Page 81 of Brutal Union
“Round Six”
Another one barrels in—a knife fighter. Arms covered in crude tattoos, tiger claws etched along his forearms like he wants the world to know he’s a predator. He moves like it too. Fast. Relentless. Slashing in tight arcs meant to disembowel. One cut lands. Right across my shoulder. It burns hot, sharp.
I grunt, step into the pain, and deliver a palm strike to his chin. He stumbles back, and I don’t hesitate. I pivot and drive my blade across his throat. A red line blooms. He tries to speak, but only blood comes. He crumples like wet paper.
The crowd erupts again—cheers, laughter, bets being shouted. But I don’t hear it.
All I hear is Nadia’s voice.“You’ll never survive me.”
And maybe I won’t. But she sure as hell won’t survivewithoutme.
“Round Seven”
She’s different.
No flash. No showmanship. A quiet killer. Her stance is textbook. Measured. Controlled. She goes for joints, pressure points. Lands one hit—a sharp jab to the nerve in my neck that sends stars bursting in my vision.She’s efficient. She’s good.
But she’s not Nadia.
And that means she’s notmyenemy. I trap her arm during the next strike, and slam her to the ground. My knee pins her down, and my elbow swings down like a hammer.
She goes limp beneath me. I rise slowly, chest heaving, blood dripping from my ribs. My blade is shaking in my hand, not from fear—but rage. Focus. Obsession.
Nadia.
Nadia with the guns strapped to her thighs and the perfume that smells like danger. Nadia, who once dragged a knife across my chest just to hear the sound I made when she cut me. She’d be watching me right now with that cruel smirk, licking blood off her fingers like dessert.
And all I want is to stand beside her. Not as her enemy. As herequal.
“Round Eight”
He’s huge. Not sumotori(sumo wrestling)huge—but close. Bald head, mohawk stripe, thick chest covered in burn scars. He drags a serrated axe behind him, and when he lifts it, the crowdgasps. He swings like a brute with nothing to lose. And I—Ilet himconnect.
Just once. The blade grazes my ribs. Tears flesh. Blood blossoms instantly. But I needed it. I needed that clarity. Thatpain.It sharpens me.
I duck inside his guard, shoulder-ram into his chest, and he stumbles. I drive three rapid-fire strikes into his gut—blade, fist, blade again. He catches my wrist. Slams me into the dirt. The world spins. I cough, spit blood,grin. He raises the axe. Iroll.
I sweep my leg low and fast, catching his from beneath him. His footing vanishes, and his body spins out, twisting midair like the blade of a windmill before crashing down—headfirst—into the dirt.
He groans, already breathless. The earlier blows I landed have done their work, chipping away at his strength until now, when he tries to rise, he barely manages more than a twitch. His muscles strain against exhaustion, against the weight of defeat, but his body refuses to cooperate. He stays down, panting, hands digging into the earth as if he can claw his way back into the fight. He can’t.
I step toward him, deliberate and calm, and wrench the axe from his grasp. It comes free easily—he’s too weak to hold on, too spent to fight for it. I hold the weapon up, turning slowly toward the crowd, letting the moment stretch. My chest rises and falls with the weight of the fight, blood still humming in my ears, but my eyes remain sharp, locked on the sea of faces staring down at me. I raise the axe just slightly, not in threat but in triumph, letting the image settle in their minds.
Is this what you wanted?
And the answer comes—loud, unanimous, and wild.
The crowd erupts, their cheers cascading over the arena like a tidal wave. They shout, they roar, they stomp and clap, the sound rising to a fever pitch. Their approval crashes into me like a second wind. It’s not just victory—it’s validation. And it seals the moment like the final nail in a coffin.
I stumble back to center.
The crowd ishowling, but they sound distant. Like echoes underwater.
All I can hear is the pounding of my own heart. All I can see isher—Nadia. Dripping in blood. Laughing with madness in her eyes.
This is for her.But not just for her. This is for the Yakuza. The old ways. The empire that scarred me. I’m going to tear it apart—root and bone—and rebuild it inmyname. Not out of revenge, but out of purpose. Because only when I rule will she finally kneel. And when she does? I won’t demand her loyalty. I’ll demand hercrown.
The air in the pit is thick—sodden with blood, sweat, and the quiet gasp of disbelief. My breath comes ragged, sharp in my throat, but I don’t lower my blade. Not yet. The rusted edge, chipped and worn, is still warm with blood. My arms ache. My ribs scream. But I remain standing.
