Page 82 of Brutal Unionn
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.
Istep 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.
Above me, Aoi’s voice slides across the silence like silk over a blade. “Well, well, well,” she purrs, her tone syrupy with delight. “It seems we’ve got a gladiator before us.” Her heels click rhythmically against the stone ledge as she steps into view, the sheen of excitement in her eyes barely veiled. “Since our good friend Sho has graciously defeated all ten of today’s scheduled opponents—” she pauses, letting the moment stretch like a bowstring, savoring the tension, “—why don’t we open the floor?”
Her arms spread wide, theatrically, as if inviting the gods themselves to descend.
“Who thinks they’ve got what it takes to best the man with the rusted blade?”
The pit falls silent. Utterly, painfully silent. No roars, no bets, no jeers. Just the low hum of disbelief. The kind of stillness that follows a massacre when no one knows whether to cheer… or flee.
And how could they? What I’d done wasn’t a performance—it was a message. A ritual. I wasn’t just efficient. I was final. Aside from Bhon—who still leans at the edge of the arena, giggling softly to himself like a drunken monk—I am the most dangerous thing in this room. Maybe in any room.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, flicking blood from my lip, and prepare to turn my back on the crowd.
But then, a hand rises above the heads of the stunned onlookers. Not shaky. Not hesitant. High. Certain. And my heart drops I would know that hand anywhere.
It had once locked chains around my wrists and called it mercy. It had stabbed me with reverence and touched me like I was both an enemy and an addiction. That hand had carved its name into my skin, cupped my jaw after slicing me open, held me like it had every right to.
It was hers.
A voice followed—low, smooth, and maddeningly steady.
“I do,” said Nadia.
And just like that, everything in me stills. The pit, the crowd, the ache in my muscles—all of it vanishes beneath the weight of her presence. The sea of bodies parts as she walks, head held high and steps steady, like the queen of death. Her long coat moves with every step like a second shadow, and beneath it, her curves are outlined by a black tank and jeans. The clop of her combat boots is purposeful. Her hair, tied in a loose bun, her sweat gleams under the arena lights. She looks nothing like her royalty, yet still I am mesmerized.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t blink. She just stares, eyes locked on mine like crosshairs, like she has never forgotten the last time we were this close in the dark. Her voice still lingers in my memory like a curse.
And suddenly, it isn’t about the ten I’ve defeated. It isn’t about Bhon’s sick game or Aoi’s twisted theater.
