rasped, voice as dry as rust.
"Rael Valen."
"Age?"
"Twenty."
"Occupation?"
Rael hesitated. He could feel the weight of the clerk's eyes, though the man didn't raise his head. Finally, he said, "None."
The word hit him like a slap. For a moment, the silence seemed heavier, pressing down on Rael's shoulders, squeezing the air from his chest.
The clerk reached under the counter, the whir of gears sputtering from some machine Rael couldn't see. A moment later, a brass token hit the desk with a dull thud.
"This is your entry," the clerk said. "Rank Zero. Match date notification will arrive soon to your address."
Rael picked up the token. It was cold, heavier than it looked. Gears were etched along its edges, circling the stamped number 0. The mark of a nobody.
The clerk didn't look at him again. "Next."
Rael turned away, shoving the token into his coat pocket. It rattled faintly as he walked toward the door, shoulders brushing against others in line.
The air outside felt no cleaner, no lighter. Rael pushed his way past the waiting crowd, their whispers following him down the street. He tried not to hear them. Tried not to feel their stares on his back.
The brass token weighed against his thigh like a brand.
He looked up once as he walked. The sky over Varcath was a heavy sheet of smoke, clouds thick and gray, turning the sun to a pale, lifeless coin. Somewhere, across the city's sprawling districts, the arenas were open. Rael could almost hear it—the cheering crowds, the screams of participants, the echo of gunfire or blades crashing against iron.
Bloodsport.
Rael didn't know how many lives it had claimed or how many fortunes it had made. It was all anyone talked about. Bloodsport champions stared out from the front pages of newspapers, their names whispered in every bar and factory yard. Some said the system gave men a chance to rise. Others said it turned them into beasts.
Rael didn't care.
He needed the money. He needed to survive. That was all.
His boots clacked against the cobblestones as he made his way back toward their rented room. The streets were busier here, thick with carts and workers on their way to the factories. The air smelled like burning coal, and the gears of Varcath's machines clanged somewhere in the distance.
By the time he reached the building, his shoulders ached, and his breath came shallow. It was a tenement block—walls cracked and damp, windows smeared with grime. Rael climbed the narrow stairs to the third floor, every step creaking beneath him.
Their door stuck before it opened, hinges groaning.
Inside, the room was dark and cold, lit only by a thin sliver of gray light from the window. The mattress in the corner shifted, and Eren's voice croaked, "Rael?"
Rael shut the door and pulled off his coat, tossing it onto the rickety chair. "It's me."
Eren coughed—a deep, rattling sound—and pushed himself up. He was too thin, his cheeks hollow, skin pale against the mess of dark hair falling over his forehead. His eyes—blue, sharp as glass—fixed on Rael. "Where'd you go?"
Rael hesitated. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his voice steady. "I went to register."
Eren's face fell. "For Bloodsport?"
Rael turned to the small table against the wall. There wasn't much—just an empty tin cup and a few crusts of stale bread. "We need the money."
Eren's silence stretched out like a wound. Finally, he whispered, "You could die."
Rael's jaw tightened, but he didn't look at him. "I won't."
He picked up the tin cup, turning it in his hands. The brass token in his pocket felt heavier than ever, its edges pressing against his thigh. Outside, the faint sounds of Varcath drifted through the window—the distant hiss of steam, the hum of machines, the cries of vendors selling scraps to men who couldn't afford them.
Rael closed his eyes.
It didn't matter.
He had no other choice.