"Finish him!" ... ... "Crush her!"
The crowd roared like a pack of hungry wolves, their voices bouncing off the grimy stone walls. It was pure chaos—fists pounding against the railings, spit flying, curses twisting with cheers, all swirling in smoke-thick air. They wanted blood. They wanted a show.
She stood there, chest heaving… her back pressed against the cold, rough wall of the pit. Mud squelched beneath her toes, thick and slimy, as if it, too, was rooting for her defeat. She could taste blood on her lips, bitter and metallic, blending with the stench of sweat and grime.
If there was one thing the people of Askan loved… it was a fight to remember. And today, she was the main event.
In Askan, if you were a slave, and you hit eighteen, life gave you three options.
Spoiler alert: none of them were pretty.
She could spend her days hauling rocks as an Ergon in the labor camps, live her life as some noble's prized decoration in a harem as a "Paramour," or—her personal favorite—fight her way into the ranks as a soldier.
She didn't have to think twice.
Heavy lifting? Not her thing.
Parading around in silks and jewels? Definitely not.
But this? Fighting? Yeah, this was something she could live with.
So here she was.
In the pit.
Bruised, battered, and glaring down a massive slab of muscle and attitude who looked like he could snap her like a twig.
Damn, he was twice her size, or maybe more.
The brute cracked his neck, spat a thick glob of blood onto the mud, and grinned, showing off a row of chipped and yellowed teeth. Each step he took felt like thunder, his shadow falling over her like a storm cloud. He looked at her like he wanted a quick, messy end. For her.
She gritted her teeth, her entire body throbbing from the hits she'd already taken. Her raven-black hair was plastered to her face with sweat and mud, and her leather combat suit was clinging on by sheer willpower. She looked like she'd just crawled out of hell. Maybe she had.
The brute circled her, his eyes bloodshot and unblinking, nostrils flaring as he eyed her like a piece of meat. His busted nose was dripping blood down his chin, courtesy of her earlier strike, and his left shoulder hung a little lower than it should—another present from her. But judging by that twisted grin, he wasn't feeling generous about it.
Technically, no deaths were allowed in the pit fights, but by the look in his eyes, he wasn't exactly a fan of rules.
He chuckled, a low, mocking sound, and waved his hand at her like she was nothing more than a fly he was about to swat.
"They sent me a child to fight?" he circled in close, close enough for her to smell his stinking sweat and dried blood rolling off him. "Should've stayed in the dirt where you belong, little girl."
She swallowed, watching him. Every word he threw at her was an opportunity, every taunt a crack in his armor. She clenched her fists, mud and blood slicking between her fingers. The crowd's roar grew louder, like they could taste the battle in the air, ready for it.
This was her first fight in the pit.
She needed at least seven wins out of eleven fights to get anywhere close to escaping the mines and becoming a soldier. Losing the first fight was not an option. That would mean a one-way ticket back to the dark tunnels… or worse, into the hands of the Kherosi "scientists" and their grim experiments.
A shiver ran down her spine, but she shook it off, eyes steady, focusing again on the brute in front of her. No. She wasn't going back. Not ever.
He edged closer, his lips pulling back in a smug, too-sure grin. She let him. Each step he took brought him closer… closer… until...
She was ready.
She drew in a slow, deliberate breath… like a match sparking to life. Adrenaline snapped through her, every nerve blazing awake, her mind sharpening down to a single point.
The crowd? Just noise now.
Their wild cheers, her opponent's slobbering fanboys hurling insults from the stands—every sound faded into a muffled hum, a background she could easily tune out. Her world had shrunk to one thing: taking down this oversized meathead in front of her.
Calmly—maybe a little too calmly—she bent down, fingers brushing the gritty earth. She scooped up a handful of dirt available just on the side of the wall, nothing fancy. A smirk tugged at her lips as she eyed her opponent, looming like he was some kind of God over the pit.
"Come on..." Her gaze locked onto him. "Come closer… yeah, go on, think you've got this."
And with all the predictability of a bull, he took the bait. His dark eyes glinted with that disgusting, overconfident look. He saw her size—small, scrawny—and probably thought he could knock her out in one hit.
Fine by her. Let him think that.
Just as he lunged, she whipped her hand up, flinging the dirt straight into his face.
"Argh!" His roar was half-choked, hands scrabbling desperately at his eyes, trying to claw the dirt out. He stumbled backward, flailing like a blind, angry beast.
Perfect.
She ducked around him, her steps fast and silent, her heart hammering like a war drum in her chest. The pit walls loomed above, jagged and dark. Her eyes flicked over the stones—there. A foothold. Good enough.
It took everything she had, but she launched herself off the wall, twisting midair, ignoring the strain and pain twisting through her. Gritting her teeth as her elbow came down with every ounce of power she could find, smashing into the crown of his skull. Her arm exploded in pain, the impact sending a bone-rattling jolt up to her shoulder. He staggered forward, his own groan tearing from his throat, his hand gripping his head as if he needed to hold his brain in place.
The crowd? Oh, they were loving this. Gasps, cheers, curses—all of it smashed together, the energy surging through the pit.
She instantly got up, barely pausing to catch her breath, eyes locked on him, calculating. She wasn't about to give him a second rest.
With a quick snap, she kicked the back of his knee. She put her whole body into it, feeling her muscles strain, her heel slamming against his leg with enough force to nearly buckle her own. He dropped to one knee, crashing into the mud. She could see the anger twisting in his face as he swung wildly, hoping to catch her, and probably squeeze the life out of her.
She ducked, side-stepped, her mind working faster than her aching muscles.
Dodge. Duck. Move.
She moved like it was a dance she'd practiced a thousand times, her body on autopilot, though each step felt heavier than the last.
And yet, he wasn't done.
Oh, not even close.
With a snarl, he swung again, lower this time, trying to take her out at the knees. His meaty fist swung for her ribs, brushing close enough that her bruises felt like they'd combust. She clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of even a flinch.
And just as he reared back for another swing, she dropped low, kicking her leg beneath him with every bit of force she had left. He toppled backward, his limbs flailing before he hit the ground with a thunderous thud, the air leaving his lungs in a harsh gasp.
Before he could think about crawling up, she threw herself onto him, pressing her knee into his chest, her knuckles tight as she raised her fist. Her emerald eyes narrowed to slits. And then—crack! Her fist slammed into his jaw. But this time, the pain that jolted through her wasn't his; it was hers.
A sharp, fiery pain shot up her wrist. She'd probably just broken it.
And the brute? Not dead… but close enough.
His head rolled to the side, his body slumping into the mud, but all she could feel was the blinding agony throbbing in her wrist. She bit down, hard, tasting the blood on her lip.
Slowly, she climbed to her feet, one hand cradling her aching wrist as subtly as she could manage. Her breaths came fast and shallow, her body one giant, throbbing ache. All around her, the crowd erupted. Half of them were screaming her name, the rest cursed like they'd been robbed. Some just stood there in shock, realizing their bets had just gone up in smoke.
For one brief second, she allowed herself to savor it—the thrill, the hard-fought victory—even if her wrist was now on fire.
The announcer—a towering Kherosi with a voice like thunder—stomped into the pit, grabbing her uninjured arm and thrusting it high.
"1107 wins!"
She barely heard him. Her eyes drifted over to the brute, lying limp in the mud, already being dragged away by guards. That number—"1107"—felt burned into her mind, like a brand she couldn't shake.
But right now… for one precious second… victory tasted pretty damn good.
She adjusted her suit, wincing as it pulled against her bruised body. And then… a cold prickle crept up her neck.
She looked up, jaw tight.
Someone was watching her.