Page 80 of Brutal Unionn
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 out or 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 ofsomethingtoo 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 slow confidence, 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.
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 twobroken 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 unsettling stillness. 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.
