Last Stand? (4)

Kain's fingers scraped against the hilt of the weapon, just inches away.

The Bruiser dragged him back, an iron grip locking around his ankle, yanking him toward the ground.

Kain kicked wildly, twisting, his body moving on instinct.

He felt his nails dig into the dirt, clawing forward.

The Bruiser's grip tightened, his strength undeniable.

"You think that's gonna save you?" the man growled.

He yanked harder, trying to pull Kain under him, but Kain didn't let go.

His fingertips curled around the hilt of the blade.

And then—

He swung.

The blade ripped through flesh, sloppy, jagged, but deep.The Bruiser grunted, his grip loosening for a second. Kain twisted, rolling onto his back, his whole body weight behind the next thrust.

The knife sank in, just below the ribs.

The Bruiser's eyes widened, surprise, then rage.

Kain felt the body twitch against him.

Then the man fell forward, dead weight collapsing onto him.

Silence.

For a fraction of a second, just silence.

Then—

The crowd exploded.

Some cheered, fists in the air.

Some laughed, entertained by the spectacle.

Others looked at Kain with a new kind of gaze, curious.

Garik leaned forward, watching the boy with something close to amusement.

"Well now," he murmured. "Look at that."

Kain gasped, shoving the heavy body off of him. His hands were shaking, not from fear, but from raw adrenaline. He didn't stop to think about what he'd done. He didn't have time.

He staggered to his feet, knife still clenched in his fist.

His first arena kill.

Not his first kill, but his first where he truly fought for his life.

And now?

He turned, the other fighters were watching him now.

Waiting.

He wasn't prey anymore.

And then he saw Torik.

Torik was still on his feet.

Barely.

His body was broken, ribs caved in, arms heavy, legs sluggish.

And yet—

He fought.

One of the fighters had his sword raised, ready to cut him down.

Torik blocked, too slow. The blade tore across his shoulder.

He staggered.

Kain moved.

The fighter didn't see him coming, Kain slammed into his side, throwing off his strike. Torik gritted his teeth, took the opening, and drove his fist into the man's throat. The fighter choked, stumbled, and Kain followed up, knife flashing.

The sand was red again.

And now?

Kain stood beside Torik.

For the first time.

Torik looked at him.

Not with surprise.

Not with anger.

But something else.

Something quiet, but undeniable.

Pride.

He didn't say it.

Didn't need to.

Instead, he exhaled, spit blood, and said only two words.

"Keep moving."

And Kain nodded.

For the first time since the fight began, no one moved.

The air was thick with dust and the stench of blood.

The bodies in the sand weren't groaning, weren't moving.

They were dead.

The crowd had been roaring, but now, a strange hush fell over them.

Not silence. Not boredom.

But something else.

Something like realization.

This wasn't the fight they had expected.

Torik should have been dead already.

The boy should have been a joke, a slaughter, a bit of amusement before the real games.

But now?

Now, they weren't just watching two desperate men fight.

They were watching something worth remembering.

The remaining three opponents didn't rush in.

They reassessed.

The Scarred Prisoner's expression had shifted. No more smirking, no more arrogance. His blade rested low, but his stance was firm, more measured now. The Cautious Prisoner's eyes darted between Torik and Kain. He took a half-step back, feet shifting in the sand. Looking for an escape route? Or just reconsidering his odds? The Desperate Prisoner swallowed hard. His breathing was heavy, erratic. He had seen too much death today. Maybe he thought he would be on the winning side. But now he wasn't sure.

They had come into this fight thinking they were butchers.

Now?

They weren't sure who was butchering who.

Up on the stands, Garik tilted his head, intrigued.

"Well, well."

One of his men beside him, a stocky, scarred lieutenant—grunted.

"Didn't think the brat had it in him."

Garik smirked.

"Neither did I."

He leaned forward slightly, his amusement deepening.

"This is getting interesting."

Torik stood bloody, battered, but breathing.

Beside him, Kain stood too, knife in hand, heart still hammering.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn't need to.

The hesitation was brief.

Just long enough for the shift to settle.

Then, finally—

The Scarred Prisoner took a step forward.

His blade tilted slightly, feet adjusting, a duelist's stance.

"No more games." His voice was low, steady.

He walked forward, slow, measured.

His blade tilted slightly, his grip relaxed, but his eyes were locked on Torik.

Torik knew what was coming.

He adjusted his stance, his arms heavy, his ribs screaming.

One more fight. Just one more.

Then—

Kain moved first.

The Scarred Prisoner shifted his weight, preparing his strike and Kain threw himself in front of Torik.

But he adjusted instantly. His blade flicked toward Kain, changing targets in a heartbeat. Kain barely saw it coming, he wasn't fighting a brute, he was fighting a seasoned killer.

The first strike was fast. Precise.

Kain dodged, barely.

Kain countered, knife slashing toward the Scarred One's ribs. The man pivoted, effortless, avoiding the strike completely. 

A sharp kick to Kain's stomach.

Pain exploded in his gut.

He staggered backward, nearly dropping his knife.

The Scarred Prisoner didn't waste time.

He stepped forward, closing the distance, pressing the advantage.

This wasn't a brawl.

This was a duel.

And Kain was losing.

As Kain caught his breath, knife trembling in his grip, the noise of the crowd swelled around him.

Most were entertained. Blood was blood, after all.

But not all.

In the shaded balconies above, some watched with different eyes.

Garik leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly.

One of his men, a weathered mercenary with a deep scar across his temple, muttered, "Didn't expect the kid to last this long."

Garik hummed.

"Neither did I."

He said nothing more. Just watched.

Further down the balcony, a noblewoman draped in muted silks remained still.

Veyna.

House Lirian's quiet executioner.

She wasn't cheering.

She wasn't drinking.

She simply watched, eyes flicking between Torik's battered form and the boy standing beside him.

Her attendant shifted beside her, uneasy.

"It's taking longer than expected," he murmured.

"That depends on what you expected," she replied, voice smooth, unreadable.

A pause.

Then, the faintest smile.

"Let's see how much further he falls."

Below, the Scarred Prisoner tightened his grip on his weapon, preparing for the next strike.

Garik, still silent, let his gaze drift.

Not to the fight.

To the seats beyond.

To the figures who weren't cheering.

Merchants. Investors. People who weren't here for simple bloodsport.

A small exhale. A flicker of amusement.

"Might be worth more than I thought."

He didn't say who.

Didn't need to.

He just watched.

And waited.

The moment was gone.

The Scarred Prisoner shifted his weight.

Kain barely had time to raise his blade before the attack came.

And the fight began again.

Kain tightened his grip on the knife, his pulse hammering in his ears.

But his opponent didn't rush him.

Didn't lunge. Didn't charge.

He walked.

His eyes flicked over Kain's stance, his breathing, the way he held the blade.

A predator circling its prey.

Kain didn't move.

Didn't step back. Didn't lunge forward.

But his fingers tightened around the hilt.

This wasn't like the Bruiser.

Wasn't like the thugs or the bandits or the men who swung wildly, hoping to overpower him.

This man wasn't going to break.

This man wasn't going to make mistakes.

If Kain waited for an opening, he might never get one.

"You're not bad," the Scarred Prisoner murmured.

"But you're not good enough."

A step forward, so fast it barely seemed real. The blade flicked, angling low. Kain barely reacted in time, his knife jerked up instinctively.

Metal clashed against metal.

The Scarred One tilted his head slightly.

"Not bad," he said again.

Then he attacked for real.

Torik wasn't done yet.

The Cautious Prisoner was still circling him, waiting for an opening.

The Desperate Prisoner was hanging back, blade tight in his grip.

Two enemies. Two final obstacles.

He rolled his shoulders, exhaling through bloodied lips.

He could handle this.

But even as he adjusted his stance, his eyes flicked to Kain.

He didn't need to watch long. One glance told him everything.

Kain was outmatched.

The Scarred Prisoner's first real strike came faster than Kain expected.

Kain barely blocked in time, the impact rattling his bones.

The force of it sent him back a step.

His opponent pressed forward. Another strike. Then another.

Kain parried again, too slow. A shallow cut sliced across his forearm.

"You're hesitating," the Scarred Prisoner said.

And then he attacked again.

Torik watched, just for a second.

Long enough to see Kain falter.

Long enough to see blood on his arm.

But he didn't move.

Didn't call out.

Didn't step in.

Because this wasn't his fight.

Not yet.

Kain couldn't win with technique.

Couldn't match him in skill.

So what did that leave?

Desperation.

The same things that had kept him alive before.

The Cautious Prisoner circled Torik, blade twitching in his grip.

Torik felt the exhaustion setting in.

His muscles screamed, his breath came ragged, but his grip on the weapon never loosened.

This wasn't about endurance anymore.

This was about finishing the fight before his body failed him.

The Scarred Prisoner moved again, and Kain barely kept up.

The slash caught him across the ribs, shallow, but sharp.

He stumbled back, teeth clenched.

"Still trying to fight properly?"

Torik heard it, even through his own battle.

But he didn't turn.

Didn't stop.

Kain had to figure it out on his own.

The Cautious Prisoner lunged, blade flashing.

Torik sidestepped, catching the arm before it could retract.

A twist. A crack.

The Cautious Prisoner screamed as Torik shattered his elbow, his weapon dropping into the sand.

No hesitation.

Torik drove his own blade into the man's chest.

Blood splattered across his arm.

One down.

One left.

But even as the body hit the ground, Torik's mind flicked back to Kain.

Kain exhaled, fingers tightening around his weapon.

He saw the next attack coming.

Knew he couldn't block it.

So instead—

He grabbed a fistful of sand and threw it straight into his opponents eyes.