Page 53 of Retaliation

Before he could stop his curiosity, he asked: “How do you know him?”

But Kitiara avoided the question. “She was the one that killed Shadow for his territory?” Her words were laced with righteous fury. He could see a simmering anger bubbling up from deep within her.

“No,” He shook his head. “Shadow was her brother. Some other guy killed him. Poison just took over.”

Kitiara’s breath caught in her throat, the rage in her eyes dissipating like smoke in the wind. She sank back onto the couch.

“Are you absolutely sure she’s the one that killed Double R? I mean; the girl I saw didn’t look like she could

take him down. Shit, even you struggled against him.”

“I’m dead sure, and soon enough… she will be dead. I will make her pay for what she has done.” His voice was a low growl, his anger boiling over like a volcano on the brink of eruption.

He felt the pull of his rage like a physical force, urging him to action, to seek out Poison and exact his vengeance upon her without mercy or remorse.

But Kitiara’s words cut through the haze of his fury like a katana through flesh.

“Phillip, think about this for a moment. I mean, it is Poison that we’re talking about here.” Her words were a plea for reason in the face of overwhelming emotion.

“All I have done for the past four years is think about it, Kitiara! Thanks to her, I not only lost my brother, but my whole fucking life went up to shit.” His voice cracked with emotion.

“How about you get in the ring and blow off some steam?” she suggested.

“I could do with some skull smashing,” he said grimly, his fingers flexing.

He launched himself off the couch, his muscles twisted with tension as he strode toward the door. Kitiara fell into step beside him.

“I’ll let them know downstairs so they can get you a challenger,” she offered.

“Better put in three at the same time, then,” he snorted, the bitter edge of sarcasm lacing his voice.

With a heavy sigh, he descended the stairs, each step a resounding echo of his inner turmoil. He had hoped that Kitiara’s presence would quell the storm raging within him, but instead, it only fueled the flames.

He pushed open the bottom door with force, his thoughts churning like a stormy sea, his mind consumed by thoughts of retribution.

He walked with purpose toward the ring, the siren calls of combat ringing in his ears. Two fighters clashed in a brutal showcase of violence, their bodies moving lethally as they battled for dominance.

Phillip knew it was against arena rules to enter the ring when there was a fight in progress, but at that moment, rules meant nothing to him. The only thing that mattered was his burning need for blood, his desperate hunger for justice.

With a primal roar, he climbed into the ring, his movements fueled by rage and despair. Without hesitation, he seized the nearest fighter and hurled him from the ring with a savage strength born of desperation.

Turning to face the remaining fighter, his eyes burned with fierce intensity. His fists clenched at his sides as he prepared to unleash his fury upon his unwitting opponent. The nomad hesitated momentarily, taken aback by his sudden appearance, but then he squared his shoulders and braced himself for the onslaught.

He may not be able to bring back his brother, may not be able to undo the pain and suffering that Poison had caused, but in that ring, surrounded by the roar of the crowd, he found a fleeting sense of relief, a momentary reprieve from the relentless agony of his grief.

Phillip’s muscles tensed as he faced off against his opponent, his breaths coming in short, controlled bursts. With a steely glint in his eyes, he locked onto his target, every fiber of his being focused.

As the nomad lunged forward with a ferocious right hook, Phillip’s instincts kicked in, his body moving with lightning speed to evade the blow. With a lithe sidestep, he slipped past the punch.

Seizing the opportunity, he retaliated with a swift jab to his opponent’s ribs, the impact sending a jolt of pain through the nomad’s body. The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the arena as Phillip’s fist connected with its target.

But the nomad quickly recovered, his determination shining through the haze of pain. With a guttural growl, he launched a flurry of punches at Phillip’s head and torso, each blow coming faster and harder than the last.

But Phillip danced on the edge of danger, his reflexes honed to razor-sharp precision as he dodged and weaved through the onslaught of attacks. With each movement, he calculated his next move, his mind working in perfect harmony with his body.

Feeling the heat of battle coursing through his veins, Phillip seized the moment to strike. With a lightning-fast kick, he aimed for his opponent’s knee, his foot connecting with bone-jarring force. The nomad stumbled back, his leg buckling beneath him as he fought to maintain his balance.

But Phillip was relentless, his movements fueled by a primal need for victory. With a fierce cry, he closed the distance between them in an instant, his fists a blur of motion as he unleashed punch after punch upon his opponent.

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