Twenty-Six Blows

On the morning of the third day, the guard came to fetch Jack without bringing chains.

“Arena Master said you're only fighting one match today.” The guard stood outside the cell, spinning a key ring around his finger twice. His tone was much more polite than it had been the past two days. Guards in Iron Cage City treated slaves on winning streaks this way. They never knew whether a man would still be alive tomorrow, so they might as well be polite for now.

Jack stood, ducked his head, and stepped through the cell door. The guard took a step back to clear the way.

Without another word, the guard turned to lead him out, walking a little faster than usual.

The arena had been arranged differently today.

The main fighting cage had been moved to the center of the arena, and all four tiers of stands around it were packed. Betting slips rustled in the gamblers' fists. Smoke, liquor, and sweat mingled in the air, thick enough to ladle out.

Arena Master sat on the second tier today, flanked by two unfamiliar faces in striped suits. Their gold rings were bigger than his. They were men sent by the higher-ups of the Banaro Island Mafia.

When Jack was pushed into the cage, his opponent was already standing in the middle.

The man did not look like a fighting slave.

He had none of the hammer-wielding slave's hulking muscle, none of the three pirate brothers' ferocity. He was of average build, with slightly narrow shoulders, and stood not in a fighter's guarded stance but at military attention. Heels together, toes apart, back straight, hands resting naturally at his sides. In his right hand was a Short Knife, longer than a dagger but shorter than a saber. Its thin-honed edge gleamed coldly under the dim yellow lights.

His face was gaunt, with high cheekbones and deep-set eyes. An old knife scar ran from the corner of his mouth across his left cheek to his ear. He did not look fierce. He looked almost quiet, like an old soldier who spent his retirement fishing off the docks.

His eyes were different, too. No fear, no excitement, not even bloodlust. Only the calm of someone who had seen too much.

The cage door clanged shut. The noise from the stands swelled to a peak. Arena Master rose, spread his arms, and tapped the iron railing with his short whip. The crowd fell silent for a few seconds.

"Today's match is the main event." Arena Master's voice echoed through the arena, a casino owner's smile on his face. "The kid who's won two days straight against a retired Marine. Place your bets at the second-floor window. Odds are three to one."

Three to one. The retired Marine was favored three to one.

The gamblers erupted. The veteran had fought more than a dozen matches in Iron Cage City and lost only one. They knew his style well: no brute strength, no size advantage, just a Short Knife and Marine combat training. Lock a joint, then finish with the blade. Clean and quick, never dragging out a fight. Arena Master disliked him because he won too fast for the gamblers to raise their bets. But today, he was perfect as an Executioner.

In the center of the cage, the retired Marine moved.

His pace was measured, his military boots striking the iron floor in a steady rhythm. The point of his Short Knife dipped slightly in his right hand, while his left hand rested open beside his waist. It was the opening stance of Marine combat training.

An old gambler gripped the railing and shouted down, "Kill him! I bet everything I own on you!"

The retired Marine did not look up. He stopped three paces from Jack and studied him.

His right hand shifted, bringing the Short Knife upright with its point aimed at Jack's left shoulder—the spot the hammer-wielding slave had injured. The man had sharp eyes. He could tell the wound had not fully healed.

His first thrust targeted the left shoulder. It came at a vicious angle, rising from below as the point slipped into the gap in the soft tissue beneath the shoulder. It pierced the skin, then stopped against the muscle. Blood seeped out. Not much, but it hurt.

The retired Marine's expression changed. He had felt the resistance traveling back through the blade. It had not felt like piercing muscle. It was more like scraping the point across a layer of tightly packed leather. He withdrew the Short Knife, sidestepped half a circle, and reached with his left hand to seize Jack's right wrist.

A joint lock.

The instant his left hand closed around Jack's wrist, the Short Knife stabbed toward Jack's right flank. He drew the edge across, trying to cut through the muscle there. He had used this combination expertly in his previous matches: lock a joint with the left hand to restrict his opponent's movement, then drive the blade into a vital spot during the fraction of a second the lock held. Most people instinctively struggled when their wrist was trapped. His blade was faster than that struggle.

But Jack did not struggle. His right wrist stayed still in the man's grip. The Short Knife sliced through his prison clothes at the waist and left only a white mark on his Hardened Skin.

The retired Marine frowned. His hand was still on Jack's wrist, and he could feel no tension in the man's muscles. Jack was not resisting at all. It felt less like gripping a wrist than a leather-wrapped iron bar.

He let go and backed away to reset the distance. He switched the Short Knife to a reverse grip, the blade lying along the outside of his forearm. His left hand hovered before him, fingers slightly spread. It was a variation of Marine combat training used against hardened opponents: forget the vital organs and strike the gaps between joints.

The retired Marine closed in again. This time he came straight on, thrusting the Short Knife at Jack's chest. Just before the point touched skin, he abruptly changed direction and slashed at the side of Jack's neck. Jack tilted his head. The blade grazed his neck, leaving a white mark on the hardened layer.

The third strike. The fourth. The fifth.

Every blow landed somewhere that would have killed an ordinary man. Throat, heart, liver, kidneys, carotid artery. The middle-aged man's blade work was no flashy display. It was killing technique, honed through countless real fights. Every angle, every ounce of force, every inch of depth was frighteningly precise.

Jack's prison clothes were soon soaked with blood. The wounds were shallow, but there were many of them. Blood seeped from more than a dozen cuts at once, staining the gray-white fabric dark red.

Arena Master narrowed his eyes in the stands.

He had watched this retired Marine fight more than a dozen times. Every match had gone the same way: a flurry of thrusts, then his opponent collapsed within seconds. But this fishing-village kid had taken more than a dozen strikes. His steps were steady, his breathing even. He had not so much as blinked.

Something was wrong.

The retired Marine felt it too. Every time his blade struck Jack, the resistance was wrong. It did not have the softness of muscle or organs. It dragged against something dense, like stabbing hard rubber. The blade could enter, but not deeply.

He quickened his pace. The eighth strike, the ninth, the tenth. The Short Knife opened one bloody cut after another across Jack's left arm, right ribs, abdomen, and back. Jack swayed slightly under the repeated blows, but he never fell.

Jack was counting.

Not the wounds. He was counting the retired Marine's rhythm. He had spotted a pattern: after every thrust, the middle-aged man's right shoulder drew back ever so slightly for about three-tenths of a second. That was the gap as he gathered strength and recovered his blade for the next attack. It was brief, but it was enough for Jack.

When the twelfth strike pierced his right shoulder, Jack did not dodge.

He stepped forward into the blade.

The Short Knife sank deeper into his Hardened Skin than it had on any previous strike. Its point touched his shoulder blade and scraped across bone with a grating sound. The retired Marine's eyes widened slightly. For the first time since entering the cage, he looked surprised.

Jack gave him no chance to retreat. He raised his left hand, spread his fingers, and clamped them around the middle-aged man's throat. His knuckles pinned either side of the windpipe, his steel-hardened fingertips pressing into skin. He held the pressure precisely between crushing it and leaving it intact.

The retired Marine went rigid. The Short Knife was still buried in Jack's right shoulder, but his right hand had released the hilt. He had not meant to let go. The instant Jack seized his throat, his body had instinctively abandoned the attack.

They stood facing each other in the center of the cage. Jack's right hand hung at his side, while the fingers of his left gripped the middle-aged man's throat. Blood ran from more than twenty cuts on Jack's body, dripping onto the iron floor and gathering in a small pool beneath their feet.

The retired Marine looked into Jack's eyes. His lips moved soundlessly, but Jack read them.

"Thanks."

Jack took another look at him. This man was no pirate, no Mafia member, no gambler. He had killed a superior officer—but people in Iron Cage City said all sorts of things, and no one checked whether they were true. Perhaps the officer had deserved it. Perhaps the man had taken the blame for someone else.

Jack spoke.

"Your combat skills are good."

Then he crushed the man's throat.

Crack. It was a faint sound, but it carried far through the silent cage. Several gamblers in the front row heard it and flinched. The retired Marine's Short Knife slipped from his hand and clattered against the iron floor. He pitched forward. Jack released his throat and let him fall.

A system panel appeared at the edge of Jack's vision.

Heartsteel stacks +1. Current stacks: 3/30.

Jack bent and pulled the Short Knife from his shoulder. The edge made a faint metallic scrape against his Hardened Skin. A little of his blood clung to the point. He laid the blade on the retired Marine's chest and straightened.

The entire arena was silent.

The Arena Master stood in the stands, gripping his short whip so tightly his knuckles turned white. The two men in striped suits beside him exchanged a glance. One murmured something, and the other nodded. The Arena Master could not hear them, but he knew what they were discussing. This fishing-village kid had survived too long—long enough to catch the interest of the men from higher up on Banaro Island.

The guards trudged into the cage and bent to lift the body. One jerked his hand back when it touched the retired Marine's shoulder, muttering under his breath. Another picked up the corpse's legs. As he passed Jack, he stopped for half a second and forced a word from his throat.

"Monster."

He spoke softly, but the cage was so quiet that even the people in the top tier heard him. The word spread among the gamblers, first from the front rows to the back, then from the second floor to the third. No one jeered. No one called out a bet. Every eye stayed on the blood-soaked young man in the center of the cage.

Jack turned toward the cage door. As he passed the guards, he stopped.

"His blade," Jack said. "Bury it with him."

The guard froze for a second, then nodded, nearly dropping the body in his hands. He did not know why he had nodded. Perhaps the word monster had left him instinctively afraid to say no.

On the second floor, the Arena Master tapped the railing with his whip. It was not as loud as usual, but he spoke anyway.

“Move him to another cell. A large one, fit for an Executioner.”

With that, he turned and left. The men in striped suits followed, their dress shoes clacking on the wooden stairs. One looked back at Jack, then turned away and murmured something to the Arena Master. Jack could not hear him, but he read two words on the man's lips.

Bege.

The large cell was at the end of the corridor. It was three times the size of his previous cell. The iron mesh had been replaced with wire—thicker wire, with even more rust. The door had two locks. In one corner lay a straw mat, and there was a wooden stool and an old table. The table legs had been welded to the iron floor.

An Executioner's treatment. In Iron Cage City, those who could fight lived in private cells; those who could kill lived in large ones. As Jack entered the large cell, several fighting slaves across the corridor watched him through the wire. No one spoke. No one dared. He sat on the straw mat in the corner, leaned against the iron wall, and looked out through the wire.

The Arena Master thought the larger cell was a reward. In Iron Cage City, fighting slaves killed their way from communal cages to private cells, from private cells to large ones, and from large ones to the rank of Executioner. Every step up was an investment by the Arena Master. Every bit of fat he put on them was for the slaughter to come.