The room was warm in a way that had nothing to do with fire. The sheer pressure warmed the room.

Crimson drapes fell from the ceiling in heavy folds, drowning the stone beneath layers of deep red and muted gold. The colors were rich, deliberate, meant to feel expensive rather than noble.

Light from hanging lanterns filtered through dyed silk, casting everything in a faint scarlet hue, as if the air itself had been diluted with blood and coin.

Looking at his hands, it made the blood even more crimson than it already was.

At the far end of the chamber stood a long table carved from dark lacquered wood. Behind it, mounted proudly on polished stone, was their symbol. The one he despised so much, one he wanted to burn to the ground.

A red coin.

Pierced clean through by a quill.

Not crossed by a sword. Not crowned by laurel. Not wrapped in flames.

Pierced.

It showed exactly what they cared about: precision, not money or honor, but valuable fighters, so that they can make their name known.

Aether’s gaze lingered on it.

He stood alone in the center of the chamber, boots planted evenly against the smooth floor. No chains bound him. No guard held his shoulders. Yet the space was designed to make a man feel measured.

Observed.

Valued.

He wasn’t chained physically, yet at the same time, he felt as if he couldn’t move a single inch if he tried to.

Across the table, five figures sat in high-backed chairs upholstered in crimson velvet. Their clothing mirrored the room, deep red coats trimmed with gold thread, rings set with rubies, gloves of soft leather that had never known sand or steel.

You already knew who they wore, after all, nobles, and more important nobles from the Crimson Ledger, people that actually had Will’s.

One tapped a quill lightly against his fingers. Another leaned back, studying Aether the way a merchant studies a horse before purchase.

Though he was sure everyone in the room knew something like that was possible, and it wasn’t because he was unranked, they just knew that he would decline either way, and for that to even happen, they would have to want to give him an offer, and he knew they didn’t.

They did not look angry in the loud way others did.

Their hatred was quieter.

Colder.

But he had seen the true face of their anger; he knew this was just a facade.

One of them exhaled through his nose.

“So,” the man murmured, voice smooth as polished coin. “This is him.”

Not a name.

At least if they used his Arena name.

Aether did not react.

Their eyes scanned him openly, posture, stance, breathing. Calculating. He could almost see the invisible columns beside their heads.

Win ratio.

Risk factor.

Crowd reaction.

Long-term return.

That was all that mattered to them, nothing else. If these four things were high, they were happy.

They were not warriors.

They were accountants of blood.

A ledger book rested open on the table, its pages thick and cream-colored, inked with neat, precise handwriting. Names filled it. Lines crossed out. Numbers circled. Notes scribbled in margins. The faint metallic scent of ink and sealing wax lingered in the air.

Aether’s eyes flickered briefly to it.

Inside must be the names of those they have under them, which means that those crossed out have died, quite noble for someone like the Crimson Ledger to keep track of those that have given their souls to them.

One of the seated figures leaned forward, elbows resting on the table.

“You are aware,” he said calmly, “that this arena rewards discipline. Calculated action. Predictable escalation.”

Aether said nothing.

Silence stretched, but it did not bend him.

Another voice spoke, sharper this time. “And yet you insist on existing.”

There it was.

Not outrage.

Not wounded pride.

Annoyance.

He disrupted something. Not their honor. Not their ideology.

Their projections.

He knew this, after all, he had been specifically going for their newbies, but he hadn’t expected to end up here so fast. He must have stepped on their never quite a lot.

Aether tilted his head slightly, the faintest ghost of a smile touching his lips. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t submissive.

It was steady.

They disliked that most of all.

Because calculated fighters were controllable. They could be guided into favorable matchups, groomed for rivalries, and sold at peak value.

But a fighter who did not bend to narrative curves, who did not move according to odds.

That was volatility.

If he had to say, he must have killed someone they had a lot of plans for, someone that was going to get them a lot of recognition, but instead, he had challenged them and ended their life before they could even start their journey.

One of the men closed the ledger with a soft thud.

“You are not under our banner,” he said evenly. “And yet your presence affects our investments.”

The word investments lingered in the air like something sacred.

Aether’s eyes, calm and lit from within, met theirs one by one.

He did not lower his gaze.

In a place that worshipped honor, this faction worshipped numbers.

And numbers did not like anomalies.

The lantern light flickered, catching the red coin and quill above them. For a moment, the symbol cast a long shadow across Aether’s chest, as if attempting to mark him.

…

…

“Kill him.”

…

…

…

Aether ruffeled his hair slightly stepping into the arena for his third fight, knowing that normally he would be two games away, if he counted this one as done of course, from ranking up did make him question if this was really enough, but at the same time he had to think like a normal warrior, not someone like him, i mean this was his second fight today.

No normal fighter would do this, after all, they had their weekly fights, which were enough for them.

So it would take them five weeks to rank up.

So the rankings did work.

He was just an anomaly in them, after all; if he continued like this, he would be close to ranking up twice.

In front of him stood a man who looked to be in his twenties. He held a long blade, made out of clean steel; his hands were steady, not shaking, he had a cold look on his face, as if he was used to this, and he probably was, I mean, after five fights, you get the gist of killing.

Of course, he was used to it since his first fight, but that was because he had killed many before, and caused the death of even more.

So killing was something he knew to accept.

…

Even if it had taken him those he held most dear.

Now, of course, the fighter he had taken was from the Crimson Ledger; he loved to annoy those guys after that, and for a good reason.

They had also come to watch the match, which made him wonder what they had told their fighter about him.

It did make him a little scared, since this guy in front of him was a Reader Echo by the Abyss words, so the same rank as him, so he had to be careful.

Or not…

Though something really interesting was happening, when someone from the Crimson Ledger is fighting, and someone of the second rank, who has already gained recognition, their name is known.

You could expect the crowd to be cheering for them, to be saying their name.

All he was hearing from the crowd was his name.

“Eden, kill this guy!”

“Come on, Eden, show us the power of an Unranked.”

“Down with the Crimson Ledger, come on, Eden!”

…

It put a smile on his face, yet at the same time, he tried not to focus on them, after all, they could be considered as an entity helping him, and that way his Bane would activate, which would definitely not be good at all.

So he tried to push back all the Praise.

Ironic when he has been crying over the fact that he was always lonely.

And yet here he was pushing everyone away.

Yet besides the praise, there was something else that he wanted to point out.

The people didn’t seem to like the faction, or rather, he didn’t think they liked any of the factions.

Which made him wonder if this was why the Unraked was really created, because people had gotten bored with the houses and their dominance over the arena, they wanted actual fights, people who fought alone, and didn’t let themselves be conquered by a bigger power.

That was why his name was chanted.

Because he was someone who had decided to fight alone rather than with a faction and get all their advantages. Someone who had said no to money.

And instead, in their eyes, had chosen honor.

That was why in this battle.

He was going to be the crowd favourite.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep