Page 80 of Brutal Union
But I’ve been tired before.
I was tired when Nadia drugged me and chained me to a chair. I was tired when I fought Bhon in a frozen river with two broken ribs. I was tired when I buried my brother in the rain and promised him I’d never become the monster our father was.
And yet—here I am.
I shift my blade in my hand, letting it rest low near my hip, non-threatening. Casual. The crowd quiets, sensing the tension between us. A beast versus a shadow. Strength versus finesse. I smile slightly.
David always beats Goliath.
Not because he’s stronger, but because he’ssmarter.
I dart left, and the club cuts through the air beside me, a heavy whistle trailing inches from my head. It misses, but only just. He doesn’t overcommit—doesn’t stumble. He’s been here before. This one isn’t reckless. He’s deliberate. I roll across the packed earth and rise near the edge of the pit, breath sharp in my chest, sweat stinging where blood has dried. He’s already resetting, broad stance firm, eyes trained on me with an unsettlingstillness. He’s not just strong—he’s trained. Not a brute, but a performer. A fighter built to winandentertain. That’s what makes him dangerous.
I toss my blade, letting it skid across the dirt behind him. He flinches, just slightly, tracking it with his eyes. Exactly what I wanted. In that fraction of a second, I’m already sprinting forward—unarmed, deliberate. The crowd lets out a collective gasp, confused and excited. It looks reckless. Desperate. But it’s not.
He raises the club with both hands, anticipating the moment I get within reach. I slide low before he can swing, gathering a handful of gravel and loose dirt, and throw it upward, right into his face.
He bellows, more surprised than hurt, staggering as the dust clouds his vision. The club comes down hard, but wide, striking only empty space.
I’m already moving.
I reach for my blade and sweep it up into my hand, circling around him as he tries to recover. A clean strike to the back of his leg drops him to one knee. The pain slows him, but doesn’t break him. He’s still dangerous. Still calculating.
I shift forward, blade in hand, and drive it into the space near his shoulder. The movement is controlled, measured—not meant to destroy, but to end the momentum. He grits his teeth and swings the club again, a final, desperate arc with all the weight he can muster.
This time, I catch it.
Both hands brace against the force, the vibration jolting through my arms. The club threatens to push me backward, but I hold on. Redirect the weight. Step behind him and guide the motion off course. My blade lifts, steadies.
It rests at his neck—not slicing, not digging in. Justthere.
“You’re done,” I say, low and steady.
His body sags with the weight of the fight, and the club slips from his hands. He falls forward, not violently, but with gravity—like a tree that’s stood too long against the wind.
I stand tall, still breathing hard, blade in hand, waiting for the next move—because I know better than to think this is over.
The next few fights blur together like a fever dream—flesh, fury, and blood smearing at the edges of consciousness.
“Round Five”
He’s cocky. Young, whip-thin, swinging a chain like it’s an extension of his ego. The kind of guy who learned to fight on YouTube and thinks confidence is the same as competence.
He cracks the chain like a warning shot, grinning. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.
My feet move before thought catches up. The chain slices through the air toward my throat—I catch it mid-swing, feel it bite into my palm through the wraps, and yank him forward. He loses balance, surprised. My knee rises like instinct—collides with his face. He’s stunned, reaching for something solid to hold onto.
All I give him is steel. I wrap his own chain around his neck and pull, hard. He gurgles. Kicks. Scratches. But I don’t stop until he stops moving.
I step back, exhale, taste copper on my tongue. My vision flickers. But in the flicker, I seeher.
Nadia.
Painted lips, wicked smile, blade dragging along my collarbone like she’s tracing ownership into my skin.
“You still fantasize about killing me, Sho?” she once purred.
No. I fantasize about ruling beside you.
