The Iron Pit was already roaring when Alex stepped out of the fighters' tunnel.
The arena floor was a wide circle of hard-packed sand, stained black and brown in overlapping patches from years of brutal, non-lethal combat: bruised flesh, split lips, broken noses, and the occasional spray of blood from shallow cuts. Massive iron braziers burned at the four cardinal points, spitting sparks into the night sky. Tiered seating rose all around, stone benches crammed shoulder-to-shoulder with screaming spectators. Nobles in silk and velvet sat in shaded boxes high above, sipping wine while they wagered on how many bones would break or how long someone would last before tapping out. Common folk packed the lower stands, waving tankards and ragged banners, faces flushed with drink and excitement.
The announcer's voice boomed from a wooden platform suspended above the center of the ring.
"Slot A – first seeding match! Alex the Flamefist versus Torvald the Ironclad!"
The crowd detonated.
Torvald lumbered out from the opposite tunnel: a mountain of meat and metal, six-and-a-half feet tall, shoulders wider than most doorframes. His patchwork steel plates were riveted over chainmail that had once been silver but was now dented and scarred from dozens of fights. A massive tower shield was strapped to his left arm; in his right hand he carried a flanged mace the length of a man's leg, its head already dark with dried blood from earlier warm-ups. His beard was braided with iron rings; his eyes were small, mean, and already measuring Alex for the first blow.
Alex walked into the light calmly, Flamefist Gauntlet already smoldering on his left hand. The ruby in the palm pulsed once, crimson, like a second heartbeat.
Up in the stands, Mara stood on her seat, staff raised high so the green crystal caught torchlight. Her manic smile was visible even from the sand. She screamed his name, voice cutting through the roar like a blade.
"Burn him down, hero! Make him tap! Make him scream!"
Alex raised his sword in salute, toward her.
The announcer's horn blared.
Torvald charged.
He crossed half the ring in three thunderous steps, shield raised, mace swinging in a wide overhead arc meant to crush ribs and snap arms. Sand sprayed behind him like kicked dust. The crowd roared louder.
Alex didn't dodge.
He stepped inside the swing, close enough to smell the sour ale on Torvald's breath, and drove his Flamefist Gauntlet straight into the center of the tower shield.
The impact rang like a cracked bell.
Crimson fire exploded outward, roaring, hungry, white-hot. The shield's iron rim glowed cherry-red in an instant, then softened, warped, began to drip molten slag onto the sand. Torvald bellowed in shock and pain as the metal burned through his forearm guard and seared flesh beneath, skin blistering, fat sizzling, muscle blackening in seconds. He staggered back, shield arm hanging useless and smoking, the stench of charred meat filling the air.
Alex didn't wait.
He pivoted, longsword flashing, and slashed low, carving a deep but shallow cut across the front of Torvald's left thigh. The blade parted leather, chain, and skin; blood welled in a bright line, not deep enough to kill but enough to cripple mobility. Torvald roared, leg buckling slightly, mace dropping from nerveless fingers as shock hit.
The crowd went feral.
Alex stepped in closer, sword slashing in tight, vicious arcs, opening long, shallow wounds across ribs, belly, forearms. Each cut parted skin and muscle just enough to bleed freely; strips of flesh peeled back like wet parchment, exposing yellow fat and glistening red. Torvald tried to swing a wild backhand; Alex ducked, came up inside the guard, and drove the longsword upward under the ribs, shallow, twisting once to widen the wound without killing. Torvald screamed, high, wet, bubbling, hands clutching at the gash as blood poured between his fingers.
The crowd chanted: "Yield! Yield! Yield!"
Torvald dropped to one knee, gasping, eyes wide with shock and pain, then slammed his free hand against the sand three times in rapid succession.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The horn blared, match over.
Silence, brief, then the stands exploded.
"Flamefist! Flamefist! Flamefist!"
Alex raised his sword high, blood dripping from the blade, then turned toward the stands.
Mara was jumping on her seat, staff held aloft, screaming his name so loud her voice cracked. She blew him a kiss, manic, ecstatic, green crystal flashing in her hand.
Alex pointed the bloody sword straight at her.
A promise.
Then he walked off the sand, unscathed, leaving Torvald kneeling, bleeding, defeated.
Kaelith's fight came two matches later.
The announcer's voice thundered again.
"Slot B – seeding match four! Kaelith the Beastclaw versus Ragna Blood-Axe!"
The crowd recognized her name already, word of the minotaur kill had spread fast. They roared before she even appeared.
Kaelith stepped into the light like a predator entering a kill zone.
Greataxe rested on one shoulder, blood-iron short sword sheathed at her hip. Wyvern leather hugged her powerful frame, arms bare, claws gleaming. Her tail lashed once, slow, deliberate, amber eyes scanning the stands until they locked on Mara and Alex.
Mara was screaming her name now, voice raw, staff raised like a banner.
Kaelith's lips peeled back in a sharp, toothy grin.
Ragna Blood-Axe entered from the opposite side.
A huge orc female, almost seven feet tall, skin the color of old blood, tusks capped in steel. Her armor was heavy plate and chain, dented and scarred. In both hands she carried a double-headed axe larger than most men were tall.
She grinned at Kaelith, tusks flashing.
"Little dog thinks she can play with axes?"
Kaelith's tail stopped moving.
The horn blared.
Ragna charged, axe raised high, aiming to split Kaelith in half with one overhead blow.
Kaelith waited until the last possible second.
Then she exploded forward.
She ducked under the swing, axe head burying itself in the sand with a boom that sprayed grit and old blood, came up inside Ragna's guard, short sword flashing. The blood-iron blade sliced through the tendon behind Ragna's knee in a clean, vicious cut. The orc roared, leg buckling, blood jetting in a bright arc.
Kaelith didn't stop.
She dropped the short sword, let it clatter, and seized Ragna's axe haft with both clawed hands. Using the orc's own momentum, she wrenched the weapon sideways, twisting Ragna's wrists until bone cracked audibly. Ragna bellowed, tried to headbutt her.
Kaelith leaned back, dodged, and drove her forehead into Ragna's nose instead. Cartilage crunched; blood exploded in a wet spray. Ragna staggered.
Kaelith ripped the axe free, spun, and brought it down in a savage overhead arc.
The blade bit deep, cleaving through Ragna's right shoulder plate, through chainmail, through collarbone, stopping just short of the lung. Ribs cracked like dry wood; Ragna screamed, dropping to one knee, blood pouring from the wound in thick sheets.
Kaelith yanked the axe free, stepped in close, and drove all ten claws into Ragna's throat.
She tore outward.
The orc's throat opened in a ragged, gaping wound, cartilage and muscle peeling back like wet cloth. Blood sprayed in rhythmic pulses; Ragna's eyes rolled back, hands flying to her ruined neck as she gurgled and choked.
The crowd chanted: "Yield! Yield! Yield!"
Ragna slammed her palm against the sand three times weak, and desperate blood bubbling from her lips.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The horn blared, match over.
Silence, stunned, then the stands detonated.
"Kaelith! Kaelith! Kaelith!"
Kaelith stood over the kneeling, bleeding orc, chest heaving, claws dripping, greataxe planted in the sand beside her. Blood painted her muzzle, her chest, her arms in thick, glistening sheets. She lifted her head, found Mara and Alex in the stands, and roared, a long, victorious, primal sound that shook the arena.
Mara was jumping on her seat, screaming herself hoarse, staff raised like a banner.
Alex raised his Flamefist Gauntlet in salute, flame licking along his fingers.
Kaelith's grin was all teeth.
She turned and walked off the sand, leaving Ragna kneeling, bleeding, defeated.
Two down.
Five more fights to go.
The night was young.
And the gold was waiting.
XXXX
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