The man didn't even see it coming. One moment he was laughing, the next he was on his knees with blood dripping down his face. His attacker was another mercenary - a burly one with a missing tooth. The man staggered forward with eyes wild, as he held the broken neck of the bottle like a dagger.
"You fucking cheat!" he slurred while pointing at the bleeding man. "That was my coin, you rat!"
The injured mercenary wiped blood from his forehead, blinking at his fingers as if confused. Then he roared and tackled his attacker.
Tables overturned. Ale splashed across the ground. Men scrambled out of the way as the two crashed into a pile of stolen crates and their fists swung wildly.
Chael exhaled slowly as he saw the men scrambling over each other. No particular emotion crossed his eye but something kept calculating deep within his mind.
The fight turned into a mess of flailing limbs and drunken curses with boots slamming into ribs and mugs flying through the air. More men joined in, whether out of loyalty or boredom. Someone got slammed into a barrel so hard it cracked open, spilling dark wine across the stone floor.
Then-
A massive hand grabbed one of the brawlers by the back of his collar and yanked him off the ground like a misbehaving pup.
It was Garren.
The brute stood in the middle of the chaos and held the struggling man up with one hand while kicking the other square in the chest, sending him skidding across the ground.
Silence settled over the hideout.
The fighters groaned, panting where they lay in the wreckage. A few men chuckled, while others muttered complaints, rubbing their bruises.
Garren let out a low, rumbling laugh.
"Well, well," he mused, dropping the man onto the floor with a thud. "Aren't we lively today?"
There was something smug in Garren's tone like he'd just thought of something particularly cruel.
The brute stretched his thick arms and cracked his knuckles. Then he grinned and shot Chael a sneer.
"How 'bout we have a real show?"
Chael's stomach twisted.
The mercenaries perked up, their drunkenness fading in an instant. Grins spread across filthy faces. Some of them laughed eagerly while others pounded the tables in excitement.
"Ohh, now that's an idea," one of them cackled.
"I do love a good show."
Chael knew what was coming before he even heard the cage door unlock.
The lock clicked. The door groaned open and hands grabbed him and yanked him forward. His body screamed in protest, his broken arm burning, but he refused to let out so much as a grunt.
"Chief." Echidna's voice called him.
He looked back as he was getting dragged and his gaze met hers.
A pipe rested between her fingers, the ember at the tip glowing faintly.
As their eyes met, she mouthed two words mockingly.
"Good luck."
The men dragged him forward as the echoes of their laughter rang distantly in his ears.
The real show was about to begin.
They pulled him toward an open space where the ground had been cleared and they had formed a makeshift arena, surrounded by a jeering crowd of filthy bastards eager for blood.
A pit fight. A ring of death.
Chael clenched his jaw.
In the center of the circle stood a man who was grinning, still wiping the dried blood from his forehead.
The same bastard who had smashed a bottle over his fellow mercenary's head.
Chael was shoved forward, stumbling as he hit the center of the ring. His knees barely caught him before he collapsed entirely.
Garren let out a booming laugh and stepped into the circle with his arms wide.
"A little restless tonight, aren't we?" He turned to the gathered mercenaries, grinning. "Well, gentlemen, how about a real fight? Since our friend Merken here is so eager to throw fists-"
Garren clapped the man on the back, "-why not let him have a proper match?"
The crowd cheered. Someone whistled. Another slammed their mug against a table.
Garren's grin widened.
"And who better to fight than our esteemed guest - the princess of once powerful Ashwara clan! Oh- wait. Did I say that right?"
The other mercenaries laughed hard at the petty insult. He gestured toward Chael, who remained silent and still on one knee. Chael slowly got up, his breathing shallow. His features betrayed a delicate and almost ethereal beauty. He had soft, graceful contours, high cheekbones, and bright blue eyes that shone with a captivating and feminine allure. His shoulder-length silver hair framed a face far too pretty to match the brutal world he inhabited.
"Bit unfair, isn't it?" one of the men laughed.
"Fair?" Garren scoffed. "Since when the fuck do we care about fair? We're mongrel ain't we? The man himself said so!"
More laughter echoed around him.
Chael's left hand curled and gripped the stone floor of the cavern.
He could feel their eyes on him, waiting for some kind of reaction.
He gave them nothing.
Garren pulled a thick coil of rope from his belt and stepped toward him. Before Chael could react, the brute grabbed his left wrist and yanked it forward.
The other end of the rope was already tied to Merken's right wrist.
A tether.
Chael's stomach twisted.
He was already crippled. His dominant hand was shattered, his arm useless, his body barely standing. And now they were tying him to this oaf, making it impossible to gain distance?
Garren yanked the knot tight, making sure there was just enough slack for movement but not enough to escape.
"Now," Garren drawled, stepping back, "let's see how long he lasts."
The crowd roared.
Merken grinned down at Chael, cracking his knuckles.
"Gotta say," the mercenary said with a voice thick with amusement, "I almost feel bad."
Chael exhaled slowly and positioned himself so that the left side of his body was forward. He had no choice but to fight with his non-dominant side.
Though Chael's body was in the fight, his mind certainly wasn't. He was using this moment to observe everyone and everything around him besides the man in front of him.
The fight then began.