Devil Gambit

Dirga stepped into the ring.

The air was dry, laced with smoke and the faint scent of metal and blood. The Gemspire Ring’s sixth arena wasn’t packed, but a respectable crowd had gathered—bored gamblers, veterans looking for easy coin, and a few scouts with sharp eyes.

From the stands, Optik was already working the crowd like a well-oiled machine.

"Come on, people, ten-to-one odds on the newcomer! First-timer against a ranker with poison blades! Easy cash!"

He smiled like a devil in a suit—sleek, professional, hungry.

Dirga ignored the noise. His boots touched the tiled surface of the arena floor—runed stone that hummed faintly with Zarion. His black jacket fluttered as he came to a stop at the center. The Crimson Core buzzed faintly beneath his back, calm but alive.

Then his opponent stepped in.

A goblin, nearly as tall as Dirga. Muscular, hunched, with sickly green skin that glistened with sweat. His eyes were sharp, teeth jagged, and in each hand he held a curved dagger—both slick with shimmering purple liquid.

Poison.

"Really?" the goblin scoffed. His voice was nasal and rough. "A newcomer dares challenge me? You must have a death wish, human."

Dirga didn’t respond. He just stared.

Cold. Focused. Quiet.