The fall was short.
Short enough to survive. Long enough to injure.
Vire twisted midair, letting gravity finish what momentum had started. He hit first—shoulder, then hip—rolling with the impact instead of fighting it. Pain flared along his side, sharp and immediate, but he stayed conscious.
Razek landed a heartbeat later.
He did not roll.
He absorbed the drop with bent knees and a controlled exhale, boots biting into fractured concrete. His blade never left his hand.
That told Vire everything he needed to know.
The arena's lower level was worse than the platform above—uneven slabs, exposed rebar, and broken rails jutting out at unpredictable angles. Every step was a negotiation with gravity. Every mistake carried interest.
Vire pushed himself upright and moved before Razek could close the distance.
He ran—not away, but across.
Razek followed, blade sweeping low to high in a wide arc meant to limit options rather than kill. Vire vaulted a collapsed beam, boots scraping metal, then dropped immediately on the other side to avoid the follow-up cut. The blade passed where his ribs had been.
They separated again.
Neither spoke.
Razek advanced with measured steps, eyes steady, breathing controlled. He did not rush. He did not taunt. He waited for terrain to betray his opponent.
Vire felt blood warm along his side where the blade had torn fabric earlier. The cut was shallow. Manageable. He ignored it.
Grappling would end him.
He needed asymmetry.
Vire moved toward a cluster of broken pylons near the arena's edge, forcing Razek to follow into narrower space. The floor there sloped slightly, debris scattered unevenly. Razek adjusted instantly, shortening his stance, blade shifting to guard centerline.
Bone-Turner lived up to the name.
Razek struck—not at Vire's head, but at his knee. The blade's flat edge smashed sideways, aiming to destabilize rather than sever. Vire pivoted late, the impact glancing off his shin guard with a jolt that rattled his leg.
Pain spiked.
Razek pressed.
A second strike came in tight, angled to force Vire backward into a rebar spike protruding from the wall. Vire caught the blade's spine with his forearm, redirecting it just enough to slip sideways. Metal shrieked against metal as the edge scraped the spike instead.
Vire countered with a short elbow aimed at Razek's throat.
Razek leaned back, just enough, and answered with a shoulder check that slammed Vire into the wall. Air left Vire's lungs in a hard burst. Razek stepped in, blade already rising for the finishing cut.
This was the moment.
Vire dropped his weight and stepped inside Razek's guard—not away, not sideways, but forward. He drove his palm into Razek's wrist, twisting as he pushed. The blade skidded off line, slicing sparks from concrete instead of flesh.
Razek responded instantly, releasing the blade with one hand and grabbing Vire's collar with the other. He twisted, leveraging size and mass, pulling Vire into close quarters.
Grapple.
The one thing Vire could not allow.
Razek's grip tightened, fingers finding seams in armor, torque building. Vire felt pressure spike at his shoulder joint—calculated, precise. Bone-Turner did not crush. He rotated.
Vire acted.
He bit down on pain and drove his heel into Razek's ankle, targeting the joint rather than the bone. Razek's stance faltered for a fraction of a second—enough.
Vire slammed his forehead into Razek's nose.
Cartilage cracked.
Razek grunted but did not release. Instead, he shifted, using the opening to torque Vire's arm further, forcing the shoulder toward failure.
Vire reached behind him.
His fingers closed around something solid.
Rebar.
He wrenched it free and drove it backward without looking.
Metal punched into flesh.
Razek froze.
Not from pain—Bone-Turner knew pain—but from surprise. The rebar had pierced beneath his rib, shallow but deep enough to disrupt leverage.
Vire twisted free.
They separated again, blood marking the floor now—both of theirs.
Razek's breathing changed. Not heavier. Different. His eyes sharpened, focus narrowing.
"You learn fast," he said, voice tight.
"I don't learn during fights," Vire replied. "I prepare for them."
Razek laughed once, short and sharp. "Good."
He came in hard this time.
No testing. No herding.
Razek committed.
The blade moved in tight arcs, cutting space rather than targets, forcing Vire to react instead of think. Vire retreated three steps, then stumbled intentionally on loose debris, dropping his center of mass.
Razek took the bait.
He stepped in to finish.
Vire rolled, pulling Razek's momentum past him and kicking out at the back of Razek's knee. The joint buckled. Razek dropped to one knee, blade still swinging.
Vire did not hesitate.
He drove the rebar down.
Razek twisted at the last second, the metal punching through muscle instead of spine. He roared—not in pain, but in fury—and surged upward, shoulder slamming into Vire's chest.
They crashed together.
The world narrowed.
Vire felt the impact rattle his ribs. Razek wrapped an arm around his neck, forearm crushing down, cutting air. Bone-Turner shifted his weight, preparing to torque the spine.
Seconds.
Vire reached down with his free hand and seized Razek's injured ankle. He yanked sideways while shifting his own weight backward.
The joint failed.
There was a sound—wet, final.
Razek's grip loosened.
Vire slipped free and moved before Razek could recover. He seized the fallen blade with both hands, reversed it, and stepped in close.
No flourish.
No hesitation.
He drove the blade up beneath Razek's jaw and into the base of the skull.
Razek's body went slack.
Vire stepped back as the weight collapsed forward, the blade sliding free with a dull sound. He stood there, breathing hard now, chest heaving, pain finally catching up.
The arena was silent.
Not the absence of sound.
The presence of conclusion.
Vire looked down at the body. Razek's eyes were open, unfocused. The calm was gone, replaced by stillness.
Bone-Turner would not break bones again.
A pulse rolled through the arena—not the hum of activation, but acknowledgment. The Registry registered outcome. Data was collected. The system adjusted.
Vire felt it like a pressure change.
Above, unseen, records updated.
Duel: Completed.
Result: Termination.
No announcement followed.
There never was.
Vire wiped the blade clean on Razek's armor and set it down. He did not take it with him. Trophies created narratives. Narratives attracted attention.
He turned and walked out of the arena.
Every step hurt.
Every breath burned.
But he walked.
As he reached the exit corridor, he felt it—eyes on him. Not many. Not obvious.
Enough.
Names traveled faster now.
Not his.
Not yet.
But somewhere in Panopticon, a pattern had shifted. The system had observed a variable survive sanctioned violence without excess, without spectacle, without deviation.
That kind of survival left marks.
Vire disappeared into the corridors, already adjusting his movement, already planning how to blur what the Registry had just learned.
Behind him, the arena sealed.
Ahead, Panopticon continued.
And the Draw waited.