Page 77 of Brutal Unionn
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,chipped near 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.
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.
