I leave Oliver with Veric and Rhayne at the little outdoor table beside the convenience shop.

Oliver is recovering. The leaves and the regeneration potion are doing their work, his color climbing back, his breathing slowing. Veric leans against the wall on one side, pretending to clean dirt out from under his fingernails while watching everyone within thirty feet. Rhayne sits next to Oliver, gloved fingers still resting on his pulse without making a show of it.

Good. Whoever moves on us next will move through Veric first.

"I’ll be back in ten minutes," I tell them.

"Where are you going, Sands?" Veric asks without looking up.

"Picking my opponent. You’re in charge while I’m away."

His eyes flick to me. Then back to his fingernails.

"Try not to die before lunch."

"Try not to look noble while I’m gone."

I head back toward the central registration stand on the opposite side of the Oathring.

The bookmaker who registered Oliver, Veric and Rhayne is still working the same post. Same man—small, hunched, bone-pale beard. The lacquered boxes are stacked in a careful pyramid beside him, and the odds board is being reset by an apprentice with a damp cloth.

He sees me coming. His face does that particular small shift that administrators do when their workday just got more complicated.

"Back again."

"Back again." I lean my forearms onto the wood of his stand. Not too close. Just close enough to suggest a conversation without an interrogation. "I’m next on the bracket. I figured I’d come negotiate while my friend recovers."

"Negotiate?" He says the word like it has a taste he isn’t sure of yet.

"Mister Sharma authorized me a Rank C opponent. His choice."

"I’m aware. Word travels fast, and he is the boss."

I let a small silence settle. The bookmaker’s hand drifts toward the master ledger out of habit—he’s already mentally going through his roster, deciding who to slot against me. I don’t ask him to stop, waiting for the best moment while I follow his finger rolling down the page.

"Tell me something, friend." I pitch the voice lower and casual. The vocabulary of two professionals comparing notes. "You’ve been working this Oathring for how long?"

"Long enough."

He is hard...

"Long enough to know the fighters by reputation, not just by name."

A small grunt. Halfway between agreement and get to the point.

But I don’t get to the point.

"My team has been hitting hard this morning. Ballerina, Soline Bandit, Bone Crusher. You watched all three. What did you see?"

He blinks. Caught between his professional instinct to say nothing and the small vanity of being asked. The vanity wins, like it always does.

"I saw a dancer that wasn’t a dancer. I saw a noble that wasn’t a real fool. I saw a hammer guy that should have won and lost on purpose." He shrugs one shoulder. "I see a lot of things on this stand. Most of them I keep to myself."

’He is wrong about Oliver, but this is enough.’

"That’s why I’m here, then. I’d rather have a fight with a man who understands what he’s looking at than one with a thug who doesn’t."

I let the flattery breathe a second. Watch his shoulders settle a half-inch.

Now I drop the first hook.

"I’m a melee class. Sword work. Single weapon. Nothing dramatic. I do badly against fighters who can break the rhythm of an exchange... because it breaks the tempo and forces me to reset."

He scratches his beard. Starts mentally cross-referencing the roster against what I just said.

"I do well against pure power. Brawlers. The bigger they swing, the more openings they give me to step inside."

Two hooks dropped, pointing in opposite directions.

He grunts and starts flipping through the ledger. Pages of fighters under his thumb. I lean forward and tilt my head just enough to glance at the entries without reading them.

"Mister Sharma told me your choice," I add, lightly. "But I’m guessing you have... two, three names in mind?"

"Four."

"Four. Hm." I let the silence hold. I don’t ask him to name them. Asking would tighten his caution.

He names them anyway. Vanity loosens what direct questions can’t.

"Halligan. The Coil. Master Brun." A small pause. "And Cassio Veil."

The fourth name lands inside me like a stone hitting still water. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

Cassio Veil.

I keep my face still. No flinch, no widened eye. The hand on the wood of the stand doesn’t tighten.

But I remember the name. A trench veteran I crossed paths with once, briefly, before he died on the front lines a few years from now. Rank B at the time. A man who fought with absurd precision, who could break the synchrony of any swordsman who relied on rhythm.

The exact profile of the fighter I just told the bookmaker would beat me.

The bookmaker is going to choose Veil. He’s looking at the four names with calm, professional interest. The interest of someone picking dessert off a menu.

I look down at the ledger. Pretend to read. Then exhale, like I’m reluctant.

"That last one. Cassio Veil. Sounds like a problem."

"He’s a problem for most." A small, satisfied note in his voice now. "Decisive against blade work. Hard to read."

"That’s the kind of fight I’d rather not take, if I’m honest with you."

I drop the line flat. No theater, just like ’Don’t pick him. Please don’t pick him.’

The bookmaker’s eyes brighten one half-degree.

"Cassio Veil it is, then."

He closes the ledger.

"Mister Sharma will be pleased."

I let my shoulders fall a quiet half-inch—a small, graceful absorption of a bad outcome. I nod once. I thank him for his time. I push off the stand and start walking back toward Oliver and the others.

Cassio Veil is exactly who I wanted.

He’s the only rank C on this Oathring whose speed is strong enough to threaten me.

And knowing him, I also know: He’s going to be the hardest fight of my life inside a Rank D body.

’Good. Easy fights teach me nothing.’