Three Wins in a Row

Clang.

The sound of an iron door opening and closing came from far away, like a dull, muffled bell. Then came a guard's shout, the grunt of a fighting slave being dragged away, and the scrape of chains across an iron floor. The sounds poured down the second basement corridor and into the cell, wrenching Jack from sleep.

He opened his eyes. His body ached, but his wounds showed no sign of infection or inflammation. The foundation left by that first layer of steel-hardened cells was far stronger than his original body.

He was in a single-occupancy cage. It was smaller than yesterday's communal cage, but at least he had it to himself.

A privilege for a winner.

Jack sat up with his right shoulder against the wall and surveyed the cell. The system panel glowed quietly in the corner, suspended in midair, its pale blue light reflected on the iron floor.

Heartsteel stacks: 1/30.

He closed the panel.

Jack began moving in the cramped space. First came push-ups, his palms pressed to the cold iron floor. His hardened skin made a faint rasp against it, like sandpaper on metal. He went slowly, pausing for a second at the bottom of each repetition before pushing up. Then came squats, followed by pull-ups on the bars overhead. Bodyweight training needed no equipment. His prison uniform pulled tight across his shoulders; yesterday's torn seam had reached his shoulder blade.

His body ached, but his muscles gradually woke as they contracted and stretched. It was unlike the soreness he remembered from the gym before crossing over. With every contraction, he could feel the hardened fibers beneath his skin stretching like steel wire pulled too many times to lengthen any further, growing denser instead.

By the time he finished, sweat was dripping from his forehead onto the iron floor. He blew away a drop that landed in front of him, then rose and leaned back into the corner.

About half an hour later, footsteps came from the far end of the corridor.

Leather shoes on iron. An unhurried stride, heels landing first, followed by the dull weight of the soles rolling forward. Gold rings chimed against the cage bars.

The Arena Master.

He stopped outside the cell with two guards behind him. The Arena Master was in his forties and wore a different silk shirt today. Three gold rings gleamed dully on his fingers beneath the corridor's yellow oil lamps. A short whip hung at his waist, its tip stained with fresh dark red.

He looked Jack over the way a man inspected livestock. Not a person, but merchandise. The same look a dockside trader gave dried fish.

"Not bad yesterday," the Arena Master said. He tapped his short whip against the cage, making the bars hum. "You fight again today. Win, and you get meat."

He turned without waiting for an answer. His shoes clicked down the corridor, then stopped. Looking back, the Arena Master added, "Two matches today. Survive, and you keep the cell. If you don't, you die."

His footsteps faded down the corridor. Jack heard him tell his men, "Book him for two matches today. First, the pair with the knives. Second, the three brothers."

The first match came quickly that morning.

The cage door was pulled open, and a guard shoved him out of the cell and down the passage. The fighting arena stood on Iron Cage City's ground floor. Getting there from the second basement level meant passing through three iron doors, each thick with rust.

By the time they pushed him into the fighting cage, the gamblers had already worked themselves into a frenzy.

His opponents were two gamblers with daggers. Their hands trembled around the hilts. Afraid or not, there were two of them against one unarmed man, with a dagger apiece. They thought they could win.

The Arena Master had not arranged this to kill Jack. It was a test. He wanted to know whether the kid who had smashed a man's nose with his forehead yesterday was worth anything.

The cage door clanged shut.

The first gambler charged. He feinted with his dagger, then chopped down from Jack's left. The swing was wide, and the tip struck sparks from the iron mesh. Jack did not dodge. The blade sliced through his prison uniform but left only a white mark on the Hardened Skin of his left arm.

The second gambler seized the opening and stabbed from the side. His dagger struck Jack's right ribs, exactly where the hammer had hit him yesterday. The tip pierced the scab, drawing a thin line of fresh blood, but stopped half a centimeter in.

Jack raised his right hand and closed his fingers around the second gambler's wrist. He squeezed.

Crack. At this distance, the breaking wrist was unmistakable. The gambler's scream drowned out the stands. His dagger slipped through his fingers, hit the iron floor, and bounced twice. Jack kept hold of the broken wrist, lifted the man bodily, and swung him sideways into the first gambler. Bone struck bone. They tumbled together to the edge of the mesh, where one man's forehead hit the wire and came away dotted with blood.

The fight was over.

“Hardening Stack +1. Current stacks: 2/30.”

When the guards opened the cage and marched him out, the two gamblers were still tangled together on the floor. The crowd erupted behind him. Some cursed the pair as useless; others cursed the Arena Master for putting such trash in the cage and ruining the odds.

The second match came that afternoon.

This time, the Arena Master had arranged proper opponents: three brothers who fought as slaves. The eldest was a retired pirate crew's boatswain who had spent seven years in West Blue. After the Marines sank his ship, he escaped ashore, only to be captured by the Mafia and sold to Iron Cage City. His two younger brothers had also been pirates. Together, they had fought more than thirty matches and lost only once.

When the cage door closed, the three brothers faced Jack. The eldest stood in front, thick with muscle and gripping an iron staff. The second brother held the left flank with two short blades. The youngest circled to the side, unarmed but light on his feet, waiting to strike from an opening.

The gamblers in the stands fell quiet for a few seconds, then began betting furiously. The odds were overwhelming.

The eldest charged first. He swung his staff in a broad sweep, its rush echoing dully through the cage. Jack raised his arm and took the blow. The staff rebounded off his hardened left forearm, splitting the skin between the eldest brother's thumb and forefinger. Blood seeped out. As the staff came down, the second brother darted in from the left, crossing his blades toward Jack's waist. They tore through his prison uniform and left two white marks on his skin. By then, the youngest had slipped behind him and leaped to lock both arms around his throat.

Jack turned and threw a punch. The impact sent the other man flying into the iron mesh. It bowed outward, and the third brother slid down it, unable to make a sound.

The eldest roared and brought his staff down again. Jack tilted his head clear, caught the shaft with his left hand, and yanked it down. His right fist slammed into the man's chest. One punch. Jack felt ribs break beneath his knuckles. The eldest flew backward into the second brother, and they fell together. The second brother tried to get up, but Jack had already planted a foot on his knife hand. He ground down. The faint crunch of finger bones was nearly lost beneath the gamblers' roar. The second brother's scream silenced them for an instant.

All three brothers were down. The fight was over.

As he was escorted back to his cell, several fighting slaves who had occupied cells along the corridor yesterday were being moved to the communal cage. Winners got private cells; losers went back. A few crouched beside the mesh and watched him pass through its gaps.

Jack did not look at them.

Evening brought Iron Cage City's brief lull. The arena was closed, and order in the basement loosened a little. At the far end of the corridor, several fighting slaves crouched together, quietly betting on who would live or die tomorrow. They kept their voices low, but Iron Cage City had no soundproofing. The odds, the opponent in the main event, who had been dragged into the Scrap Cage today—every word drifted into Jack's cell.

Jack leaned against the mesh and closed his eyes to rest. He did not fall asleep.

After nightfall, a guard poked his head around from the direction of the second-floor corridor and called into the cell, "The Arena Master says you're getting a different opponent tomorrow. Get some rest."

He left after that, but on his way out, he exchanged a glance with another guard. Not even the oil lamps could hide what it meant: This one's nearly spent. Every guard in Iron Cage City knew that look. Once a winning slave had been fattened up, the Arena Master would arrange a match he could not possibly win, producing a huge upset for the betting pool. The moment the winner was executed, the Arena Master would make far more than he had spent feeding him meat for a month.

Jack saw the look.

From the communal cage, an old fighting slave's voice drifted over. It was faint, almost as though he were talking to himself—or speaking just for Jack. His voice was so hoarse that every word rattled with phlegm. "Don't die too quickly. Once you're dead, no one will remember you."

Jack did not answer.

A face rose from the fragments of memory: the old slave. Jack's original body had never learned his name, only that he had been held in Iron Cage City for two years. Two years, more than seventy fights, and he was still alive. Not because he was good at fighting, but because he knew how to seem unworthy of execution. In every match, he deliberately took the first hit, rolled on the floor, and stayed down. The gamblers called him useless. So did the Arena Master. But no one went out of their way to execute a useless slave.

He was teaching Jack how to stay alive. But Jack did not need the lesson.

Late that night, Iron Cage City finally fell quiet. A dozing guard snored louder than the surf in the distance. At the end of the corridor, all but one oil lamp had gone out, leaving a dim yellow circle wavering across the iron floor. Jack opened his eyes and looked through the mesh at the iron door leading up to the ground floor.

Tomorrow's opponent would not be meant to let him live. The Arena Master was fattening him up for an execution that would send the betting odds crashing. The guards' looks told him that day was close.

Clang. A distant iron door sounded again. The guards dragging someone away at night made a brief commotion near the Scrap Cage. Chains scraped past, then silence returned. There was one fewer person in the Scrap Cage.

Tomorrow, it would be his turn in the arena. The Arena Master was upstairs counting money, and the gamblers were already placing bets. The guards had exchanged that look: Nearly spent. Everyone was waiting to see the fishing-village kid with three straight wins get smashed to death in the cage.