The coin landed softly in the dirt with a gentle clink. It bounced once, caught a flash of light, and then rolled in a lazy spiral before finally coming to rest in the middle of a spreading bloodstain. Denis blinked, his gaze shifting from the coin to Soren and back again.
"Seriously?" he muttered, his tone flat. "A coin?"
Soren remained silent, his expression unchanged calm and focused, wearing that same blank stare he'd had since the match kicked off. But his arm told a different story. Blood had soaked through the sleeve of his jacket, and his fingers were digging into the torn fabric, gripping the wound tightly.
Denis tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "You're not even going to pick it up?" he asked, starting to pace again, the sword dragging lightly behind him. "Is that your secret weapon? Some kind of enchanted trinket? A one-time-use spell bomb or some shit?"
He paused, making a grand gesture. "Is this supposed to be dramatic? Like some last-ditch effort or a deep metaphor?" Soren remained unfazed, not even blinking. "You're a man of few words," Denis remarked. "That's alright. I can fill the silence for both of us."
His gaze returned to the coin, now resting between them, with blood trickling from Soren's arm toward it. "You know, if I recall correctly, when someone drops a coin in the arena, it usually means they're throwing in the towel." A smirk crept onto his face. "But I have a feeling you're not the typical fighter." Soren only shifted his weight slightly, enough for Denis to take notice.
Denis raised an eyebrow. "You're still plotting something, aren't you? You've been fighting smart setting traps, moving like you've got this whole place mapped out. But the moment I landed that cut, you started to freeze up." He paused, tapping the edge of his sword lightly against his shoulder. "Want to hear my thoughts?"
Soren stayed silent. "I think you lack instincts for close combat. You can't think on your feet once the blood starts flowing. You're a strategist, a thinker. Probably more trained in simulations than real-life fighting." Still, Soren said nothing. "Which is why…" Denis trailed off, squinting, "you look like you're trying really hard not to back away right now."
A moment of silence hung between them. Denis let out a sigh. "This is getting boring." He glanced at the crowd. Some were still cheering loudly, while others watched in eerie silence. The camera drones hovered, zooming in on the scene. The coin. The tension. The blood. Denis turned back, flashing a grin. "Alright. Let's spice things up." He raised his hand not to strike, but in a playful peace gesture. "How about we make this interesting?"
Soren's brow lifted slightly. Denis stepped forward slowly, sword still lowered. "We make a bet," he said, his voice lighter now. Soren stared, taken aback. "A bet?" he repeated, incredulous. "In the middle of a life-or-death tournament?" Denis nodded, his expression serious. "That's right." Soren tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "And what exactly are we betting on?" Denis's eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief. "The first person to get knocked out… wins." A heavy silence hung in the air.
In the distance, a scream pierced through, followed by an explosion. Soren blinked, trying to process it all. "What?" "Whoever gets knocked out first… wins." Soren didn't answer immediately. He stared. Intently. Then, finally, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smirk. Not quite approval. But close enough. Denis grinned wider.
"Oh, I like that look. You get it."He began to circle again, moving more freely this time, spinning the blade in one hand like a baton.
"Think about it we both go all in. No holding back. No cheap shots. No retreating. First one out cold wins." He pointed at the nearest screen. "The crowd will eat it up. Two crazies smashing each other into the ground for the honor of being the loser."
He let out a laugh. Soren's eyes flicked back to the coin. The blood had finally reached it.
A faint pulse of heat shimmered in the air, barely noticeable. Almost imperceptible. Soren didn't blink.
Instead, he stepped forward. Just once.
Just enough to show his answer. Denis lit up.
"Oh, hell yes."
Denis twirled his knife lazily between his fingers, the metal catching the light with a mischievous glint. He took a few steps forward, his boots squelching on the blood-soaked arena floor. Soren stood his ground. No weapon. No makeshift tool. Just his fists and his wits. Denis raised an eyebrow. "Where's your little toy, pretty boy?" Soren let out a slow breath through his nose, remaining calm. "Left it in my bag."
Denis blinked in surprise. Then he burst into laughter. "You forgot your weapon in a death tournament?" "Didn't need it," Soren replied flatly. "It was dull. Just for show. Like you."
"Ouch," Denis winced dramatically. "Well, now I have to stab you. It's for honor." He lunged. Quick. Too quick. Soren barely managed to shift aside. The knife sliced through the air where his neck had just been. He stumbled not from tripping, but because his body felt off. Every movement, every twitch of muscle, felt like he was controlling a marionette with a delay. His breath caught in his throat. Denis noticed.
"Oh?" The grin grew wider. "Something wrong, hero?" Soren stayed silent. He sidestepped another slash this time scraping his forearm against the flat of the blade to redirect it. The pain was sharp and sudden. Real. Too slow, Soren thought. I'm way too damn slow. He was used to simulations. VR fights. Precise engagements where his reflexes obeyed him like programmed code. But this body this flesh was real. Raw. Imperfect. It lagged behind his instincts like a buffering screen during a firefight.
Denis kept pressing forward, his steps light, the knife dancing through the air with practiced ease. Like a shark circling blood. "You're not dodging," Denis murmured. "You're flinching." Soren clenched his teeth, still silent. He pivoted just in time to avoid a stab to his side, only to feel his calf cramp mid-step. His leg buckled slightly and Denis caught it. "Ohhh," he purred. "You're limping."
Another stab. Soren spun, barely managing to stay upright. His foot skidded across the cracked stone and slid through the blood. Still didn't say a word.
"Silent now?" Denis teased, a playful lilt in his voice. "I get it. You're not a fighter. You're prey." He lunged forward, slashing low Soren leaped, just managing to clear it and tumbled to the side, rolling with the impact. Denis chuckled. "Ohhh, I like this." He wasn't just in a fight anymore. He was relishing it. This wasn't a duel. It was a hunt. Denis's eyes sparkled with something raw. Not bloodlust. Not anger.
Elation.
He had transformed into the apex predator in a shattered arena of death, while Soren had become the wounded creature struggling to find its balance in a body that felt foreign. "You're pretty good at running," Denis murmured, closing in again. "Really good. Maybe if I give you a few more seconds, your legs will finally catch up with you."
Soren attempted to rise. His right thigh screamed in protest. He shifted his weight, forcing himself up but his stance was unsteady. Off-kilter. Denis noticed everything. "Here's a little secret," Denis said, twirling the knife in a half-circle. "It's not about strength. Or weapons. Or even skill." He grinned, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's about rhythm."
He charged forward. Soren braced himself, but his body lagged again just a fraction too slow. The knife sliced cleanly through his side. Not deep. But enough to sting. Soren staggered back, blood trickling from the thin, red line beneath his ribs. Denis didn't press the attack. He simply watched. "I could've gutted you just now," he said, almost sounding let down. Soren winced, clutching the wound. "Why didn't you?"
"Because," Denis beamed, "you're still dancing." Then he lunged again. And Soren ran. Not out of fear. But out of strategy. This body couldn't fight head-on. Not yet. Not like this. But it could buy time. And Denis sick, giddy, adrenaline-fueled Denis was enjoying the chase too much to finish it. That gave Soren a thread. A rhythm.
A chance. Even prey could strike back if they led the predator just far enough into the Soren ducked into a low sprint, his feet slapping against the slick, blood-stained stone, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps. The pain in his side pulsed with every jolt of movement intense, fiery, and undeniably real.
Behind him, Denis's boots echoed in a steady rhythm.
Not frantic.
Not rushed.
Just stalking.
"You run kind of funny," Denis called out, his tone relaxed and easy—like they were just having a casual chat on a leisurely walk in the park. "Is it because of the injury? Or are you always this uncoordinated?" Soren didn't respond. He couldn't.
His lungs felt like they were on fire. His legs shook. Every joint ached as if it had rusted over and was just now figuring out how to move again. There was no energy left for clever comebacks. No time to think of witty replies. Just pure instinct for survival. Denis let out a low whistle. "You know… this isn't quite how I pictured this going down. You made such a striking first impression. The intense stare. The confident posture. That whole cold, mysterious vibe."
Soren stumbled a bit, his foot slipping on a broken tile. He dropped to one knee, his hands dragging through blood and dust. Just as he was about to push himself up
Thwip.
A knife sliced through the air. It barely missed him. It embedded itself in the stone, blade-first, right next to his eye. Soren didn't flinch. He couldn't afford to. He forced himself back up, chest heaving, head spinning, the metallic taste of blood creeping up his throat. Behind him, Denis chuckled. "I like you." He pulled out another knife, this one slimmer, curved like a fang. Denis twirled it between his fingers as he sauntered closer.
"No offense," Denis continued, "but I honestly thought you'd put up more of a fight. I even thought about using both hands. But here we are." Soren took a cautious step back. He realized Denis was just toying with him. It wasn't just about asserting dominance it was about enjoyment. This was a game to him. A slow, sadistic thrill.
"Maybe," Denis said, pausing to brush his hair out of his face, "maybe this is all part of your master plan. Trying to make me drop my guard. Luring me into a false sense of superiority. And then…" He leaned in, lowering his voice to a dramatic whisper:
"Boom. You awaken. A power buried deep within you. Fire bursts from your fingertips. You shout something poetic like 'I won't run anymore!' and the tides shift." Soren's chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths.
Nothing exploded.
No power surged.
No poetic cries.
Just his body, trembling, weakening, slowly betraying him with every passing second. Denis tilted his head. "No? Nothing?" Soren wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, smearing blood across his temple from the earlier scrape. He looked up. His eyes were calm. But weary. So incredibly weary. Denis clicked his tongue. "Well, that's a letdown." And then, quicker than before he lunged.