Page 79 of Brutal Union
They’re fighting because they’ve been ordered to. Because someone in the shadows told them to face me, promised them something for their loyalty. But me? I’m not fighting for orders. I’m not here for applause or survival. I fight because it’s who I am.
Because every calculated step I take, every strike I deliver with precision and control, brings me closer to the silence I’ve learned to live with.
And when I move—when I close the gap between breath and blade—I hear her.
“You still have a soft spot for me, Sho?”
Maybe. Or maybe that spot hardened a long time ago into something sharper than steel.
Because even when I’m fighting for my life, I still remember the way she laughed while twisting a knife into my thigh. The way she whispered threats like promises. The way shewatchedme, not like prey, but like a project.
She thinks she knows me. She thinks she’s the only one who can break me. But she forgets, I don’t break. Ibendthe world until it shatters.
The clawed one struggles to rise, favoring his leg now, his breaths coming short and uneven. There’s defiance in the way he squares his shoulders, a final surge of energy that says he knows this is his last chance. He charges with everything he has left—teeth clenched, eyes blazing—but it’s desperation, not strategy.
I don’t give him the opportunity to follow through.
As he swings, I pivot smoothly, stepping aside just enough to guide his momentum past me. My hand catches his arm mid-motion, redirecting his weight with a sharp turn. His balance falters, and I feel the tension in his body as he tries to resist. But he’s too late. I press in with the blade, shift my grip, and his body folds with the motion. He collapses, his fight spent, and I let him go.
Ahead of me, the sai fighter hesitates. He’s still upright, still armed, but doubt flickers in his stance. He backs away a step, calculating. I can see him thinking about retreat.
I move before he can finish the thought, fast and focused, closing the distance in a heartbeat. My blade finds its mark—not withflourish, but with clarity. The strike lands true, and he stiffens, breath catching mid-motion. He stares at me for a moment, confusion dawning in his expression, as if surprised I was able to reach him at all. Then he drops, quiet and still.
I turn toward the final challenger—the kama wielder. He’s on all fours now, crawling through the dust, no longer fighting, only trying to flee. He moves like a man trying to will himself invisible, each motion slower than the last.
I walk to him—not in haste, but with steady purpose. The fight is over. We both know it. Kneeling beside him, I pause. He doesn’t look back. Then, with the precision and control that has carried me through every battle, I press the tip of my blade into his side. There’s no flourish, no anger. Just finality.
When it’s done, I rise. The pit is silent now. The crowd, for once, holds its breath. There’s no chant, no roar of approval. Just the quiet recognition of what’s been witnessed. I stand alone in the center, steady and unflinching, already scanning the edge of the arena for the next one brave—or foolish—enough to step forward.
Then the crowd erupts, chaos, roaring approval, a sea of fists and howls. Somewhere above, Bhon is nodding faintly, arms crossed. Aoi is clapping, slow and sharp like a blade unsheathing.
I breathe deep. Blood soaks my hands, seeps into the wraps. My side aches. My lungs burn.
“Round Four!”Aoi’s voice rings out like a chime dipped in poison—sweet, but biting.
There’s a flutter in her tone, like she’s almostdelightedby the chaos. Like she wants to see how far I can go before I bleed outor black out. Probably both. She always did enjoy watching me dance on the edge.
Ihearhim before Iseehim. The sound is unmistakable—thick, deliberate steps that make the dirt shift with each impact. The kind of footfalls that don’t echo—theyannounce.
When he finally enters the pit, the crowd’s collective gasp is instant.
He’s massive. A wall of muscle, easily six and a half feet tall, with the girth of a refrigerator and the movement of somethingtoo bigto be real. His skin is mottled with sweat and dark ink, a dragon coiled around his torso in thick black lines. His club—more tree trunk than weapon—is slung casually over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. But I know better. That thing could collapse a ribcage with a single swing.
Crap.
From the sidelines, Bhon bursts into a fit of childlike giggles, doubling over with delight like this is some slapstick comedy show and not a blood-soaked battle royale.
“Of course,” I mutter under my breath, not even bothering to hide the eye-roll. “Obnoxious bastard.”
He’s not laughing because he thinks I’ll lose. Bhon knows I’ll win.Eventually.But that’s not the point. He’s amused because he knows this is going to be apain in my ass.And pain, to Bhon, is entertainment.
The sumotori doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t roar or posture like the last three fools. No, this one’s smarter—or maybe just more disciplined. He plants his feet wide, shifts his weight with slowconfidence, and rests the club across both hands like a batter waiting for the fastball.
His eyes are unreadable. Not dead, but still. Stoic.
This man watched me cut down the others. He knows I’m quick. Precise. Deadly. But he also sees the blood on my wraps. The torn cloth at my ribs. The fatigue starting to creep into the corner of my stance. He thinks he has the edge.
He thinks I’m tired.
