Executioner

Life in the large private cell was quieter than in the communal cage.

But the roars from the arena, the guards' shouts, and the muffled groans of fighters dragged away still carried over from a distance every day.

Every morning, Jack trained without fail. With no equipment, he used his own body weight. He squatted until his thighs burned and did push-ups until sweat pooled on the iron floor. On the last set of pull-ups, he gripped the bars overhead, held himself at the top for two seconds, then lowered himself.

The friction between his hardened skin and the bars made a faint sound, like sandpaper scraping iron. It creaked through the cell. When the guard nearby heard it, he unconsciously took a route around Jack's cell.

Jack was a size bigger than when he had first entered Iron Cage City. His shoulders had broadened, his chest and back strained against his prison uniform, and the lines of muscle in his arms showed faintly beneath his hardened skin. The guards brought him a new, wider uniform, but it still pinched at the shoulders.

The guards' attitude toward him had changed.

The food hatch slid open, and a bowl of porridge and two pieces of black bread came through. It was more food than yesterday. The porridge was thicker, and there was even a small dish of pickled vegetables.

The guard spoke from outside, keeping his voice low. "Eat up. The Arena Master said there's no match today. You get a day to rest."

Jack said nothing. He picked up the bowl. The porridge was warm, the rice half-cooked, with a faint aroma. He took a sip. It was far better than the watery porridge of the past few days. The black bread was softer too; at least he could bite into it without soaking it first.

The guard who had delivered the food did not leave right away. He stood outside, peering through the bars over the hatch. Jack glanced up at him. The guard immediately looked away, and his hurried footsteps faded down the corridor.

Jack kept eating. When he finished, he set the bowl by the door and leaned back against the wall.

At lunchtime, the same guard brought him a bowl of hot soup.

It was meat broth, with a few leaves floating on top and a thin sheen of oil. The bottom of the bowl was hot enough to heat the iron floor beneath it, but Jack's hardened fingers felt nothing. He drank it all. The scraps of meat were tiny, gone after a couple of chews, but the broth had real flavor. It was not dishwater.

This time, the guard set down the bowl and hurried away without even closing the hatch. Jack knew the look in his eyes. It was not fear, but wariness. The guards of Iron Cage City looked at every fighter on a winning streak that way. They had seen too many winners beaten to death in the cage, so they kept their distance while those fighters were still alive. Then the Arena Master arrived.

The sound of leather shoes on iron drew closer. The Arena Master had brought no guards today. He walked up to Jack's cell alone.

Standing outside the cage, the Arena Master looked Jack over, paying particular attention to the width of his shoulders and the muscles in his arms. He looked less like a man examining another person than someone inspecting a freshly maintained weapon. He was pleased, but not entirely reassured.

"In your next match," the Arena Master said, "you're going to kill someone for me."

His tone was casual, as if he were assigning an everyday chore, like telling the kitchen to make another bowl of porridge. He put a cigar in his mouth, took a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it against the wire for Jack to see.

A man was drawn on the paper. It was not a standard wanted poster portrait, but a hand-drawn sketch. The lines were rough, yet the features were unmistakable: a pointed face, narrow eyes, a downturned mouth, and long, tangled hair hanging over his shoulders. Beneath the portrait was a line of text: Executioner Lynx. Nineteen slaves killed.

The Arena Master took back the paper, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket.

"I raised him, but lately he's stopped obeying me. Last month, he refused to enter the ring. Said he didn't want to fight anymore. Who does he think he is? I spent money feeding him, and he thinks he can just decide he's done?" The Arena Master's voice remained quiet, but something had entered his tone. Not anger, exactly, but the displeasure of a man who had been slighted. "So you'll take his place. Kill him, and the Executioner's position is yours."

Jack gave a one-word answer. "Fine."

The Arena Master smiled. With the cigar between his teeth, he pulled a stack of Beli from his pocket, counted out five ten-thousand-Beli notes, and pushed them through the food hatch. "That's your deposit. There's more if you win."

The fight was set for the following afternoon.

This time, the escort was different.

Every cage along the passage to the arena had been cleared in advance. There were no fighters or workers behind the wire on either side, only empty iron walls and the sound of Jack's footsteps. Lynx had been held in Iron Cage City too long and killed too many people. Nobody wanted to be near his opponent. Not even the guards.

Today, the arena had been arranged around the central fighting cage. It stood in the middle, larger than the usual one, with tighter wire mesh and an extra layer of barbed wire welded to its bars. There were twice as many people in the stands as usual. The crowd included not only gamblers from Banaro Island, but mobsters from several nearby islands. A few watched from second-floor boxes with cigars in their mouths, gold watch chains gleaming beneath their suit cuffs. The Arena Master sat at the center of the second floor, beside the same two men in striped suits as last time.

When Jack was pushed into the main cage, the stands erupted louder than they had for any of his previous matches. Gamblers stood on their chairs waving betting slips. Some shouted "Hound," others "Monster," and still others "Executioner." The numbers on the odds board changed seven times before settling at six to four: six for the Executioner, four for Jack. It was the first time the odds had favored him.

The cage door slammed shut behind him. Clang! The sound seemed to shake the air throughout the arena.

The roar from the stands surged, then dipped a little as he walked to the center of the cage. The gamblers had noticed his build. He was a size bigger than he had been when he entered Iron Cage City a week ago. He did not yet have the imposing presence of a famous pirate, but here, in this prison of cages, he was enough to silence the front rows.

The passage opposite him was dark.

Then a pair of glowing cat eyes appeared in the darkness.

The footsteps were light. Almost inaudible. It was the gait of a cat: paws touching down first, weight settling gradually, then the hind feet lifting without a sound.

The Executioner emerged from the passage.

Zoan. Cat-Cat Fruit. Lynx form.

His eyes were pale gold, their pupils narrowed to vertical slits in the dark. They were lower than Jack's; Lynx held his body close to the ground, the outline of his shoulders barely visible in the darkness. In his lynx form, the Zoan user was not fully transformed, but half human and half beast. His shoulders were human in width, while his arms were covered in short gray-brown fur whose tips caught the dim light with a dull silver sheen. His nails had become claws, curved into hooks no human hand could imitate—the claws of a feline predator.

The cheers reached a peak. The gamblers screamed "Executioner" over and over. Some hammered on the iron railings, others whistled, and the whole arena churned like a pot at full boil.

Jack clenched his fists.

The last empty segment of the Colossal Devouring Charge Bar glimmered dimly on the system panel. His first prey with a power was emerging from the dark passage. As Lynx's claws stepped onto the iron floor at the center of the cage, the blue glow on the panel shone steadily, like a spark just kindled.