Last Stand? (2)

The last thing Torik remembered was the darkness of the holding pit.

He had been left there to bleed, barely conscious, waiting to be thrown back into hell.

But before his body could even start to recover, before the bruises could settle, they came for him.

Rough hands. A boot to the ribs. The scent of blood and sweat.

Torik wasn't ready to fight.

But Garik didn't care.

His body was wrecked, his muscles torn apart. Every breath felt like sucking in fire.

He had been thrown into a corner after his last fight, left like garbage in the dark.

No food. No water. No one checking to see if he was still alive.

Torik felt them before he saw them.

He tried to move, but his body refused.

Someone clicked their tongue.

"Still breathing? Tough bastard."

A hand fisted in his hair, yanking him up.

Pain exploded down his spine, but Torik didn't make a sound.

"On your feet, warrior." The voice was mocking. "Time to entertain the crowd."

Hands grabbed him, forcing him up. His legs almost gave out. His knees buckled.

Someone laughed.

"You won't last five minutes in the pit."

Torik's fingers curled into fists.

We'll see.

They dragged him through the corridors, the world spinning around him.

Every step sent shockwaves of pain through his ribs.

His vision swam. The scent of blood and sand hit his nose.

He had done this before. Too many times.

He knew what was coming.

But this time?

Something was wrong.

Something was different.

Torik hit the ground hard.

A gate slammed behind him.

The heat of the arena crashed over him, blinding, suffocating.

He forced himself up. Slow. Controlled.

And then?

He saw the kid.

Kain.

Torik's stomach turned cold.

Kain stood across the pit, stiff, fists clenched at his sides.

His clothes were dirty, his face shadowed, but his eyes burned with something sharp.

Torik's pulse slammed against his ribs.

"No."

Not the boy.

Garik had thrown the brat into the pit.

To die.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

This wasn't his fight.

But now?

Now, he had no choice.

At first, the crowd erupted in cheers.

They had been waiting for this, Torik's next fight.

They had seen him bleed, crawl, refuse to break.

Now, they wanted more.

But then?

They saw Kain.

The cheering wavered.

Not completely, not all at once, but enough to feel it.

People shifted in their seats. Squinted down at the pit.

A few laughed outright, pointing at the boy standing too stiff.

"A kid? They're throwing in a kid?"

"This some kind of joke?"

Some weren't laughing.

They had seen this kind of thing before.

Above them all, Garik stood.

He didn't rush. Didn't shout.

He lifted a hand, palm open, and the arena fell into silence.

A slow grin spread across his face.

"My friends, I know what you're thinking." His voice carried easily. "This isn't what you expected, is it?"

A few chuckles. A few jeers.

"But tell me..." he stepped forward, looking down at Torik.

"When was the last time you saw a man fight for something other than himself?"

The words landed differently.

This wasn't about the fight anymore.

This was about Torik.

About what Garik was forcing him to do.

More laughter now. More cheers.

They understood the game. Torik wasn't just fighting. He was being humiliated.

"Let's make this even more interesting."

He gestured lazily to the gates.

"Bring them in."

The guards moved immediately.

More doors opened. More figures emerged.

Four.

No—five.

All prisoners. Some ragged, some built like killers.

The strongest one, a bruiser with arms thick as tree trunks, rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck.

Torik's stomach dropped.

Garik's smirk widened.

"Five against two? I'd say that's fair."

The crowd screamed in delight.

Torik's breathing was steady, but tight.

Kain stood beside him, fists clenched. Waiting. Watching.

Garik's voice lowered, but Torik heard it clearly.

"Let's see how long you can keep your pet alive."

The horn was blown.

The fight had begun.

For a second, everything was still.

Torik stood tall, his ribs screaming, his body barely holding together.

Kain was tense, fists clenched, but frozen.

And across from them—

Five men.

Waiting. Watching. Testing.

They weren't fools.

Torik saw it in the way they spread out, slow, careful.

Not charging. Not reckless. They knew what they were doing.

The Bruiser – The biggest of them, thick arms, heavy hands, grinning like he had already won.

The Scarred One – Older, eyes sharp, studying Torik more than Kain. A strategist.

The Desperate One – Thin, wild-eyed, shifting on his feet like a caged animal. A man with nothing to lose.

The Cautious One – A mercenary type, moving deliberately, testing for weakness.

The Last One – Young. Nervous. Doesn't want to be here. But he will fight if he must.

They weren't a team.

But they weren't idiots, either.

Kain shifted, waiting for something, anything.

He wasn't breathing right. Too fast, too shallow.

Torik exhaled, slow and steady.

He spoke low. Firm.

"Stay close."

Kain's jaw tightened, but he nodded.

The Scarred One flicked his fingers. A silent signal.

The Bruiser grinned. Took one step forward. Then another. Then he lunged.

Torik moved, but not fast enough.

The hit landed like a hammer.

A massive fist slammed into his ribs, pain exploding across his body.

His knees almost buckled.

Almost.

But he did not fall.

He never fell.

The Bruiser's grin faltered.

Torik exhaled. Straightened.

And for the first time in a long time he smiled.

The bruiser's fist crashed into Torik's ribs like a battering ram.

Something inside him cracked.

The crowd roared, expecting him to drop.

But Torik?

He stood.

His body screamed, his lungs felt like they were collapsing.

But he did not fall.

The bruiser's grin flickered. Just for a second.

They didn't waste time.

The Scarred One moved next, fast, precise. His knife flashed, slicing across Torik's side. Torik gritted his teeth. Blood dripped down his skin, but he barely reacted. The Desperate One lunged, wild, reckless. Torik pivoted, just enough, slamming his elbow into the man's face.

One down. Four left.

The Cautious One circled behind him. A knee drove into his spine, Torik staggered. Another punch from the Bruiser, Torik absorbed it, his ribs screaming in protest. Hands grabbed his arms, forcing them wide, he was open.

Torik knew what was coming.

A fist slammed into his gut. Then another.

His vision swam.

But he did not fall.

Some of them had seen countless men die in this arena.

Some of them had bet against Torik.

But even the cruelest gamblers were starting to see it now.

This wasn't normal.

Men weren't supposed to take this much punishment and stay standing.

And yet—

Torik was still there.

Garik leaned forward, resting his chin on his fist.

"You always were too stubborn, old dog."

The men beside him chuckled.

"I wonder—" Garik mused. "Will you stand until you die, or will you finally kneel?"

His smirk widened.

"Let's find out."

Torik was still fighting. Still breathing.

But his legs, his body, had limits.

The Bruiser stepped forward.

And this time?

He didn't punch.

He grabbed Torik's head, forced him to look up.

Then he drove his knee into his face.

Torik's head snapped back.

He staggered, his vision blackened, his balance faltered

And for the first time in the fight

He dropped to a knee.