Page 76 of Brutal Union
The arena is dug into the center of the room, a sunken rectangle surrounded by a low concrete barrier. The floor is bare concrete, scuffed and stained, with thin, dark streaks where blood has dried and been wiped away—half-hearted at best. The corners hold the worst of it, where it pools when fighters stop moving.
Around the walls, old weapons hang from iron hooks—Katana, Wakizashi, —traditional Japanese swords,even a few chipped sabers. Most have been used more than cleaned. A few men sit beneath the racks, heads down, slowly dragging whetstones along their blades. The scraping sound is rhythmic, steady, like breathing. Others wrap their wrists and fingers in tape, some flexing old bruises and testing shoulder rotations before their names are called.
In the pit, a fight is already in progress.
The two fighters are barefoot, stripped to the waist, moving in tight circles. One’s taller, quicker on his feet. The other is heavier, more grounded. They don’t speak. They don’t posture. They attack—hard and fast. The taller man’s blade slices across the other’s shoulder, drawing blood. No reaction. Just another forward step. The heavy one counters with a full-body swing and drives the point of his sword into the other’s stomach.
A wet thud. The sound of a body hitting the floor. The crowd roars in praise, anger and urges for more.
Aoi walks ahead of us. Her hips sway just enough to draw attention. She smiles at the fighters without slowing, eyes scanning the room with open approval, as some whistle and call her baby. Some even smile, leaving lust sprawled across their face until they see a scowling Bhon.
The scent of blood, the tension in the air, the hum of violence waiting to break loose—she’s in her element. She winks at one of the men sharpening a blade, lets her fingers trail along the railing of the pit, and keeps moving toward the far hallway like the whole arena is hers to command, and for the most part it is.
Kyaraban Kurabu—or more commonly, the Mercury Club—is Aoi’s sadistic death baby. A club built for killers by a killer. The most vicious, bloodthirsty assassins in Japan come here to fight to the death. Win the night, and you walk out with a billion yen. Lose… and that’s your fucking life. A gift-wrapped sacrifice to the blood goddess herself.
I avoided this place like the plague. No real assassin with a survival instinct comes here unless they’ve got something to prove—or nothing left to lose.
But when Bhon told me this was the final test before I could claim the Yakuza for myself, I didn’t argue. If this is the last test then I will fucking succeed. I will come out victorious. I will be the man who brought the Yakuza to its knees, if it means I have kill fifty or so assassins in the process, well all’s fair in revenge and love ain’t it?
Bhon juts his hand out, stopping me right in front of a wall lined with blades—some pristine, most not.
“This is where real fights happen,” he says, motioning to the pit. “No one’s here to save that pretty face.”
“Aww, you think I’m pretty?” I smirk, stepping down slowly, scanning the room again. The floor still smells like blood and burnt adrenaline.
The smell is thick. Blood. Sweat. Metal. Adrenaline. It clings to the air like oil. My mouth waters. My muscles tighten. The fight, the weight of it, calls to something in me.
The fights go round after round—ten back-to-back, no breaks, no medical timeouts, no one dragging your ass out if you’re too slow. You either stay standing or get dragged out like meat. It’s not just about skill. It’s about endurance. Precision matters, but so does pain tolerance. You miss one block in round five, you might not make it to round six.
After the tenth round, they open it to the crowd—any last challengers, anyone with a grudge, a reputation to build, or something to prove. And if you're still alive after that? If you’re the last one breathing while the rest of the floor looks like a war crime?
You win.
No one’s done it clean in years. The last man to walk out spotless was Bhon himself—two years ago. Didn’t take a single hit. Left forty-nine bodies cooling on the floor. All assassin-trained. All dead.
All because he got in a fight with Aoi and Aoi said that was the only way for him to say fucking sorry. He was still in the dog house for six months after that.
Bhon walks to the weapons rack along the back wall and grabs a sword from the bottom. It’s shorter than standard, the grip worn down, leather peeling at the edges. The blade is dull, chippednear the hilt, and rusted along one side. He tosses it to me without warning.
I raise an eyebrow. “Awe…giving me a lucky charm?”
“No, smart ass. For your know-it-all attitude,” Bhon says, crossing his arms, “you’ll fight with that.”
I hold it up, examining the uneven edge. “If you want me dead there are easier, quicker, less time consuming ways to do so.”
“I want you humbled,” he replies flatly. “If you can win with that, you’ve earned something. If not… you weren’t ready anyway.”
I twirl the blade in my palm, letting its weight settle, flipping it between both hands like a gambler rolling dice. Steel sings in the air as I swing it low, then high, getting a feel for its rhythm. It's lighter than what I trained with under Bhon’s brutal regime, but that’s a blessing. I’ll need speed. The men I’m about to face will likely be swinging three-foot swords, mistaking size for skill. My best chance? Get in close. Carve them up before they can get their feet set.
I tear two long strips from the hem of my pants and wrap them around my knuckles, tight and steady. If I’m going to survive multiple rounds, I can’t afford to have my fists falling apart on me. Bone and flesh are easier to repair than pride. Bhon taught me that the hard way.
Once the pit is cleared, just barely, I step into the center. The dirt underfoot is still wet with blood, and the crowd simmers with anticipation.
“Round 1” Aoi yells.
My eyes lock on the first challenger: tall, ripped like a statue, long black hair tied back tight, and a blade twice the length ofmine gleaming under the arena lights. He looks like he walked out of a martial arts folktale. I steady my breath.
This isn’t the first time I’ve danced with death.
