Chapter 34 Zirc
ZIRC
Trill moved like liquid death, circling me with the predatory patience of someone who'd perfected killing as an art form.
His emerald fur caught the arena lights, highlighting the diagonal scar that had earned him his reputation.
Twenty-three victories. Twenty-three opponents either dead or violated for the crowd's entertainment.
And yet...
Something was wrong with his approach. Too cautious. Too calculating. A fighter with his reputation should have launched into immediate attack, confident in his superiority. Instead, he studied me like he was memorizing my weaknesses rather than preparing to exploit them.
"Nervous, Scarface?" I taunted, testing his reactions. "The great champion afraid of one half-dead Silver Beast?"
His eyes flicked to mine for just a moment, and I caught something unexpected there. Not bloodlust or sadistic anticipation. Regret? Conflict?
Then he moved.
The attack came without warning—a perfect feint followed by a devastating combination that should have ended the fight immediately. Should have, if I'd been fighting like the crippled prisoner they expected.
Instead, I slipped the first strike, absorbed the second on my crystallized arm, and countered with a knee thrust that would have shattered normal ribs. Trill twisted away at the last second, the blow glancing off his hip instead of finding its target.
We separated, both breathing hard, and I saw genuine surprise in his eyes.
"You're holding back," I realized aloud. "Why?"
For answer, he came again—not the wild assault of a gladiator seeking quick victory, but the measured combat of someone testing an opponent's capabilities. I began to match his rhythm, Crystal growths limiting my mobility but not my technique.
We fought like dancers, each movement flowing into the next with deadly precision.
His claws carved shallow furrows across my chest. My fangs found his shoulder, drawing blood but not striking deep enough to disable.
The crowd's excitement grew as they realized they were witnessing genuine skill rather than simple slaughter.
"FINISH HIM!" Nialla screamed from the royal box, her arousal clearly frustrated by the lack of degradation. "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?"
But Trill didn't seem to hear her. He was focused entirely on our combat, his professional mask slipping to reveal something almost like... enjoyment? As if this was the first real fight he'd experienced in years of staging massacres.
I began to understand. Twenty-three victories against opponents chosen for weakness rather than skill. Prisoners and slaves forced into combat they couldn't win. This was the first time Trill had faced someone who could match his abilities.
The first time the contest was real.
We grappled in the center of the pit, strength against strength, technique against technique.
His claws found purchase on my crystallized arm, trying to use the curse against me.
I twisted, throwing him over my hip to slam against the arena floor.
He rolled immediately, sweeping my legs and sending me sprawling.
"You're good," he admitted quietly as we circled again, both bleeding from multiple wounds. "Better than they said."
"They?" I pressed, sensing an opening in his psychological defenses.
"The intelligence reports. They said you were weak." His emerald eyes met mine directly. "They lied."
Before I could respond to that admission, something else caught my attention. A scent threading through the arena's reek of blood and sweat—sweet, familiar, achingly precious.
Brin.
I could smell her from anywhere. My head turned automatically, searching the crowd, and there she was. Standing between Nim and Sim in a gallery section I hadn't noticed before, looking beautiful as always.
She was here. In this place of horrors, watching me fight for my life. The sight of her—safe but vulnerable, glowing with health but surrounded by degenerates—sent my protective instincts into overdrive.
That moment of distraction cost me.
Trill's claws raked across the side of my skull, the impact sending me stumbling sideways as darkness clouded the edges of my vision. Blood streamed down my face, and the crystal growths across my temple flared with pain that made my knees buckle.
I hit the sand hard, consciousness wavering as the crowd erupted in celebration.
"THE SILVER BEAST IS DOWN!"
"FINISH HIM NOW!"
"CLAIM HIM! CLAIM HIM!"
Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Kilo's voice booming across the arena: "Victory to Scarface! Now let's see what the champion does with his prize!"
No. Not like this. Not with Brin watching.
I tried to push myself up, but dizziness sent me sprawling again. The Shura's influence was reasserting control, spreading through my nervous system like ice water. My vision blurred as crystal growths accelerated, feeding on the trauma to my skull.
"Get up," I commanded myself. "GET UP!"
But my body wouldn't obey. The combination of curse, injury, and blood loss had finally overwhelmed my reserves. I could only lie there, gasping, as Trill approached with the deliberate pace of a predator claiming victory.
The crowd was chanting now, their voices unified in bloodthirsty anticipation: "CLAIM HIM! CLAIM HIM! CLAIM HIM!"
Trill knelt beside me, his emerald eyes unreadable as he assessed my condition. Strong hands gripped my shoulders, rolling me onto my back with surprising gentleness. I tried to resist, but my muscles had turned to water.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, so quietly only I could hear. "There's no other way."
I saw movement in my peripheral vision. Trill was reaching for something—a weapon. My crystal-clouded vision made it hard to focus, but the metallic glint was unmistakable.
A sword. He was drawing a sword.
The crowd's excitement reached fever pitch as they prepared to witness what they assumed would be my execution. Their bloodthirsty chants filled the arena:
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD!"
"FINISH THE BEAST!"
"BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!"
Trill raised the blade above his head, the steel catching arena lights as he positioned it for what appeared to be a killing blow. His emerald eyes met mine for just a moment, and I saw something there—conflict, pain, maybe even apology. But most of all, I saw when he made a decision.
But the blade was real, the threat was real, and I was too weak to defend myself.
That's when the world exploded into motion.
A blur erupted from somewhere in the crowd—too fast for normal eyes to track, moving with the supernatural speed that marked Silver Tribe bloodlines at full combat readiness. The blur resolved into a familiar figure dropping from the gallery like an avenging angel.
Roqs.
His sword was already drawn, the blade gleaming with special alloys as he landed behind Trill with perfect silence. Time seemed to slow as I watched recognition dawn in Trill's scarred features, his head beginning to turn toward the presence he'd sensed behind him.
Then Roqs struck.
Steel met steel as Roqs's blade intercepted Trill's descending sword in a shower of sparks. The impact sent both warriors staggering, but Roqs followed through with a thrust that caught Trill in the chest, spinning him away from my prone form.
Trill hit the arena sand hard, Roqs's sword protruding from his body as blood spread across the scarred warrior's chest. He lay motionless, whether from injury or unconsciousness impossible to tell.
For a heartbeat, the arena was frozen in perfect silence. The crowd sat stunned, unable to process what they'd just witnessed. Their undefeated champion, apparently killed by an unknown intruder who'd violated every rule of the pit.
What they don't know was, Roqs skewered his mate. For me.
Then the crowd went absolutely wild.