The warehouse reeked of sweat, stale beer, and desperation. A cavernous space, dimly lit by flickering fluorescent tubes that cast long, distorted shadows across the concrete floor. The air vibrated with the low thrum of nervous energy. This was it – the Crucible’s casting call, or as Arthur was beginning to understand, a trial by combat, a brutal weeding out of the weak.

He stood amongst a motley crew: shaved heads, scarred faces, and bodies etched with tattoos that told silent stories of past struggles. Some were visibly nervous, bouncing on the balls of their feet, cracking knuckles. Others exuded a practiced nonchalance, their eyes cold and calculating. Arthur felt a strange detachment, a calmness that settled over him whenever the memories of Kaelen Sterling surfaced. It was as if Kaelen, the Cyclone, was taking the wheel, his instincts honed by years of hard-fought battles.

The man in charge was a hulking brute with a voice like gravel and a face that looked like it had lost several arguments with a brick wall. He introduced himself as “Hammer” and his instructions were simple: “Fight. Win. Impress. You fail, you leave. No refunds on travel expenses.” He punctuated each sentence with a meaty fist slamming into his open palm.