His breaths were still shallow, his heartbeat like thunder in his ears, but slowly, an idea began to form in his mind.
He glanced at The Webster, studying the man as he circled closer, confident and assured of his advantage. That confidence—it was a weapon, but it was also a weakness. Lucian knew he had to use it against him. The only way to survive this was to turn the fight into something The Webster didn't expect. He needed to lure the man in, to make him think he had the upper hand, all while waiting for the right moment to strike back.
Steeling himself, Lucian adjusted his stance, his movements deliberately slower and less coordinated. He staggered slightly, clutching his injured arm tighter, making himself look weaker, more vulnerable than he truly was. He kept his eyes on The Webster, careful not to overplay his act, but giving the impression of someone barely holding on.
The plan was simple: draw The Webster closer, make him lower his guard just enough, and then strike. Lucian knew it was a gamble, but it was the only chance he had. He braced himself, every muscle tensed, as he prepared to put his desperate strategy to the test.
This would leave The Webster open to Lucian's attacks, exactly as he intended. The plan was straightforward, but it required perfect execution. Lucian took a shaky step back, then suddenly slumped forward, his knees wobbling as though they could barely hold him up. He let the femur in his hand dangle loosely, as if he didn't have the strength to grip it anymore.
His head hung low, and he made his breathing deliberately ragged, each inhale and exhale loud enough to be heard by those around him.
The prisoners who had been watching the fight closely exchanged confused and surprised looks. A murmur rippled through the crowd, growing louder with every second. Was this it? Was Lucian, the boy who had stunned everyone by defeating the two brutes, going to go down so easily against The Webster?
Their disbelief turned into disappointment. To them, it felt anticlimactic, almost absurd, that someone they had begun to see as a fighter capable of taking on anyone could crumble so quickly. The whispers grew, some shaking their heads, others smirking at how short-lived Lucian's reputation had been. The respect they had started to form for him began to waver, slipping away with each faltering movement he made.
But none of them noticed the slight shift in Lucian's posture, the careful way he kept one eye on The Webster despite his apparent daze. They didn't see the way his fingers tightened around the femur when he was sure no one was paying attention. This wasn't surrender. It was strategy. And while the prisoners might have given up on him in that moment, Lucian hadn't given up on himself. Not yet.
To The Webster, Lucian's actions didn't add up—not entirely. He had been watching the boy closely, every movement, every reaction. When Lucian had stumbled back to avoid the second stab, his movement had been sharp, almost too sharp for someone who was supposed to be on the verge of collapse. It had been the movement of a man who still had some strength left in reserve, even if he was running on instinct.
But now, as The Webster observed him, the picture was starting to change. The longer Lucian stood there, the more blood dripped from his arm, pooling on the ground beneath him. The injury was taking its toll, and with every drop he lost, his strength seemed to drain away like water from a cracked jar. The Webster could see it in the way Lucian's shoulders sagged, in the uneven rise and fall of his chest, and in the tremble of his legs as if they could barely hold him upright.
Now, Lucian had slumped completely, his body hunched and his head hanging low. He looked like a man who could barely stay on his feet, his grip on the femur loose and unsteady. To The Webster, it seemed as though the fight had finally caught up to him, that the blood loss and exhaustion had done their work. Whatever strength Lucian had left when he avoided that second stab appeared to have drained away entirely.
The Webster was now completely confident that he could end the fight.
He saw no strength left in Lucian, only a weak, bleeding boy who could barely stand. With a cruel grin, he lunged forward, his knife aimed to deliver the final, fatal blow.
But it was a big mistake. Lucian had been pretending all along, playing the part of a defeated opponent to lure the Webster into a false sense of security.
The moment The Webster stretched out his arm to strike, Lucian moved with sudden precision.
He dodged the blade with a quick sidestep and used the momentum to slam his shoulder hard into the Webster's chest.
"That's for slamming into me bastard", Lucian said. He swung the femur at his wrist and it connected with a sharp crack sound.
Crack!
"Ouch!" The Webster yelled, his voice filled with pain as a sharp, searing agony shot through his wrist.
The force of the blow had been brutal, and he couldn't hold onto the knife any longer. It slipped from his fingers and clattered noisily to the ground, landing at his feet.
But Lucian wasn't, finished. The fury in his eyes burned bright as he stepped forward, gripping the femur tightly in his bloodied hand.
Without hesitation, he swung it upward in a sharp arc, aiming directly for the Webster's jaw.
The impact was devastating, the crack of bone shattering against bone reverberating through the air.
The Webster's head snapped back violently, his face twisting in pain and shock. His jaw broke under the force of the blow, and his legs buckled beneath him.
He crumpled to the ground in a heap, collapsing like a puppet whose strings had been cut.