The days in the Fighting Pits passed in a blur of steel, sweat, and blood.
For an entire week, Alex threw himself into battle, each match pushing him further, forcing him to adapt. Every fight was a test—not just of strength, but of survival, of how far he could push himself before breaking. The opponents varied in skill, but all of them fought for the same reason: coin, glory, desperation.
But for Alex, it was something else.
It was training. It was survival. It was evolution.
And with every battle, he felt the abyss's influence grow stronger.
Day One – First Blood
The caged pit smelled of rust and damp earth, the air thick with the heat of torches lining the stone walls. The moment Alex stepped inside, his opponent was already waiting—a burly man with a boxer's frame, thick arms, fists like iron. A short sword rested in his grip, the blade worn from countless fights. The man's eyes were sharp, watchful, the look of someone who had fought too many times to be reckless.
The match started fast.
The first slash came low, the short sword whistling through the air, its edge narrowly missing Alex's ribs as he twisted away. He barely had time to plant his feet before the second attack came—a brutal overhead swing meant to carve him in half.
The abyss whispered, a thread of movement flickering in his mind. Dodge left. Counter.
Alex obeyed without thinking, his body moving before his mind caught up. He sidestepped, the sword slamming into the dirt, and before his opponent could recover, Alex drove an elbow into the man's ribs. A satisfying grunt followed, but the man retaliated fast, a heavy fist slamming into Alex's stomach.
Pain flared through his core, the force knocking the breath from his lungs. He stumbled, instinct screaming at him to move as the sword arced toward his chest.
Block. Pivot. Strike.
Alex ducked under the blade, shifting his weight at the last second. His leg snapped out, catching his opponent behind the knee, sending him sprawling. Momentum was everything. Before the man could rise, Alex was already moving, driving a knee into his gut.
The fight ended in less than a minute, but it hadn't been clean. The abyss whispered, guiding his movements, but it wasn't fully in sync with him yet. His ribs ached from the hit, and his breathing was ragged. He had won, but not through skill—through instinct.
And instinct alone wouldn't be enough.
Day Two – The Cut of the Blade
Alex chose a dagger this time.
It was too light, the balance unfamiliar in his grip, but he had to learn. His opponent was a wiry thief, faster than the boxer from the day before, his movements erratic and unpredictable. The man fought dirty—feints, deception, small cuts meant to wear him down rather than overpower him outright.
The first slice drew blood.
Alex barely saw the attack before a thin line of red bloomed across his forearm. His opponent danced backward, grinning, flipping the dagger in his fingers.
The abyss whispered. He favors the left. Watch his feet. Wait.
Alex steadied himself, watching closely. He began to see it—the small tells. The way the thief's left foot twitched before a feint. The flicker of hesitation before a lunge.The longer the fight went on, the more Alex could see the patterns.
Then, everything clicked.
The next time the man moved, Alex reacted before the strike even landed.
He sidestepped, twisting his body just enough to let the dagger pass harmlessly by. In the same motion, his own blade flashed—a shallow but precise cut along the thief's arm. The man hissed, staggering, but Alex wasn't done.
The abyss pushed him forward.
He closed the gap in a heartbeat, moving faster than before, his dagger snapping out again—a second cut, this time to the thigh. The man faltered, his balance thrown.
And in the next breath, Alex was behind him, his blade pressed against his throat.
The fight was over.
The dagger was useful, but something felt off. Not enough reach. Not enough power.
He needed more.
Day Three – The Breaking Point
Alex chose dual swords.
Two curved blades, light but deadly, perfect for speed.
His opponent was a towering brute, nearly twice his size, wielding a war hammer the size of Alex's torso. It was a match of raw power against speed—and for the first time, Alex felt real danger.
The first strike shattered the ground where he had been standing seconds before. The force sent cracks through the dirt, a shockwave rippling outward, and Alex barely rolled out of the way in time.
He barely had time to breathe before the second swing came.
The abyss screamed at him to move.
Alex darted sideways, one of his blades snapping up to block—the force nearly tore the sword from his grip. His arm shook from the impact, his fingers numb. The sheer power behind the attacks was terrifying.
He had to think faster.
The abyss whispered. Don't block. Redirect. Use his momentum.
When the hammer fell again, Alex didn't try to stop it. Instead, he twisted, angling his blade to deflect rather than absorb. The hammer skidded off the edge, throwing the brute slightly off balance.
A small opening. That's all he needed.
Alex moved, his blades flashing in the torchlight. He carved two quick slashes across the man's arms, shallow wounds but enough to slow him down.
The brute roared in frustration, swinging wildly. Alex didn't need to dodge—he just needed to wait.
The abyss anticipated the next strike before it even began.
Alex sidestepped the final, desperate swing, pivoted in one fluid motion, and brought both swords down in a clean, precise slash to the back of the knees.
The giant crashed to the ground.
The fight was over.
The dual blades had power. But they drained too much energy, required too much movement.
Not the right fit.
Day Four – The Spear and Mastery
The moment Alex picked up the spear, something clicked.
The balance. The reach. The way the weight settled in his hands. It felt right.
His opponent was a duelist, quick-footed, armed with a rapier—a precise, deadly fighter.
At first, Alex fought on instinct, using the spear like a bladed staff, relying on speed over form. He kept his distance, blocking quick thrusts, spinning the weapon to deflect attacks.
But the abyss whispered again.
Not just instincts. Not just movement.
Technique.
His opponent lunged—fast, a perfect killing blow.
Alex didn't just dodge.
He pivoted.
The spear twisted in his grip, the shaft knocking the rapier aside in a controlled arc, and before his opponent could react, the spear's tip plunged into his chest.
The fight ended in a heartbeat.
The crowd roared.
And Alex knew—
The spear was his weapon.
By the end of the week, Alex had fought twenty matches.
Twenty victories.
His body was stronger. His movements were sharper.
He was no longer just reacting.
He was anticipating.
The abyss was no longer just a voice in his mind.
It was part of him.
On the fifth morning, Elise was waiting outside his room. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, smirking as usual.
"You're getting famous," she said.
Alex raised an eyebrow. "You keeping track of my fights?"
"I keep track of anything interesting."
She nodded toward the door. "Mira has another job for you."
Alex hesitated. He had been so focused on fighting, he hadn't considered what came next.
Elise tilted her head. "You could stay in the pits, keep fighting nobodies for silver. Or…"
She smirked. "You could start playing the real game."
Alex exhaled. Fighting was one thing.
But Riverend's true battles were fought in the dark.
He nodded.
Time to see what Mira had planned next.