Last Stand (5)

The sand hit its mark.

The Scarred Prisoner's eyes snapped shut, his body flinching as the grit burned into them.

For the first time in this fight, he was vulnerable.

But only for a moment.

Because he still had his blade.

And he still had his instinct.

Even half-blinded, he lashed out, fast, wild, unpredictable.

Kain saw the opening.

He lunged, knife aimed for the throat, ribs, anywhere fatal.

His heartbeat pounded in his skull, the world narrowing to this one moment.

He was going to end this.

But the Scarred Prisoner was still moving.

Still fighting.

Kain's knife was already coming down. The Scarred One's blade lashed out at the same time. Neither of them could fully stop.

Kain felt the sting first.

A deep, sharp burn along his side, blood wet against his skin.

But his knife still plunged forward.

Into flesh.

He staggered, then fell.

But Kain went with him.

Pain exploded from his ribs, every breath ragged and painful.

He landed hard on his knees, his vision blurring for a second.

The Scarred Prisoner wasn't moving anymore.

But Kain was barely holding on.

Torik heard something, a body hitting the ground behind him.

Kain?

He didn't know. Didn't have time to turn.

Because his last enemy was still alive.

And the man was fighting like a cornered wolf.

Wild. Sloppy. Dangerous.

He swung with all his remaining strength, a last desperate strike aimed straight for Torik's chest.

There was no technique. No strategy.

Only Fear. The knowledge that if he didn't kill, he would die.

His blade came fast, sloppy, but with all his strength behind it.

Torik shifted, but too late.

The steel sliced across his side, deep, hot pain blooming through his ribs.

But he didn't stop.

Couldn't stop.

Torik countered immediately, swinging his own blade upward. The Desperate Prisoner blocked it, barely, steel scraping against steel. Neither of them had anything left but willpower.

They clashed again, steel against steel, bone against flesh.

A headbutt, Torik felt the crunch of the bone, his opponent reeling.

A fist, slamming into Torik's stomach, forcing the air from his lungs.

Blood dripped from both of them, staining the sand beneath their feet.

His grip was weakening.

But his mind?

Unshaken.

The Desperate Prisoner saw the moment of weakness, he moved in for the kill.

Torik let him.

He didn't dodge. Didn't step back.

He took the hit, a shallow stab to the shoulder.

And in return?

He ended it.

Torik's blade plunged forward, straight into his enemy's gut.

He twisted. Ripped the steel free.

The Desperate Prisoner gurgled, eyes wide.

He clutched his stomach, tried to step back.

Torik kicked him to the ground.

And then?

He drove his blade down one last time.

A wet, sickening crunch.

And the fight was over.

His enemy was dead.

The sand beneath him was wet with blood, his, theirs, it no longer mattered.

His breath came ragged, uneven.

Every muscle in his body screamed for rest.

He lifted his head.

And his eyes found Kain.

The boy was still on his knees, blood dripping from his ribs, knife still clutched in his hand.

Breathing and Alive.

The roar of the arena didn't come immediately.

For a second, just a second, there was silence.

Then—

A wave of noise.

Some cheered, screaming for more.

Some laughed, entertained beyond their expectations.

And some?

Some just watched.

Because this wasn't just a fight anymore.

This was a moment.

A story worth remembering.Garik Watches – And Smirks

Up above, Garik exhaled through his nose, smirking.

"Well now."

He leaned forward, hands clasped.

"Didn't expect that."

One of his men chuckled.

"What now?"

Garik's smirk widened.

"No idea."

Torik exhaled.

His vision blurred, dark spots creeping at the edges.

His body begged him to stop.

But he didn't collapse.

Not yet.

Instead?

He took one step forward.

Then another.

And then, finally—

He let himself fall.

Torik had fallen.

Kain was still on his knees.

The fight was over.

Garik didn't order them dragged away immediately.

Didn't call for their bodies to be thrown back into the pits.

Instead?

He just watched.

His fingers tapped against the arm of his seat.

His mind was already working.

What were they worth now?

Not everyone was cheering.

Not everyone was laughing.

Up in the stands, one figure remained still.

A nobleman, finely dressed but not ostentatious.

Eyes sharp. Interested. Calculating.

He leaned toward an attendant, murmuring something.

A nod. A quiet exchange.

Kain was barely aware.

Pain clouded everything.

But not enough to miss the weight of eyes on him.

Not enough to miss the feeling that, even in defeat, something was happening.

He forced himself to stay awake. Just a little longer.

He had to know what came next.

Finally—finally—Garik stood.

He rolled his shoulders, exhaling through his nose.

"Get them out of my pit," he said.

With a plan already forming.

Torik and Kain weren't going to die today.

But what happened next?

That was still up to him.

The bodies were cleared first.

Lifeless corpses, hauled from the sand, blood still wet.

Then—Torik and Kain.

Not thrown away.

Not discarded.

Dragged, but still alive.

Kain's vision blurred as rough hands seized him, his body too battered to resist.

Somewhere nearby, Torik groaned, barely stirring.

Still breathing. Still here.

But for how long?

Garik didn't follow them.

Didn't even look at them as they were taken away.

He just watched the pit.

Watched the blood soaking into the sand.

Watched the stands, where some still cheered, some had already moved on.

And then, finally—he turned.

His gaze flicked upward.

To the man who was still watching.

But the noble said nothing.

Not yet.

Kain tried to focus, tried to listen.

The murmurs. The shifting of coin. The low conversations he couldn't quite make out.

Something was happening.

Something bigger than just a fight.

Then—a sharp burst of pain.

His ribs screamed as he was tossed forward, hitting the cold stone of a holding pit.

And the world finally faded to black.