Arcane: Sovereign Of The Broken City

Chapter 7: The Last One Standing

Year: 987 AN

Zaun — Two Years Later

There's a moment when watching turns into waiting.

And then waiting turns into wasting.

I spent two years watching Vander and Silco.

I thought maybe they'd change things—one through peace, the other through fire. Maybe all I had to do was wait, and someone else would light the spark.

They didn't.

Vander played protector, keeping the enforcers out of the Lanes. He poured drinks and gave speeches about peace like they were enough to drown out injustice. But he only protected the ones closest to him. The rest of Zaun bled in silence while he kept his head down.

Silco… was worse in some ways. All words. Revolution. Zaun's freedom. Power for the Undercity. But he offered no path, no clarity. His commune was ruled by fear, not vision. He shouted change but chased control. He was clever, ruthless—but directionless. A bomb without a target.

They may be good to their own people, like shown. But they are not the heroes I expected… and definitely not champions.

So I stopped watching.

I stopped waiting.

If no one else would carry the weight, then I would.

---

After I took that shipment everything changed.

What I cracked open was a crate of prototype firearms—high-grade, hybrid-crafted, cleaner than anything Zaun typically handled. New tech. Recoil dampeners. Aligned-pressure barrels. Reinforced chemsteel. An engineering marvel hidden beneath soot and rust.

Strath, poor bastard, ended up taking the fall. Apparently, losing that crate cost him dearly with the barons.

Funny how a moment's mistake for one becomes momentum for another.

---

For two years, I trained.

I studied those weapons—reverse-engineered them, modified them. My Earth knowledge helped me break them down, piece by piece. I built new firing mechanisms, realigned balance points, tweaked recoil flow. I taught myself to shoot properly: breath control, movement, target priority, ammo conservation.

But I didn't forget close combat. That wasn't an option.

I honed my grapples and reversals. I couldn't outmuscle bigger fighters, so I mastered positioning, leverage, angles. No wasted energy. If they overcommitted, I punished them. If they hesitated, I ended it.

And the most important change?

Endurance.

All the technique in the world means nothing if you can't go the distance.

I trained my body every damn day. Finally fed. No longer starving. Building myself up, little by little. Cuts turned to calluses. Limbs moved with confidence.

I looked at myself one day and realized:

It's always the last one standing that wins.

---

Zaun doesn't need another brute with muscle and a throne of broken bottles.

It needs infrastructure. Leadership. Vision. It needs a future.

So I made a list.

Not just fighters. I don't need people who obey—I need people who build. Who think. Who care. Leaders who can carry burdens with me, not behind me.

After working odd jobs all across Zaun, after asking questions and quietly watching the people who stood out, I started to find them.

---

Lynne – Age 14.

Don't let the glasses and perfect posture fool you. She's sharper than most blades and more paranoid than I am.

A former chem-runner who pivoted to data theft and fake research credentials. Tricked a chem-baron's lieutenant into funding a project that never existed—twice. Survives on half-truths and sharp aim.

I tracked her down in an abandoned observatory she was using as a hideout. She tried to out-talk me. We went back and forth for nearly twenty minutes.

It was fun.

---

Cael – Age 17.

If you need something found, sold, or bartered under three hours—he's your guy. Silver tongue, fast hands, faster escape plans. Keeps a book of contacts thicker than most folks' egos.

He once tried selling one of the guns I'd modded. I caught him mid-pitch, arms waving, talking up a weapon he clearly didn't understand.

When I called him out, he gave me a cheeky grin and said, "Hey, you didn't leave a brand on it."

We've been business partners ever since.

---

Viktor – somewhere under Zaun.

Still under Singed's wing. I don't know him personally. Not yet. But I know his designs. I've seen his theories.

He's cautious. He doesn't build weapons.

But I slipped him something he couldn't resist: a concept design of a cold fusion converter—based on Earth knowledge, inspired by old comic tech. Not practical without Zaun's chem-gas infrastructure, but enough to make a genius curious.

He's working on it. And when he finishes it, he'll understand: he can change everything.

---

I had others on the list too.

Grik—loud, loyal, dumb as a wrench.

Senna—liked explosives more than people.

Bex—a chem alchemist who thought collaboration was beneath her.

All brilliant in their way. But not right.

I need trust. Teamwork. Shared vision.

---

Standing on the balcony of the ruined clock tower, coat fluttering in the breeze, I looked out at Zaun's broken skyline.

Fissures. Spill. The Lanes.

I imagined a new skyline—cleaner, brighter, breathing.

And I whispered to the broken wind,

"Let's build something worth bleeding for."

---

I don't need a pirate crew. I ain't Luffy and This ain't a ship. But damn if I don't need a crew.

A vice-captain. Someone who can clean up after me and slap sense into me when I lose mine.

A merchant to handle logistics.

An engineer to bring the blueprints in my head to life.

A muscle to kick in doors and anchor us when things go bad.

Each will lead their own. One day, we'll form something more.

But first—I'll earn them.

---

I've got the base. I've got the fire.

Now I gather the sparks.

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