Page 77 of Brutal Union
Bhon once forced a cocktail of poisons into my bloodstream to build up resistance. For a month, I hallucinated demons in daylight and begged gods I didn’t believe in for silence. I fought a Shaolin monk turned sadist who beat me senseless and left me hanging from the side of a literal cliff. Then there was Bhon’s idea of a "final exam": a bathhouse ambush, three assassins, and no weapons. So yeah, when Bhon rings the bell, Aoi gives the signal, and the first opponent lunges. I smirk.
Compared to my past, this is foreplay.
He opens with a textbook jogeburi—a two-handed, vertical Kendo strike meant to cleave straight through me. Powerful. Precise. Clean. But far too rehearsed. I see it coming the moment his stance shifts.
With a quick sidestep to the right, I slip just out of range, swift and silent. Before his momentum can recover, I close the distance and drive my blade into his side—controlled, deliberate. His body tenses. His eyes go wide with shock as the strike lands. For a heartbeat, he simply stands there, frozen, like his mind hasn’t quite caught up with what’s happened.
Then he drops.
The crowd inhales as one, stunned into a single, suspended breath. And then, as the body is swiftly carried out of the arena, the silence cracks open into wild, electric applause.
“Round two!” Aoi sings, her voice bright with amusement. I glance up and catch her watching me with that fox-smile of hers,the one that says she already knows what comes next—and she can’t wait to see it.
The next challenger steps into the pit with a kind of reckless energy that speaks louder than words. He’s shorter than the last, lean but tightly coiled, all wiry muscle and old scars—trophies from fights I imagine he barely survived. Twin sabers flash in his hands, and his eyes—wild, sharp—burn with something between desperation and mania.
He wastes no time.
The instant he’s within striking range, he lunges, blades slicing through the air with chaotic speed. There’s no rhythm, no discipline. Just raw, unrelenting aggression. The sabers whirl past me in jagged arcs, so close I can feel the wind of their passage kiss my skin.
I move with purpose—each step measured, each breath calm. I study him, watching his shoulders, his hips, the flicker in his wrists before he commits to a strike. He’s not a trained fighter. He’s not refined. He’s a creature shaped by desperation and grit, a product of underground fights and instinct-driven survival. Raw. Dangerous. But ultimately… predictable.
A quiet breath of laughter slips from me before I can stop it.
He hears it. The sound snags his attention just enough—his eyes flicker, his momentum stutters. It’s not much. But it’s enough. I pivot and step inside his guard, closing the distance fast. My fist slams into his face—centered, controlled. His head snaps back and he stumbles, off-balance, caught between fury and confusion. But to his credit, he doesn’t go down.
He recovers quickly, still swinging, but now it’s messier. Emotion has taken over. He’s more erratic, less precise.
As he commits to another reckless strike, I shift left, just out of reach. My body moves low and tight, legs sweeping his out from under him. His own momentum turns against him, and he crashes to the ground, arms flailing, the fall jarring the fight from his lungs.
He lands hard.
For a moment, he just lies there. Our eyes meet. Whatever fire was in them before has dimmed, replaced by the sudden, painful clarity that the fight is over.
I don’t give him a second chance. My blade is already moving.
When the match is called, the pit booms in excitement and anticipation, but this time I catch it, the flicker of amusement in Bhon’s eyes. The sharp edge of something cruel behind Aoi’s smile.
“It’s getting too easy for dear, old Sho,” Aoi purrs. “Let’s spice it up. Lucky Number Round Three: Three versus one!”
Bastards.
Three men step into the pit, one at my ten, another at my two, the last behind me at six. They circle like wolves, waiting. Tallest one’s got twin sai. The one behind me is strapped with combat claws. The shortest, most compact of the three, spins a pair of kama,traditional Japanese sickle,bound together by a chain, like a dancer with death in his hands.
“This is all you’ve got?” I call out, arms wide, blade loose in one hand.
Bhon chuckles low. Aoi just grins.
Then instinct screams—and I duck just as claws swipe from behind.
I swing low and clip the clawed fighter’s thigh, enough to make him flinch, to throw off his momentum, but not enough to take him out. He snarls and retaliates immediately, wild and unrelenting. I twist to the right, avoiding the brunt of his counter, but a sudden flash of silver glints from my peripheral.
Pain flashes through my side like lightning, quick, hot, and sobering.
A sai.
The tip nearly sinks into my ribs, grazing flesh before I wrench my body away. The sting sharpens my senses. I spin on instinct and my elbow crashes into the tallest man's jaw with a meatycrack. He falls back, clearly shaken by what he thought would be a finishing blow.
But I have no time to follow through.
