Page 78 of Brutal Unionn
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, andhe 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 andunrelenting. 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.
From behind, I feel it, the whisper of air, then the bite of steel. The kama-wielding bastard swings from below like he’s trying to unspool my spine. I jerk my torso forward just in time, the curved blade leaving a burning kiss up my back. It’s shallow, but enough to remind me: these men didn’t come to test me. They came to end me.
My foot lashes out behind me, heel-first, andcracksinto his sternum. He grunts, air rushing from his lungs in a strangled wheeze, and stumbles back, arms flailing as he regains his balance.
Finally some space.
I backpedal three quick steps and lower my stance. My breath comes in short bursts, adrenaline surging through me like a well-oiled engine, ready to push further. Blood trickles slowly from my side, warm and steady, but it doesn’t matter. Pain sharpens me. Refines me. I was raised to endure worse. Hell, I wasbuiltfor worse.
I glance between them, the three jackals trying to close back in. The tallest is dazed, jaw slack and bleeding. The clawed one limps slightly, favoring his left leg. The kama boy recovers, rage burning behind his eyes now that he’s lost the element of surprise.
They’re coordinated, I’ll give them that. But they aren’t synchronized. No true cohesion. No unified rhythm. They’re not a pack, they’re individuals whothinknumbers will save them.
That’s their mistake, because I don’t see three enemies.
I see three weapons. Three styles. Three weaknesses.
And I plan to use each one to kill the other.
They’re circling again.
Desperate to reclaim momentum, to convince themselves they still have the upper hand. But I can see it, etched into their stances, the twitch of uncertainty in their shoulders, the falter in their timing. Theythoughtthis would be an easy kill. That three against one meant inevitability. But inevitability doesn’t exist in my world. Only outcomes. And outcomes are crafted by those who refuse to die.
My eyes narrow on the sai user, tall, lean, trying to re-center himself. That’s the technician. Precision fighter. He’s the kind of guy who thinks one perfect stab will end a fight. He's probably trained in kata, drilled clean forms a thousand times in front of a mirror, never once bled for it. He’s dangerous only if you give him space.
The clawed one, he’s the brawler. Fast, aggressive, but wild. The limp in his left leg will get worse the more he moves. His strikes are fueled by pain now, not discipline. That makes him predictable. And exploitable.
Then there’s kama boy.Japanese sickle.The hungriest of the trio. He moves like he wants to prove something, fast, sharp, almost too fast. He overcommits. He doesn’t know how to wait. That’s going to get him killed.
