Hall BB had a single level of risers surrounding a central ring of cheap metal poles marking off the Arena itself. Colorful tiles were laid in squares delineating the floor of the Arena. These had been hand-painted by MudCon’s Artist Guest of Honor, someone named Paolo Kompf. He’d captured the twelve classes of the Battle Artist using a mixture of women and different ethnicities. There were a hundred-and-forty-four in all, but only twelve had the Artist Signs.

If anything convinced Niko that MudCon might one day be a qualifying con, it was the quality of the tiles. The Arena was square, twenty feet by twenty feet, and the poles were only there to keep people off the flooring.

The Arena Master would create the Arena itself.

Maddy had brought in a professional Arena Master because she might be able to save on costs in other areas, but she couldn’t skimp on that. The Arena Master was a lean, fiftyish man, with a shaved head and sharp features. He had piercing eyes and a hawk-shaped nose. Two other people, an old guy and thick woman, stood around the Arena, and they would act as his assistants. All were barefoot, in sky-blue robes, with twelve silver buttons crossing their chests.

Maddy waved at Niko and then ducked underneath the poles. She held a cordless microphone and her voice exploded out of the speakers.

A few people had brought in chairs to sit on the risers; the standing people moved so they could see. Other than that, it was a typical hotel conference hall, with the carpet, the off-white wallpaper, and the fake wooden ceiling, baroquely ornate, above. Air-conditioned air, scented with new carpet, leaked from the vents.

Andrew Coffey was older than Niko would’ve thought, his face lined, and his hairline receding into sandy blonde hair. He was big, powerful, lean like a panther. The belt on his robes showed his level, a Neptune Belt, Sanguine, and a master of all Four Studies. Coffey’s level also surprised Niko. With his reputation, he’d thought Coffey was at least Caelus if not Saturn Belt.

Then it got even more interesting. Next to Coffey, in a blue silk suit, no tie, stood his agent, Barton Hennessey. Most likely, Hennessey had forgotten all about Niko, but at one time, the short, thin man had scouted him, and had even talked to Niko’s parents.

A balding guy, black fringe around his white skull, stepped into the Arena, dressed in white robes with a fist made out of flames on the back. He was about the same size as Niko, but with thicker muscles. He’d been training, without a doubt, and something about him made Niko think that Stan had been vaping to improve his prana.

It wasn’t cheating, per-se, but Niko had been taught that if you mastered your fundamentals, you didn’t need tinctures, smokes, or vapes. A true Battle Artist need only to master himself. As if that took less than a lifetime to do.

Maddy gestured him into the ring. Niko obeyed.

“May your soul be strong, and your mind sharp.” Teddy smacked him on the back. “Ew. You’re wet.”

“Thanks.” Niko ducked under the poles. He heard a few people whisper, saying his name.

Maddy must’ve heard it as well. “Ladies and gentlemen, Allen Storm couldn’t make it, but I have a treat for you all. You’ve heard the rumors, but now you are going to see Niko Black in action. Coming out of a tragic, early retirement, Niko has agreed to face Stan Howling in our afternoon match.”

A few people muttered, but most stayed silent. One woman did utter a muffled, “Wow.”

Niko glanced at Coffey and Barton Hennessey. They were leaning in, talking about something, probably had nothing to do with MudCon at all.

Stan Howling frowned at Maddy. “I should get top billing. You should introduce me first.”

Yes, Stan had a bad case of Arena ass.

Maddy didn’t pause. She was used to dealing with egos. It came with the job description of a Battle Con organizer. “Niko Black will be facing the ultimate challenge, Stan Howling, a Mars Belt Sunfire, and repped by the Barton Hennessey Battle Artist Agency, and having just come from a major victory for the SoulFire Corporation in Tulsa, Oklahoma.”

The crowd whistled, applauded, and those on the risers stomped in a rhythm. That explained why Barton was there along with Coffey. Both wanted to see Stan fight.

Stan raised his hands and fire erupted from his fingertips. Burning prana was never a good idea, not if you wanted to win. The fans loved it, though, and Stan had every right to be over-confident. He had his agent there, he wasn’t going to lose, and he was going up against a nobody.

Maddy continued with introductions. “As I said, Niko Black has come forward to challenge Stan Howling. Niko is a local hero, one of Apricot High School’s prodigies, and a Mars Belt of the Quintessence Battle Sign.”

“Mercury belt,” Niko whispered.

Maddy was about to correct herself when the crowd broke out in chanting. “Zenith Spin! Zenith Spin! Zenith Spin!”

They were more interested in the fight itself rather than the fighters. A major victory in Tulsa didn’t mean much it seemed. A live event, though, where you could feel the heat, and see the match, first-hand, that was something special. The fans there loved the Arts, even at the lowest echelons. And they knew the rules. Three rounds, five minutes each, with a one-minute rest period between rounds. The Artist who went under ten percent sharira lost.

The match started with a zenith spin.

Maddy gestured to the Arena Master, who bent and touched the tiles. The twelve Artist Signs lit up all at once and then the light went through the various signs, from Sanguine to Masonry all the way to Sky and Woda. Around the light went until it came to rest on Metallurgy.

“Yes!” Teddy pumped a fist.

It was neutral sign and wouldn’t help neither Niko nor Stan. If the Zenith Spin had landed on one of their signs, or even a Harmonic sign, that would’ve aided them, giving them a bit more energy. Outside of the Arena, it was March, and so the Sanguine Artist sign was at its zenith. So Andrew J. Coffey must be feeling good.

Inside the Arena, however, the Metallurgy sign was prominent. That made Niko and Stan as even as they could, given their circumstances.

A guy with beer belly cursed. He wore the top shirt of a fire sign, flames running down his arms, but had jeans on, and big work boots. A Harmonic spin might’ve made the match more interesting, or Beer Belly was a Stan Howling fan.

The Arena Master shouted, “Arena clear!”

That was Maddy’s cue. She ducked underneath the poles.

“Artists approach!”

Stan walked to the center.

Niko had almost forgotten the next part. He moved to the center as well. He bowed.

Stan didn’t. “Let’s just get this over with, kid. I’ll try not to toast you too much.” He sighed, as if this was all beneath him.

That pissed Niko off. He glanced over at Coffey and Barton. They were still talking, yet every once in a while, the agent would look up, but he wasn’t fixing his gaze on Stan. No, he was looking Niko. A little of the dream trickled into Niko. What if he beat Stan? What if Barton offered to rep him?

Hope had deep roots. Was that in The Pranad? Or was it from some coach Niko had trained under. It could be both or neither. Growing up with Polish parents, sayings just popped into Niko’s head from time to time.

“Artists ready?” Argyle Crumb shouted.

“Yes, Master!” Both Stan and Niko responded in unison.

“Assistants connect!”

Niko felt a tug at his core as one of the assistants reached into him. It was invasive, felt like a punch, but it would keep him safe. If he took too much damage, it would end the battle. He could feel the old Master Assistant’s presence, and that somehow made Niko feel better. The old guy must have a ton of experience. The younger, thicker woman linked herself to Stan. Both would be Luna Artists, a very difficult sign to master.

“Arena engaged!” The Master pushed his prana into the tiles. Bars of solid iron rose around the perimeter, pushed up against the cheap aluminum poles. They came together in a cage, surrounding Stan and Niko.

The iron would keep them locked inside the Arena, but more than that, it would protect the audience against any manifested prana that might hurt them. This wasn’t a big stadium, with hundreds of feet between the audience and the Artists.

On all four sides of the cage, golden letters and numbers. At the top was the fight clock, set to five minutes. Below it was a display of both Niko’s and Stan’s prana and sharira. Niko had a hundred percent sharira and a hundred percent prana. Stan had a hundred percent sharira, but his prana was down to ninety percent. His little flame tricks had sapped some of his power.

“Artists to their corners!” The Arena Master yelled.

Stan danced back to his corner, again letting flames leak out of his skin around his neck. Fire Mane, okay, that was a Fourth Study ability, and Stan’s prana dropped another five percent.

Niko backed to his own corner, his heart beating fast, his breath coming quick. He’d not felt battle adrenaline in years, and he liked it. Maybe it had been a mistake for him to give up. Taylor had thought so.

He couldn’t think about her. No, that would kill his focus.

The Arena Master straightened. He held his right hand high in the air. “Souls strong?”

“Yes!” from both Niko and Stan.

“Minds sharp?”

“Yes!”

The Arena master dropped his right hand. “Let the Artistry commence!”

Niko didn’t charge, no, because Stan would be expecting that. Instead, he darted down the side of the cage, and then rolled forward.

A spear of flame seared the air above him. He was grateful for the cousin’s wet robes—they would some of the sting out Stan’s fire attacks.

Back on his feet, Niko then charged, right fist raised. He didn’t trust himself to his First Study ability, Twin Damage, not yet. He wanted to wear down his opponent. Stan wasn’t being careful with his prana, and that was Niko’s only hope of winning. Or at least surviving the first round.

Stan met Niko’s charge, back on his left foot, kicking with his right.

Niko blocked the blow. A simple kick would’ve been okay, but this guy had fueled it with energy. His foot was hot to the touch. Niko’s arm went numb.

It was worth it. He drove a fist into Stan’s face. It was a good solid strike. Niko should’ve used his First Study right then. Too late for regret.

A non-Artist might’ve dropped from Niko’s punch, or at least suffered a bloody nose. Stan, though, was made of tougher stuff. He was a Mars belt, after all. Niko didn’t have time to check his foe’s stats. But that must’ve dropped Stan’s sharira a bit.

Stan lunged, fire erupting around his neck.

The flames sizzled off Niko’s wet robes even as the heat scorched him. The pain was sharp, but not unexpected. A Battle Artist lived in pain, creation and destruction, birth and death. To avoid pain was to court defeat.

Niko tried to back up, but he hit the cage bars. They might have been the Arena’s Master construct, but they were solid enough.

Stan had him trapped, between iron and the flames circling his neck. Niko felt his sharira drop. He grunted. He didn’t want the fight to end so soon. But what could he do?

The Sunfire Artist struck Niko, again and again, sharp jabs, his fists obscured from the heat. Niko blocked some, but not all. He felt blood gush from his nose.

Normal fire would’ve torched his hair and ignited his robes. This was relatively unmanifested flames, mostly for show, but still hot enough to burn Niko’s face red.

Niko went low and threw a shoulder into Stan, lifting up for a second, and then dumping him back down onto the hard tiles. Niko leapt over the man and made it to the center of the ring.

Stan’s Fire Mane disappeared. He leapt to his feet. He was smiling.

Niko glanced at their stats. The Sunfire Artist was at thirty percent prana but still had eighty percent sharira.

For Niko, he was down to twenty-five percent sharira but still had full prana. Not that would help him much, since he was so out of shape. He wasn’t even sure he could use Twin Damage, but he had to try.

Fire hit Niko. He thought the Flame Lance, would end him for sure. His sharira must be near single digits, and yet, the Arena Master hadn’t called it. He must be at ten percent sharira. The fight was basically over.

Hope, though, had deep roots.

Niko danced back and raised his fists. His robes were dry now, his skin pink from the burning, but he wasn’t going to try and close with Stan, not yet, or he’d have to fight through the Fire Mane, which would end him. He had to drain his opponent, if he had any chance at all. “Come on, Howling. Hit me again. All you’re doing is giving me a nice tan.”

The crowd thundered, roared, and even Coffey and Barton had stopped their conversation and stared at the battle.

Stan, sweating, blinking, threw another spear of fire at him. Niko dodged it but didn’t close. He danced back.

“Nice one. But not good enough. Hit me again, Stan, and put me down in the first round. Or do you want to give the people more of a fight?”

The crowd roared. Beer Belly shouted the loudest. They all wanted more!

Niko glanced at the stats. He was at fifteen percent sharira. That was okay, Stan was at ten percent prana. Stan’s technique must be crappy, since every single Study cost him so much prana. A true Artist would still have a core at least sixty if not seventy percent full of power.

The fight clock ticked below two minutes, a hundred nineteen seconds, dropping fast.

Another round would be nice, but the Sunfire Artist wasn’t about to let that happen. Stan started forward. Sure, he wasn’t going to waste his last Studies; he was going to save his Fire Mane for when Niko tried to engage him again.

There was nothing left for it.

Niko wiped the sweat out of his eyes. Rage licked at his soul, and he wanted to scream it out. Instead, he focused his stiff prana into his one strike.

He sped forward, his hand raised, and sure, the minute he got close, Stan Howling used the last of his prana on his defensive move. Once again, flames erupted around his neck.

Niko felt them roast through the last of his sharira. He wasn’t going to win, he was simply too weak, but he wasn’t going to let Howling, or Barton, or fuckin Andrew J. Coffey, forget him.

Niko channeled his weak prana into his fist. When he struck, two other fists, half-manifested orange energy, struck his opponent, face, throat, chest.

Howling staggered, clutching his throat, his flames gone.

Niko dropped onto his side. He could smell his signed hair and every part of him ached. He glanced up. Stan was also on the ground, on all fours, spitting blood onto the tiles. He gave Niko a bloody grin.

“Stan Howling wins!” the Arena Master called out. “Artists to their corners.”

Stan bounced up and moved quickly back.

Niko tried to get up. It was a knockout, clearly, and he wasn’t just below ten percent sharira. He was at zero, clinging to consciousness. He was burned, bruised, feeling like toast pounded on with a hammer. But he’d been taught, in defeat, not to show his opponent weakness.

The crowd was silence. They were watching, waiting.

“Stay down, Artist,” the Arena Master ordered. “You will be adjusted.”

Niko ignored him. He got on his hands and knees, breathing hard, and the memories of all his matches came to him, his wins, his losses, Teddy cheering him on, and Taylor, smiling at him, nodding at him. Thinking of her made him get his feet under him.

He stood. With zero sharira, he was standing.

The applause was thunderous. Howling turned, glancing around, in wonder. They weren’t cheering for him, no, they were roaring for Niko.

To confirm it, Niko raised a fist. He couldn’t stop the tears. He wasn’t sure why he was crying, but it felt right. He’d lost. But he’d won the crowd, and that was something.

He limped to the corner, keeping on his feet by force of will. He was so grateful for Teddy, who rushed over, to help hold him up when the Arena Master swept away the iron cage.

Barton and Coffey came down to shake hands with Stan. Maddy had gone over there as well, probably to check on them. They were the important people at the con after all.

The Arena Master’s old assistant ducked under the poles. A twinkle filled his eye. A grin touched his lips. There was nothing else to say as he reached and touched Niko. They were already connected. It wasn’t just his prana the old man adjusted; he healed his sharira as well. Just enough to get Niko out of danger.

Niko felt he had to say something. “I’m not used to getting knocked out like that. The Arena Master was right, I shouldn’t have gotten up. But I couldn’t help myself.”

The old man didn’t respond. Neither did the amused expression leave his face.

Maddy crossed the tiles to reach him. She looked concerned.

Niko could understand. He must look like week-old dog crap. The dream flickered inside him. He’d won the crowd. Barton must’ve seen that. It didn’t matter. Those glances from the agent were gone, and he was massaging Howling’s shoulders now. Coffey stood smiling next to them.

Hope has deep roots. It was from The Pranad. And he remembered the next part. Despair flowers fast.

In better Arenas, they would have a stool of manifested prana for him. Not here. That was fine. He could stand. The old man eased his hands over Niko’s burns, and they felt immediately better. “You’re a Luna.”

The old man said gruffly. “Back in my day, we called ourselves Cancers. But it’s all the same.”

The Arena Assistant moved to the side.

Maddy flung her arms around Niko. “You were amazing. People can’t stop talking about you. They want you back here, next year. I won’t ask because I know…”

She wasn’t going to finish that sentence. Because she did know.

She stepped back. “Andrew J. Coffey asked about you. He has some personal stuff to do, but he wondered if you wouldn’t mind swinging by his suite in about an hour. It’s Room 917. Don’t tell anyone, okay? And sorry, but Teddy can’t come.”

Niko got that. A guy like Coffey wouldn’t want fanboys around him all the time.

Niko’s despair might’ve flowered but those petals withered in an instant. Coffey wanted to talk to him. It might mean everything, or nothing at all. Either way, he wasn’t going to turn the great AJC down.