Lucian watched as the two brutes stepped into the trap he had set—a small, cramped corner of the block with slick puddles of blood glistening on the floor. It was not ideal for them, but it was perfect for him. When they crossed the invisible line he'd been waiting for, he smirked.
This was it.
With a roar, he launched himself at the men, shattering the uneasy calm of the block. this time he wouldn't give them anytime to think, even if it meant getting a few punches and bruises in the process.
His sudden ferocity startled the two hulking figures, who hesitated as the boy they'd been chasing moments ago turned into a predator.
But they weren't the only ones who were in awe of Lucian, a few prisoners and guards had noticed the scuffle and were now watching with shock at the boy who had invited two huge men into the corner with him and was now taking them both on.
"Is he crazy?" One of the prisoners asked incredulously.
Nearby, a guard who had been readying to intervene paused, his eyes wide with disbelief.
"I don't know," he murmured, his hand frozen on his baton. "But I hope he is good at fighting or else he will be crushed soon."
Lucian didn't care about their chatter. He only cared about survival.
The femur in his hand felt heavy, like a part of his own body, a natural extension of his will. He swung it with all his strength, keeping the two men at bay. They stepped back, clearly surprised by the speed of his attacks.
Lucian wasn't a fighter by nature—he had never needed to be. But here, in this pit of violence and survival, he had learned fast. Fights weren't about strength alone; they were about precision and knowing when to strike. Most importantly, they were about protecting your vital areas.
As the two brutes closed in, he kept his left shoulder high, shielding his face.
He knew one thing: A man with a stab wound in his stomach or arm or leg could still manage to fight and push himself provided he was desperate enough or had enough adrenaline but a man whose eye had been punched in or whose nose had been broken, or whose eardrums had been damaged would find it hard to stand straight and move around, much less fight.
The first brute lunged forward, throwing a heavy punch. Lucian blocked it with his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the force. He countered with a swing of the femur, aiming low. The crack of bone on ribs echoed in the block, followed by a sharp intake of breath from the spectators.
The second brute growled in pain, clutching his side. His pride had taken as much damage as his ribs. With a furious roar, he swung wildly at Lucian, the full weight of his body behind the punch.
This was what Lucian had been waiting for.
He stepped back just in time, bending his body like a blade of grass in the wind. The brute's momentum carried him forward, his boots slipping on a slick puddle of blood. His eyes widened as he lost balance, skidding forward and crashing face-first into the wall.
A moment of silence fell over the block. The brute stumbled back, dazed and concussed, blood trickling from his temple. The spectators held their breath, the tension thick in the air.
Lucian didn't hesitate. He darted forward, his eyes locked on the brute's vulnerable form. With a sharp jab, he drove the femur into the man's right eye.
The sound was sickening—a wet squelch as bone pierced flesh. The brute screamed, a high-pitched, unnatural sound that silenced the entire block. Blood poured from his eye socket as he clutched his face, his massive hands trembling.
Lucian didn't let up. He yanked the femur free and swung it down on the man's forehead, stunning him. The brute staggered, his arms dropping limply to his sides.
This was the moment to finish it. Lucian plunged the femur back into the brute's face, crushing the left eye. The man let out a weak, gurgling scream before collapsing to his knees.
The spectators gasped, their shock palpable. Even the guards seemed frozen, unable to look away.
Lucian smirked and then spun around just in time to dodge a blow from the first brute. The punch, aimed at the back of his head, grazed his chin as he stepped aside. It was close—too close.
The brute roared in frustration, his massive fist swinging again. But Lucian had learned the rhythm of his attacks. This time, instead of meeting force with force, he dropped to the ground, sweeping his legs in a low arc.
His foot connected with the brute's knee—the same knee he had already targeted earlier. The man's leg buckled, and he dropped to one knee with a grunt. His hands instinctively flew to his face, shielding it from the inevitable blow.
But Lucian didn't aim for the face. He drove the femur into the man's neck instead, dragging it in a swift, deep cut.
The brute's eyes widened in shock as blood spilled from the gaping wound. He sputtered, gasping for air, before collapsing onto the ground. His massive chest heaved a few final times before he lay still.
Lucian turned back to the first brute, who was still alive but blind and writhing on the floor. For a moment, he hesitated. The man was already broken, his life a slow bleed.
But survival here demanded more.
With grim determination, Lucian drove the femur into the man's neck, delivering the same clean cut.
The block fell silent again, the only sound the drip of blood pooling on the cold floor.
As Lucian straightened, the block seemed to come back to life. Murmurs spread among the prisoners, awe and fear lacing their voices.
"Did you see that?" one whispered.
"He took them both down. Alone."
The guard who had spoken earlier exhaled slowly, his grip tightening on his baton. "He's more than just a boy," he muttered. "He's dangerous."
Lucian wiped the femur on his torn shirt, his eyes scanning the room. The notifications blinked to life in his vision, their glowing text the only splash of color in the gray block.
[1 kill, +10 XP]
[1 kill, +10 XP]
[Ruthless Kill Bonus: +10 XP]
[Ruthless Kill Bonus: +10 XP]
40 XP.
Lucian allowed himself a small smile. It wasn't just about the numbers. It was about the message. He had proved himself—not just to the prisoners or the guards, but to himself.
He was ready for whoever came next.