Jaskier’s knuckles throbbed, a dull ache beneath the taut skin, but his smile remained bright, almost blinding in the grimy glow of the fight pit. The crowd roared, rattling the rusted iron beams of the makeshift arena in the Serpent’s Nest district. Every face was a blur of frenzied anticipation, their shouts for ‘The Drozd’ a dizzying affirmation of his calculated gamble. Lord Sokolov, perched on a velvet-draped balcony, his jowly face a mask of condescending amusement, clearly believed Jaskier’s appearance here was a desperate last gasp. He had no idea Jaskier was just gathering more steps.
The 'Smasher'—a dockland brute named Gryzlo—stood opposite, his breath fogging in the cool air. The dock fighter had won eleven straight bouts, each ending with fractured jaws or cracked ribs. Today, he looked like a minor inconvenience. Jaskier’s internal counter had been climbing steadily for the past three days, every patrol route, every alleyway shortcut, every sprint up the crumbling steps of the Old Watchtower, adding another increment to the ethereal number.
[Echoed Steps: 1,783,921]
The number flared against the darkness of his retinas, a silent tally. Enough. More than enough.
The announcer, a wiry man with a voice like grinding gears, bellowed the start. Gryzlo charged, a freight train of muscle and fury. His left hook, a move that had put grown men to sleep, arced towards Jaskier’s head. It was slow. Cartoonishly slow. Jaskier swayed, a mere inch of movement, and the punch whistled past his ear, stirring a few strands of hair. The crowd gasped.
Jaskier stepped in, a blur of motion. He didn’t wind up, didn’t telegraph. His fist, backed by the raw power of nearly two million steps, slammed into the fighter's jaw. The sound was a wet crack that carried even over the din of the crowd. Gryzlo's eyes rolled back. His body, once an unstoppable force, simply crumpled. He hit the sawdust-strewn floor with a final, sickening thud.
The silence was absolute, then erupted into pandemonium. Coins rained down, cheering deafened. Jaskier stood over the defeated giant, his chest barely rising. He looked up toward the box, offering a practiced, boyish grin. The nobleman's jowls tightened, his earlier sneer curdling into slack unease.
The betting manager, a plump man named Bartek, scrambled forward, mouth agape. “Unbelievable! A new record! The pot, Mister Drozd, it’s… staggering.” He gestured to a large wooden chest overflowing with coin and promissory notes. The sum was vast, far exceeding the fabricated debt the creditor had levied against his house.
“Just in time,” Jaskier said, his voice carrying clearly to the balcony. “Wouldn’t want to be late with my payments, now would I, my lord?” Jaskier locked eyes with the man in the balcony, his smile hardening slightly. “Consider the Drozd debt settled. With interest.”
The crowd roared again, sensing the public humiliation. The nobleman sneered, rose abruptly from his velvet chair, and stormed out, his retinue scrambling behind. Triumph surged through Jaskier, a heady mix of vindication and raw, unadulterated power. Iskra, a faint shimmer at the periphery of his sight, pulsed with a soft, pleased light.
Later that evening, the celebration at the renovated Drozd manor was modest but heartfelt. His few remaining loyal servants toasted his victory. Jaskier, leaning against a restored oak banister, sipped a watered-down wine. The scent of fresh polish and distilled lamp fuel filled the air. The foreclosure notice was gone, replaced by a sense of security he hadn't known since his father's death. It felt good. Too good.
A flicker of movement at the edge of the dining hall caught his attention. A figure, silhouetted against the open archway leading to the gardens, stood watching him. Dawid Sroka. He hadn't announced himself, yet the servants moved around him as if he were invisible. Dawid didn’t carry a weapon, but his presence alone was a threat. His pale eyes fixed on Jaskier, devoid of anger, filled instead with a chilling, weary resignation.
“You won,” Dawid said, his voice a low hum that seemed to bypass Jaskier’s ears and settle in his bones. “Just as you always do.” He stepped into the light, revealing a face etched with a deeper sorrow than Jaskier remembered. “But you don’t understand the true cost.”
Jaskier straightened, a flicker of irritation. “I understand perfectly. I saved my house. I protected what’s mine.”
“You think this is protection?” Dawid scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. He raised a hand, not to strike, but to offer. “Look closer, Jaskier. See what you truly unleash.”
A sudden, searing pain lanced through Jaskier’s skull. His sight warped, the manor dissolving into a nightmare landscape. The gaslights flickered and died, replaced by an inferno of corrupted fuel, a sickly green fire that devoured buildings, twisted metal, and melted stone. Screams, countless and agonizing, tore at the air. He saw the grand spires of Brzezina, once proud, now crumbling husks under a poisoned, swirling sky.
And then, in the heart of the destruction, a silhouette. Impossibly vast, composed of writhing, corrupted energy. It was vaguely humanoid, but monstrous, its limbs reaching, its form indistinct yet terrifyingly familiar. A dark, echoing void where its face should be. Power, raw and unbound, pulsed from its every movement, each ripple sending shockwaves of destruction across the burning city.
Then, Jaskier saw his own hand, translucent and glowing with that same sickly green energy, rise towards the monstrous figure. He was connected. He was *part* of it. The pain intensified, a thousand voices crying out in his mind, all screaming his name.
The illusion snapped, the familiar comfort of the Drozd manor jarringly present. Jaskier stumbled, clutching his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The memory of the screams, the heat, the terror, clung to him like a shroud. Iskra darted frantically around his head, its form a chaotic shimmer.
“What… what was that?” Jaskier whispered, his voice hoarse, his carefree facade shattered.
Dawid’s face was grim. “That was a glimpse of your future, Jaskier. The future I lived through. The future you are marching towards with every single step.” His gaze was unyielding, piercing through Jaskier’s shaken composure. “The Endless March doesn’t just strengthen you. It draws the city's power into you, corrupting it. Your father created the system to contain a city-killing weapon, not to make you a god.”