The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the quad as Arthur, book bag slung over his shoulder, exited the Bodleian Library. He felt the weight of Kaelen’s journals, now safely digitized and backed up across multiple cloud servers, a tangible representation of the danger he was courting. Anya's revelation, combined with the damning evidence within those digital pages, had solidified his resolve, but it had also painted a target squarely on his back.

He’d been expecting something. Martel wasn’t the kind to take accusations lying down.

The two men waiting for him near the Radcliffe Camera were not subtle. Built like brick outhouses in cheap tracksuits, they leaned against a parked black BMW, arms crossed, faces radiating menace. They reeked of stale cigarettes and desperation. Arthur recognised the type – low-level enforcers, muscle for hire, the kind who thought a snapped kneecap was just another day at the office.

He considered turning around, losing himself in the labyrinthine alleys of Oxford, but he knew that would only delay the inevitable. Martel wanted to play games? Fine. Arthur was done running.

As he approached, the larger of the two, a man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a snarling bulldog on his neck, straightened. “Arthur Penhaligon?” he grunted, his voice gravelly.

Arthur stopped a few feet away. “That depends. Are you selling something?”

The bulldog-necked man smirked, revealing yellowed teeth. “We’re here to offer you some friendly advice. From Mr. Martel.”

“I'm all ears,” Arthur replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. He subtly shifted his weight, assessing their stance, looking for tells. Old habits die hard, and Kaelen's instincts were whispering in his ear, a constant hum of awareness.

“Mr. Martel thinks you’re making a big mistake,” the second man, shorter but wirier, said, his eyes darting around the quad, checking for witnesses. “Talking to the press, digging up the past… it’s all very… disruptive. To everyone.”

“Disruptive?” Arthur echoed, raising an eyebrow. “I’d call it bringing to light corruption and potential murder. But ‘disruptive’ works too, I suppose.”

The bulldog-necked man took a step forward, closing the distance. “Mr. Martel wants you to understand that The Crucible is a business. A lucrative business. And you’re threatening that. He wants you to withdraw from the competition. Now.”

“Or what?” Arthur challenged, the word laced with a subtle undercurrent of steel.

The bulldog-necked man's smirk widened. “Or things might… get… complicated. For you. For your friends. For… well, you get the picture.” He gestured vaguely with a thick, calloused hand.

The threat was clear. Arthur felt a surge of anger, a familiar heat rising in his chest. He thought of Professor Finch, of Anya, even of the kindly librarian who had helped him with his research. They were all potential targets now.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper. Not yet.

“Tell Mr. Martel that I appreciate his concern,” Arthur said, his voice deceptively calm. “But I’m not easily intimidated. And I don’t respond well to threats.”

The shorter man chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. “You think you’re tough, bookworm? You’re playing a game you don’t understand.”

“Maybe,” Arthur said, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips. “But I’m a fast learner.”

The bulldog-necked man had clearly had enough of the pleasantries. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the otherwise quiet quad. “Alright, pretty boy. We tried to be nice. Now, maybe a little… persuasion is in order.”

He lunged, swinging a clumsy, telegraphed punch. Arthur didn’t even flinch. Time seemed to slow down. Kaelen's reflexes kicked in, honed by years of brutal cage fights. He side-stepped the punch with effortless grace, the bulldog-necked man’s momentum carrying him forward.

Arthur grabbed the man’s outstretched arm, using his weight against him. With a swift, fluid motion, he executed a textbook Aikido wrist lock. The bulldog-necked man screamed as his wrist buckled, collapsing to his knees.

The shorter man reacted instantly, pulling a knife from his pocket. It was a cheap switchblade, glinting menacingly in the fading sunlight.

Arthur swore inwardly. He hadn’t wanted to escalate things, but he wasn’t about to get stabbed in a bloody Oxford quad.

He released the bulldog-necked man’s wrist, pivoting to face the shorter man. He feinted left, then moved right, closing the distance before the man could properly deploy the blade. Arthur slapped the knife hand sharply, the force of the blow numbing the man’s grip. The switchblade clattered to the cobblestones.

Before the man could react, Arthur delivered a sharp kick to his solar plexus. The man gasped, doubling over, clutching his stomach.

The bulldog-necked man, still nursing his wrist, tried to get to his feet. Arthur turned his attention back to him. He didn’t want to inflict unnecessary damage, but he needed to send a clear message.

He delivered a lightning-fast jab to the man’s nose, followed by a crisp right hook to the jaw. The bulldog-necked man went down hard, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Arthur stood over the two men, breathing heavily. He hadn't enjoyed that. Kaelen’s instincts were useful, even necessary, but they were also… brutal. He hated the ease with which he had dispatched them, the cold efficiency of his movements. He was Arthur Penhaligon, not some savage cage fighter.

But he was also Kaelen Sterling, and Kaelen Sterling wouldn’t back down from a fight.

He retrieved the switchblade from the ground, wiping it clean with his handkerchief. He tucked it into his pocket. Not for protection. For evidence.

He pulled out his phone and dialled the non-emergency police number.

“Hello,” he said, his voice calm and collected. “I’d like to report an assault. I’m at the Radcliffe Camera in Oxford. Two men attempted to intimidate and threaten me. I was forced to defend myself.”

He provided the operator with a brief account of the incident, careful to omit any mention of The Crucible or Victor Martel. He just reported that two men attacked him. He waited for the police to arrive, watching as a small crowd gathered, drawn by the commotion.

When the officers arrived, Arthur gave them a statement, handing over the switchblade as evidence. The two thugs, groaning and dazed, were helped to their feet and placed under arrest.

As the police van pulled away, Arthur felt a strange mix of relief and unease. He had defended himself, he had sent a message to Martel, but he knew this was just the beginning. The stakes were about to get much higher.

He walked back to his room, the weight of Kaelen’s past pressing down on him. He needed to be smarter, more strategic. He couldn’t just rely on his fists. He needed to use his mind, to anticipate Martel’s moves, to outmaneuver him.

He sat down at his desk, opened his laptop, and started typing. He was no longer just Arthur Penhaligon, the timid Oxford student. He was a weapon, forged in the fires of betrayal and reborn with a singular purpose: vengeance.

He began compiling a detailed dossier on Victor Martel. Every connection, every transaction, every dirty secret. He would use everything he had learned, everything Anya had uncovered, to expose Martel and bring him to justice.

The fight was on. And Arthur Penhaligon, or rather, Kaelen Sterling, was ready. He knew the crucible awaited, and his rebirth was far from complete.