I headed over to the Arcade-turned-restaurant, in search for either Ajax or Wulfgar.

  One of them was bound to be hanging around.

  The place was packed, customers loitering at tables, eating food and nursing drinks, while others played pool or wandered around the ol’ timey arcade, playing pinball or trying their hand at the claw machines, hoping for sweet, sweet prizes. Most of the customers, however, were gathered around an octagonal cage that had been assembled in the middle of the floor.

  Tables had been pushed aside to make space for the ring, and a pair of Delvers were inside, beating the absolute piss out of each other while onlookers cheered. Croc Coins and Loot Tokens passed hands as Ajax presided over the bout, scribbling odds on a green chalk board—the kind they used in strict Catholic schools.

  I shouldered my way through the crowd, earning a few jeers and disgruntled comments from the assembled onlookers until I was close enough to get a better idea of what in the hell was going on.

  The other man I’d come to find was in the ring…

  Wulfgar was stripped to the waist and grinning through the blood that ran from both nostrils. Across from him, a lanky 49er in furs and leather spat a tooth onto the floor then darted forward, swinging for the fences with a pair of rune-etched brass knuckles that glowed with a faint red light.

  The crowd pressed against the cage walls, faces lit by the crackle of sigils etched along the bars of the cage. The arcane symbols pulsed, catching stray sparks of magic and grounding them harmlessly into the floor, insulating the spectators from the spells cast within. That was a godsend, because when someone as powerful as Wulfgar was slinging around offensive magic, collateral damage wasn’t a possibility, it was a fact of life.

  The first punch landed solidly against Wulfgar’s jaw, snapping his head to the side, and opening a gash across his cheek. Blood sprayed. The audience roared and clapped, cheering for more. Wulfgar turned his head, that wild grin never faltering. He spat a mouthful of crimson and laughed—a big, belly-deep rumble that echoed through the cage.

  “Again!” he bellowed.

  The other 49er obliged, winding up for an encore, but Wulfgar was already violence in motion. He ducked low and drove a shoulder into the man’s gut, lifting him off the ground before unceremoniously slamming him into the rune-carved bars. Magic sparked like a storm, the sigils flashing blue and gold.

  The crowd howled as the impact rattled the cage.

  The 49er retaliated, throwing a kick into Wulfgar’s stomach, then slipping away as he triggered one of his Relics and launched a yellow, piss-covered snowball directly at the undisputed leader of Kringlegard. The piss ball splattered across Wulfgar’s bare chest in hissing bursts of acidic steam. Wulfgar staggered momentarily, skin blistering, but his laughter only grew louder.

  Arctic blue power coalesced around his knuckles.

  With a roar, Wulfgar thrust his hand forward and a barrage of ice lances screamed through the air, driving his opponent back. The 49ner hurled himself into a dive, narrowly avoiding an ice spear through the gut, then quickly rolled to his feet. He spun and hurled a handful of exploding Christmas ornaments in retaliation—each one popping like a grenade, showering the ring with sparks, snow, and the faint scent of peppermint.

  The audience lost its collective mind.

  Wulfgar plowed through the explosions like they were nothing, smoke and flame clinging to his skin as he closed the distance. The 49ner swung again, brass knuckles flashing, connecting with Wulfgar’s ribs. The hit cracked like a gunshot, but Wulfgar didn’t seem to notice.

  Then something in Wulfgar changed.

  Glowing green tribal tattoos flared to life, crawling across Wulfgar’s chest and arms like living serpents as the air grew heavier. Wulfgar threw his head back and howled, the sound part battle cry, part animal rage. His body swelled, muscles knotting, bones shifting. Coarse fur sprouted across his shoulders and arms, and his nose protruded into a wolfish snout as his teeth lengthened into curved fangs.

  The crowd gasped as Wulfgar transformed, his frame doubling in size until he looked less like a man and more like a viking werewolf, powered by vodka and fury.

  The 49ner swung again, desperate now, but Wulfgar caught the punch midair. The brass knuckles hissed against Wulfgar’s palm, smoke rising, but he didn’t even flinch. With a grin that showed too many teeth, the great werewolf Viking yanked the man forward, locked his arms around the other man’s waist, and slammed him into the ground with a spine-cracking suplex like something straight out of the WWE.

  The sigils flared bright gold, absorbing the shockwave as blood sprayed into the air. For a heartbeat, there was silence…

  Then the entire crowd erupted, chanting his name.

  “WULF-GAR! WULF-GAR! WULF-GAR!”

  The leader of Kringlegard stood over his opponent’s limp form, panting, fur slowly receding, grin wide enough to split his face. When the rune lights dimmed and the last echo of the crowd’s roar faded, he scanned the audience, eyes flashing in challenge.

  “Who’s next?” he thundered, slamming a fist rhythmically against his chest, thump, thump, thump. It was the sound of a living war drum echoing over a silent battlefield. But he wouldn’t have to wait long. There was already another opponent waiting in the wings, ready for their shot at the champ.

  A pair of Howlers scuttled in with elixirs in hand and retrieved Wulfgar’s last victim, pulling his limp frame from the cage before the next opponent could enter the ring.

  I didn’t stay to watch the match, but instead beelined toward Ajax, who was barking commands over the crowd, collecting betting slips and issuing payouts like a human slot machine.

  “Dan,” he said cheerily as he saw me approach. “Here to watch the carnage?”

  “We need to talk,” I said, my face a dark cloud of disapproval.

  “But the next round is getting ready to start,” Ajax pouted, still greedily eyeing the crowd, no doubt thinking about how much money he could rake in.

  “I don’t care,” I replied in a tone that brooked no-nonsense. “Your office. Now.”

  “Party popper,” Ajax muttered under his breath, before sighing dramatically. “Fine, fine. Roland,” he barked at another man in the crowd, this one dressed like an otter. “You’re up, I need to go take care of a few things.” He handed off his pad of betting slips as the otter mounted the elevated platform, already calling out odds before Wulfgar’s next opponent had even stepped into the ring.

  With Ajax in tow, the two of us made our way through the crowd, past the bar, and into his office.

  I spoke the second the door snapped shut.

  “What in the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I growled, turning on him. “And what in the hell is that?” I hooked a thumb in the general direction of the octagon. “I leave you alone for a few days and you set up a fight club inside the bar?”

  “It’s good business, Dainel.” Ajax flopped into his chair then deposited a fat stack of Loot Tokens onto the countertop. “You’re cut from the last three bouts,” he said with an easy smile.

  “I don’t give a shit about the money,” I said, though that wasn’t entirely true. But on principle, I ignored the coins. “I told you to hire staff and look after the store. Maybe my memory’s a bit fuzzy, but I’m pretty sure bloodsports never came up in any of those conversations.”

  “Don’t get all bent out of shape,” Ajax replied dismissively. “We have medics standing by to make sure no one gets killed and it gives the Delvers an outlet for their more violent tendencies.” He paused. “Plus, it earns the house a tidy little profit.” He spread his hands, showcasing the loot. “It’s a win, win.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  He grabbed a bottle of bourbon from beneath the desk along with two glasses and poured each of us a drink.

  “This is really all your fault, you know,” Ajax said, pushing the second glass toward me.

  I begrudgingly accepted it, since I was never one to turn down free booze. Plus, I figured I deserved a stiff drink as a reward both for surviving Theo and for putting up with this level of nonsense. I took a sip and savored the smoky flavor and the soft burn in the back of my throat.

  “We started live-streaming those Brownie death races,” Ajax continued, “and people loved it, Daniel.” He drummed his fingers against the desk. “They started betting like it was the super bowl. But…” he trailed off. “Thanks to that decree of yours, the Brownies only hold those races once a week, so we needed something else to fill the void.” He shrugged. “I just took a little initiative.”

  “By starting an underground fight club?”

  “It’s hardly underground,” Ajax replied smugly. “We’re doing everything out in the open and the customers have never been happier.” He leaned forward. “The masses need entertainment, Daniel, and I’m simply fulfilling that need. You’re an entrepreneur, so you know how it is.”

  “You should’ve talked to me about it first,” I growled.

  “You’re hardly ever here,” he countered, leaning back in his chair. “If I waited to talk to you about every little thing, nothing would ever get done.”

  “Hiring someone to wash dishes is a little thing,” I said. “Building a magic UFC ring isn’t.”

  Ajax sniffed and straightened. “You hired me to run this place in your absence, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “That’s not what you’re doing,” I snapped, feeling my frustration grow. “You’re making the staff work doubles, we’ve got a waiting list a mile long for rooms, and according to Clive, we have a tenant that no one has seen in weeks. She might be dead and rotting away in one of our rooms for all we know.”

  “Alva?” he asked.

  I grunted then nodded.

  “I’ll check in on her,” Ajax said morosely, “I promise, but these things… they take time. I’ve already hired someone to deal with the tenants—Enrique, he’s fabulous, you’ll love him I’m sure—but finding component staff is…” he faltered. “Well, it’s proving to be more difficult than I originally anticipated. I’ve brought on a few more Howlers to help run the spa and man the cash registers, but that well is only so deep, I’m afraid. We’re already scrapping the bottom of the barrel.”

  “What about the 49ners then?” I asked.

  He took a sip of bourbon, lips curling as he swallowed.

  “You think I haven’t asked them already?” he said, frustration leaking through. “Interest isn’t the issue—it’s money. The high-level Delvers are pulling it in hand over fist now that they’ve got easy access to the safer floors. They make more running bounties off your board than they ever would working for us. It’s like trying to convince someone with a master’s degree to go flip burgers at McDonald’s. I do have a few prospects lined up, but they’re all new Delvers, and vetting them takes time.”

  “I’m not looking for excuses,” I said a little more harshly than I intended. I soften my voice, though only a little. “Listen, this war with the Syndicate is going to keep me busy for the near-foreseeable future, and I can’t be stomping out fires every time I come back to the store.”

  “Daniel—” he started to say.

  I raised a hand to stop him.

  “If you want to host fights or live stream Brownie races, that’s fine. But I need everything else running smoothly while I’m gone. Otherwise we’re liable to have a mutiny on our hands. Find workers—raise wages if you have to. Or offer incentives. Signing bonus. Whatever. I really don’t give a shit. Just get it taken care of and please, for the love of God, send someone to check on Alva, okay?”

  “Of course,” he said, needlessly fidgeting with his glass.

  “Good,” I said, before killing the rest of my drink. “Get it done and don’t make me regret putting you in charge here.”

  The wooden legs of the chair squeaked as I stood, staring down at the red-haired man. “I’m serious, Ajax. We’ve got a good thing going here, but this war with the Syndicate is bad. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, and I need you to do your job.” I paused, letting an uncomfortable silence build between us. “If you don’t, I’ll find someone else who will.”

  I left a disgruntled Ajax at his desk and headed back out into the Arcade.

  Wulfgar’s second fight was already over, and the medics were hauling out yet another unconscious fighter—a bloody pulp who was barely breathing.

  “Wulfgar,” I called before the man could start another bout, “I need a word.”

  “Of course, Dan,” the massive 49ner barked, grinning like a lunatic. “Give me ten,” he shouted to the otter, who was already trying to find someone else crazy enough to take on the berserker—there didn’t seem to be anyone up to the challenge.

  Hard to blame ’em.

  Wulfgar lumbered out of the ring, wiping a streak of blood from his face with a rag that was already more gore than cloth.

  “It’s good to see you, old friend,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder as he steered me toward an empty booth marked Reserved. “How goes your war against the vampires?”

  “Rough,” I admitted. “But we’re still breathing, so that’s something.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Well, what can I do? After what you did for us, you know Kringlegard stands ready to help however we can.”

  “Yeah… that’s actually what I came to talk about,” I said. “I’ve got a couple favors and a question.”

  Wulfgar straightened, expression earnest. “Anything. You saved my boy. My wife and I are forever in your debt, and Kringlegard will fight and bleed for you. No favor is too big.”

  “I appreciate that,” I said. “But for the record, we didn’t kill Nikoli expecting anything in return. We did it because that guy was a sadistic clown and it was the right thing to do.”

  “And that,” Wulfgar said, thumping the table with a fist, “is why Kringlegard will always stand with you. There are few good men in the Backrooms, and we protect those few. Now, how can the proud people of Floor 49 be of service?”

  I felt uncomfortable with the praise, but that was just Wulfgar’s way. He was a big oaf, and he wore his heart on his sleeve for anyone willing to see.

  “Just a couple of things,” I said. “Temp’s organizing a team to head down to the 33rd floor to link up with a new outpost. She’s hoping to recruit allies for our war effort. She’s already rounded up a bunch of Roomkeepers to help, but I’d appreciate it if you sent a few high-level raiders to watch her back.”

  “Consider it done,” he said, waving a hand through the air as though the request was nothing at all. “Though the Roomkeepers should be more than capable,” he added.

  “Yeah,” I admitted, though I still felt uneasy. “I’m sure she’ll have enough fire power for the job, but…” I hesitated and rubbed the back of my neck. “I don’t know. I just don’t trust ’em. Not completely. I don’t think they’d do anything to Temp, but a handful of those guys are still loyal to Jackson and there’s a lot of bad blood there.”

  Wulfgar nodded knowingly. “Politics inside of politics. I understand it more than I’d like to. I will make sure we send some of our best. No one will lay a finger on the small but mighty Temperance.”

  “I’m also hoping you can do me one other little favor,” I said. “I’ve got an employee who’s looking to get out there and earn some levels. Name’s Taylor. She’s still pretty new, but she’s got a lot of pluck. I’d count it as a favor if you could arrange for her to accompany you on a few raids to some of the lower floors. It’s not urgent or anything, so no rush. But if you could take her out and show her the ropes, it’d mean a lot.”

  “This is easily done,” he said. “We 49ners always respect those looking to grow in strength and we would be happy to help any friend of yours. I’ll see to it myself. Is this all?” He quirked an eyebrow. “Surely, there must be something else we can do?”

  “That’s it for now,” I replied, then paused. “Though I guess there is one other little thing,” I added after a beat. “We’re running low on Sigil Stones for the Forge. I talked to Sven about it, but he has no idea who Nikoli’s supplier was. You were his right-hand man for a long time, so I’m hoping you can point me in the right direction.”

  Wulfgar’s face darkened at the mere mention of Nikoli. Even though he had worked as Nikoli’s enforcer for years, he had no love for the man. Nikoli had kidnapped his son and chopped off body parts to help keep dissidents in line. That kind of butchery worked but it didn’t exactly engender loyalty.

  It was surprising how far not being a dick could take you in life.

  Wulfgar leaned in close and looked around as though afraid someone might overhear. There was no one nearby, though, and most of the customers were either focused on their food or watching as Ajax shuffled back onto the wooden stage outside the octagon. Two new fighters were already preparing to enter the ring and start the bloody spectacle anew.

  “That’s a bit trickier,” Wulfgar said, his voice low and guarded. “Nikoli was a secretive man by nature. He didn’t trust anyone, and he kept us in the dark about the bulk of his operation. All the better to keep us under his thumb, you understand.” He paused and stroked his beard thoughtfully for a moment.

  “I can’t tell you who his supplier is,” he continued, “because I don’t know, but if I had to take a stab in the dark, I would say his source was Gnomish in nature. Usually, he handled anything to do with the Forge, but a couple of times, Nikoli had me pick up supplies from a Dweller by the name of Pinewhisker.” His expression darkened even further. “A bloodthirsty little monster—runs one of the kiosks about a day’s walk from Kringlegard.”

  The name immediately rang a bell in my head.

  I’d encountered Pinewhisker once before, back when I first descended to the 49th floor. Built like a brick shithouse, the gnome was four feet of pure spite and murder, his teeth all filed to razor sharp points, his oversized wood axe ready to chop through flesh at the drop of a pointy hat. He was smart, though. Calculating and cunning. And despite his obvious predilection for violence, the self-proclaimed “Yulelord” had let us pass without a fight.

  “Yeah, we’ve met,” I said with a nod.

  “I can’t say whether he has the answers you’re looking for,” Wulfgar continued, “but he’s your best lead. Your only lead.”

  It wasn’t the answer I’d been hoping for—secretly, I’d been hoping Wulfgar might have a full chest of Sigil Stones lying around somewhere—but it was better than nothing. Without Sigil Stones, our entire Artifact production wing would grind to a halt, and we couldn’t afford that.

  “Alright,” I said, rubbing one temple. “I’ll go shake the little asshole down and see what he knows.”

  Wulfgar hesitated. “Dan… be careful. Mark me well when I say that gnomes are treacherous. Deception runs in their blood. They lie and scheme as naturally as we breathe. If Pinewhisker tells you anything, it’ll be because he wants something far more dangerous in return. The gnomes, they never give without getting. It is their way.”

  “This is the Backrooms,” I said with a tired smile. “I wouldn’t expecting anything less.”