SSS Rank: Spellcraft Sovereign-Chapter 105: Preparations (3)

He picked it up.

Didn’t inject it yet.

Just held it.

Looked at himself in the mirror above the desk, half-fogged, frame cracked at the corner. His face wasn’t tired. Not yet. But it was close.

There was a twitch under his left eye. Small. Constant.

His reflection didn’t blink.

Rikta said aloud, "You’ve fought better."

The mirror didn’t answer.

He laughed once, quiet, short, a little bitter.

"You’ve looked better."

He rolled up the sleeve of his left arm, wiped the skin once, then held the injector steady.

Click.

Cold.

Sharp.

Immediate.

The second he felt the bite, his hand gripped the edge of the desk hard enough to creak the wood.

The pressure came fast.

Like someone had poured speed into his bloodstream. Not adrenaline. Not panic. Just sharpness. A kind of forced focus that made every blink feel like a calculation.

He took a breath.

Then another.

Let it settle.

His system pinged, not loudly, not visibly, but a soft tension under his skin. It didn’t recognize the compound. That was the point. It wasn’t sanctioned. It wasn’t black-market either.

It was new.

A brand called ThreadLimit. Quiet sellers. Drift-rated. Still technically legal, depending on how fast you burned it.

Rikta sat down slowly.

Stared at his hands.

They weren’t shaking anymore.

The twitch was gone.

But so was the quiet.

Everything in his head was louder now.

He whispered, "He’s just a caster."

Then louder.

"He’s just another damn caster."

But deep down?

He knew better.

And that’s why he didn’t stop the injection.

He just sat there, watching the clock.

Waiting for the effect to peak.

—

The morning light didn’t burn, it dragged.

That early gray before the sun figured out what kind of day it wanted to be. Overhead, clouds hung flat, uncommitted. The street smelled like last night’s mana oil and stale onion wrap from the 24-hour stall near the station.

Lucen stepped out of the building and locked the door behind him. One press, one ping. The latch sealed with a soft hiss.

He pulled the hood over his head, not because it was cold, just because people were watching now.

He could feel it. That hum in the air. Not threat, not attention. Just curiosity. The kind that lingered near high-traffic nodes and drift forums. The kind that turned strangers into archivists.

He started walking.

Same path as always. Left at the flickering post-light. Past the corner with the busted drainpipe that hadn’t been fixed since the last break. Across from the grocery with the price signs hand-scrawled because the auto-glyphs were busted.

A voice carried from inside.

"—telling you, he’s gonna eat pavement in under a minute."

"He won’t," said another. "That sword kid’s flashy, but he burns hot. Bet he flares too early."

Lucen didn’t slow. Just glanced once through the glass.

Two kids. Teenagers. Elbows deep in breakfast rolls, mana screens hovering open between them showing pre-match edits, zoomed-in clips of Rikta doing a spin feint that didn’t connect.

He kept walking.

Half a block down, a small group had gathered by the rail line, crowding around an open display board. It looped highlights from previous cage fights. One screen showed Rikta slicing through a wind caster’s shield glyph.

A guy near the front scoffed. "Showboat. Watch his shoulder. He drops it after each strike."

"Doesn’t matter," someone else said. "Support-boy won’t last long if he can’t block."

Lucen walked right past them.

No one looked twice.

That was the point.

Another corner. Traffic picked up, mana bikes flaring low as they weaved between walkers. A delivery drone dipped too close to the ground and someone swore at it in three different languages.

Lucen cut through the intersection and entered the side alley toward the lower lift.

The wall there was tagged up. Not artistic. Just names. Handles. Half-burned spell sigils. Someone had drawn Rikta’s crest in thick black marker across a panel. Below it, in smaller ink: "Sword First."

Lucen rolled his eyes and hit the lift button.

It whined. Groaned. Took its time.

When the gate slid open, he stepped in alone and hit the cage level. Floor 4. Not underground, not rooftop. Just neutral ground, carved into the middle of the city’s backbone like a forgotten joint. freeweɓnovel~cѳm

The ride was slow. Rhythmic. Slight tremors as it passed each level.

Lucen checked his cuffs. Tight. Mana line closed. No leaks.

He glanced at the side mirror once.

His face looked the same.

Still calm.

Still unreadable.

The lift dinged once.

The doors opened.

Not cleanly. The left panel stuck for half a second before jerking back into its slot. The sound echoed down the low hall, a hollow screech swallowed by concrete and mana-insulated panels.

Lucen stepped out and looked right.

Gen was already there.

Leaning against the wall like he hadn’t moved in hours. One boot braced behind him, jacket open, sleeves half-rolled. He held a cup of something steaming, probably too bitter to be good. His eyes flicked up, then down. A once-over.

Then he said, flat as ever, "You look alive."

Lucen shrugged. "I considered alternatives."

Gen gestured with the cup. "This way. Keep your hood up."

Lucen followed.

The hallway ran long and narrow, industrial lighting overhead, faint buzzing from old fixtures. The walls were lined with half-functional cooling glyphs that hadn’t been upgraded in years.

The air smelled like dust, mana charge, and a hint of reheated food from the vendor stand two floors up.

Behind one door, someone was testing sound. A mic screeched. A voice cursed, then laughed. Background chatter rippled through thin insulation.

Lucen didn’t speak.

Neither did Gen for a while.

Just boots on old floor.

They passed a door marked CREW ONLY. Someone inside shouted, "That kid’s gonna get pancaked," followed by laughter and the crackle of an open soda.

Lucen’s eyes didn’t even flick sideways.

Gen finally muttered, "You’ve got about thirty minutes. He’s late. On purpose, probably."

Lucen snorted. "Trying to build suspense?"

"Or buy time to puke out nerves," Gen said. "Not that he’ll admit it."

This chapter is updated by freew(e)bnovel.(c)om