A major task of Turk operations is keeping tabs on the underground fighting rings, those seedy federations that crop up in the darkest corners of every city. There's nowhere in this world without men who make their money in sweat and blood and the bloodthirsty patrons that churn in faithfully to keep business booming. As such, the Turks are never without candidates to fill the various ranks back home, and maybe Tseng is looking into a few of these for reasons other than what is mandated of his organization, but he finds himself with a wealth to choose from.

Right now, he favors Corel. It's an unforgiving circuit. Native fighters come from hard labor stock, so the weight class skews heavy. The difficult terrain is hard on unacclimated outsiders, which means that they must be extra dedicated if they wish to compete, trained to a monstrous degree. And the prize at the end of all of it is their local champion, The Iron Mattock, so called because he can break any stone with his bare hands. All the pictures Tseng's contacts have sent of him are the same: a man pierced like a pincushion, his skin inscrutable beneath the dizzying number of his tattoos, vaguely roaring at something off-camera. Scuttlebutt around the circuit is that he feels no pain. Tseng thinks he should like to put that to the test.

Well, not him, personally. He'd never weigh out for that class. Rude, however...

His text is succint as ever:

You're flying to Corel tonight. We'll rendezvous at base camp. Bring gloves.