The three fighters began circling him like vultures around carrion. Victor's vision blurred, darkness creeping in from the edges as his body swayed. Each breath felt like drowning in reverse, air refusing to fill his damaged lungs properly. His knees buckled slightly, and he fought to stay upright.
The hollow-cheeked kid grinned, sensing weakness. "Look at him. About to keel over."
Victor's head lolled forward, eyelids fluttering as consciousness threatened to slip away. His arms dropped to his sides, fists unclenching as his body prepared to collapse. The scavengers saw their opening.
The kid with the hollow cheeks darted forward, dagger raised high. His blade caught the light as he closed the distance, aiming for Victor's exposed throat. A killing blow to finish what the giant had started.
But as the steel descended, Victor's hand shot up with serpentine speed. His fingers locked around the attacker's wrist, stopping the blade inches from his neck. The kid's eyes widened in shock, he'd been certain his target was finished.
Victor's grip tightened like a vise. Bones ground together as he twisted the wrist sharply to the right. The dagger tumbled from nerveless fingers, and Victor caught it mid-fall. Without hesitation, he drew the blade across the kid's throat in one fluid motion.
Blood sprayed across the pit floor as the hollow-cheeked fighter collapsed, clutching his ruined neck. Victor straightened to his full height, the near-fainting spell vanishing like morning mist. He turned the dagger in his palm, testing its weight and balance.
The steel felt familiar in his grip, lighter than the knives he'd favored in Saint Petersburg, but the balance was similar. His fingers found natural grooves along the handle, muscle memory awakening from years of violence. For a moment, a genuine smile ghosted across his bloodied features. He remembered the weight of his first blade, the way it had felt like an extension of his arm rather than a separate tool.
The memory slowly died, replaced by cold focus as the remaining two fighters realized their mistake. They'd waited too long, let shock paralyze them when they should have pressed their advantage.
Both launched themselves forward simultaneously. The left attacker brandished twin daggers, steel gleaming in each fist as he came in low and fast. The right fighter gripped a shorter hunting knife, angling for Victor's ribs with precision.
Victor evaluated the threats in the span of a heartbeat. Twin blades meant more cutting surface, more ways to die. The double-wielder had to go first.
He pivoted and hurled his commandeered dagger with great precision. The blade rotated once, twice, then buried itself hilt-deep in the double-wielder's forehead. The man's momentum carried him forward two more steps before his legs gave out, twin daggers clattering uselessly to the ground.
But Victor had miscalculated the second attacker's speed. The hunting knife sliced across his face, opening a gash just below his right eye. Hot blood ran down his cheek as pain flared white-hot through his skull.
Victor snarled and lunged forward, catching the knife-wielder around the neck before he could withdraw for another strike. His arm coiled around the man's throat like a python, bicep pressing against one side of the windpipe while his forearm crushed the other.
The fighter clawed at Victor's arm, trying to break the chokehold. His knife hand flailed wildly, but the angle was wrong, he couldn't bring the blade to bear on his captor.
Victor planted his feet and twisted with every ounce of strength left in his battered frame. Vertebrae popped like firecrackers, and the man's struggles ceased instantly. His body went limp, head lolling at an unnatural angle.
Victor released the corpse, letting it crumple to the bloodstained sand. Three more bodies joined the giant's remains, painting the pit floor crimson in the torchlight.
The roar of the crowd had died to scattered murmurs and confused shouts. Victor wiped blood from his split lip, scanning the arena's upper levels where spectators should have been cheering his latest kills. Instead, he caught glimpses of people stumbling, clutching their stomachs, rushing toward doorways.
More footsteps echoed down the stone steps leading to the pit, but these weren't eager fighters descending for their turn. These were panicked, unsteady movements of men trying to escape something.
Victor moved toward the stairs, his battered body protesting each step. The iron tang of blood filled his nostrils as he climbed, leaving the corpse-strewn sand behind. At the top, he glanced back to see two new fighters already squaring off in the pit below, apparently oblivious to the chaos brewing above.
The main hall greeted him with pandemonium. Men doubled over near wooden buckets, retching violently. Others pressed hands to their guts, faces pale and sweating as they stumbled toward what passed for latrines in this place. A few gathered in worried clusters, voices rising as they tried to make sense of the sudden illness spreading through their ranks.
Anya's work was succesfull.
Victor spotted her across the hall, surrounded by three guards near the far wall. They leaned in close, gesturing sharply as they peppered her with questions. Her face remained composed, but her shoulders tensed as she answered. Fortunately for Victor, those same guards typically stood watch outside Grisha's office.
He moved through the chaos like a ghost, ignored among the groaning men and frantic conversations. Bodies stumbled past him, too focused on their churning stomachs to notice the blood-soaked fighter weaving between them.
Grisha's office door stood unguarded. Victor pushed it open and slipped inside.
The gang boss was shoving papers into a leather satchel, his movements quick and agitated. Without looking up, he growled at what he assumed was one of his men.
"Tell Marta her stock is fucking rotten. Half my crew's puking their guts out."
Grisha snapped the satchel shut and headed for the door, still avoiding eye contact. "I don't know what poison she's been feeding them, but"
Victor's hand shot out, fingers splaying across Grisha's chest. He shoved the older man backward, sending him tumbling into his chair with a grunt of surprise.
Grisha's eyes went wide as dinner plates when he finally looked up. The color drained from his weathered face.
"You're supposed to be in the pit."
"What if I don't want to be?"
Grisha's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. Then survival instinct kicked in. "Guards!" he bellowed, voice cracking with fear. "GUARDS!"
The shout barely penetrated the chaos outside. Retching and panicked voices swallowed his cry for help.
Victor stepped closer, each footfall deliberate. "They're a bit busy right now."
Grisha lurched up from the chair, swinging a wild haymaker at Victor's jaw. Even battered and exhausted, Victor caught the fist easily, his fingers wrapping around Grisha's knuckles like iron bands. The older man's face contorted with pain as Victor squeezed.
Victor leaned in until their faces were close enough that Grisha could feel the warmth of his breath. When he spoke, his tone was calm. Almost conversational.
"Listen carefully. I want you to understand the situation you are in. Right now, you are alive because I am letting you stay that way. Not because you matter. Not because you have leverage. You have none."
His thumb pressed against Grisha's throat with measured pressure, enough to make every breath feel borrowed.
"You keep telling yourself that people around here rely on you. That your wife needs you. That your men fear you. But people like you always make the same mistake. You think fear means loyalty. It doesn't. Fear disappears the moment someone stronger walks into the room."
Grisha's hands scraped weakly at Victor's wrist, his breaths turning thin and desperate.
"By tomorrow, the people who used to answer to you will already be making deals with someone else. They will not fight for you. They will not even hesitate. They will see an opportunity and take it, the same way you took everything you have."
Victor's expression didn't change.
"As for your family. They survive because others let them. That is how this place works. You know it better than I do. Anyone who wants something from them will take it, and no one will stop them because you will not be there to do anything about it."
His grip tightened slightly. Grisha's eyes widened.
"I am not going to promise revenge or make threats about hunting them down. That is pointless. The truth is simpler. Without you, they become weak. And when someone is weak, this city chews them up. You know this. You have done it to others."
He leaned closer.
"So understand what I am telling you. When you die here, everything you built ends with you. Not because I destroyed it. But because there was never anything solid there to begin with."
Victor's hand held steady, unshaking, as he finished with certainty.
"This is what you leave behind. Nothing. That is your legacy."
The man's struggles had stopped. The tension in Grisha's limbs had drained away, leaving nothing but a heavy stillness. The eyes stared upward without focus, catching the light in a flat, empty way that needed no confirmation.
Victor let go. Grisha's body sagged forward as if finally relieved of its own weight, then slid off the chair and hit the floor with a muted thud. The sound was small, almost disappointing in its finality.
He stared down at Grisha's lifeless form, a strange hollow feeling settling in his chest. The man's face had gone from purple back to a sickly grey, tongue protruding slightly between slack lips.
Had he drawn it out too long? Or not long enough?
The thought crept in unbidden, and Victor's hand moved before he could stop it, a sharp slap across his own face that sent fresh pain shooting through his already battered features. The sting helped clear his head.
What the hell was wrong with him? Grisha was just doing his job in the end, following the rules of this shithole underworld. Most of this mess was Victor's own fault anyway, he'd taken Selene's contract, he'd failed, he'd decided to not share the money, creating the debt that landed him in the pit.
But those thoughts felt distant, academic. Like examining someone else's life through thick glass.
Victor stepped over the corpse and walked out of the office. The hallway reeked of vomit and panic, men still doubled over buckets or collapsed against walls. A few glanced his way, but most were too focused on their churning guts to care about one more blood-soaked fighter emerging from the chaos.
He spotted Anya across the main hall, still surrounded by the three guards. Their voices carried over the groaning crowd, sharp questions about the poisoned alcohol, demands to know what she might have seen. Her responses came measured and careful, but Victor caught the tension in her posture.
He approached with steady steps, ignoring the weakness threatening to buckle his knees. The guards noticed him first, their eyes widening as they took in his battered state.
"Why aren't you in the arena?" The largest guard stepped forward, hand moving toward his weapon. "Grisha said you fight until"
"Grisha's choking."
Victor's voice cut through the question like a blade. Matter-of-fact. Urgent enough to demand action.
The guard's face went pale. "What?"
"Choking. In his office. Better help him."
All three guards exchanged panicked looks before rushing toward the office, abandoning Anya without another word. Their boots echoed off stone as they disappeared down the hallway.
Victor's legs nearly gave out as the adrenaline finally started to fade. He stumbled sideways, and Anya caught his arm before he could fall.
"How hard was it in the pit?"
Her voice held genuine concern beneath the casual tone. Victor managed a weak smile, blood still trickling from the gash below his eye.
"Four men. All dead."
"And Grisha?"
"Done."
She didn't ask for details. Anya shifted her grip, supporting more of his weight as they moved toward the exit. Each step felt like walking through quicksand, his body finally acknowledging the punishment it had absorbed.
The tunnel leading out stretched endlessly ahead. Stone walls pressed in from both sides, torchlight flickering across damp surfaces. Victor focused on putting one foot in front of the other, letting Anya guide him through the maze of passages.
Fresh air hit his face like a blessing when they finally reached street level. Two guards flanked the concealed entrance, barely glancing up as they emerged. Bloody fighters leaving this place was common enough, nothing worth noting.
One guard actually chuckled when he saw Victor's condition, clearly pleased to see the upstart who'd been causing problems get his ass kicked. "Looks like you met your match down there."
Victor didn't respond. Speaking felt like too much effort. Anya kept him moving, steering him into the narrow alley that led away from the underground complex.
The night air was cold against his sweating skin. Each breath came easier out here, away from the stench of blood and vomit. But his legs felt increasingly unsteady, like trying to walk on stilts made of rubber.
"Victor?"
Anya's voice sounded distant, muffled. The alley tilted sideways, stone walls spinning gently as darkness crept in from the edges of his vision.
He felt himself falling, Anya's grip tightening on his arm as she tried to catch his full weight. Her curse echoed off the alley walls as his knees hit the cobblestones.
Then everything went black.