1. 2
“It's not about my competency, Your Majesty. I promised you a victory. I'll make sure...”
“What have I named this purebred beast?” King Leonis raised his voice with a sudden anger. He paused for a response and also to catch his breath. Doha glanced at the stool across the room, but kept his mouth shut. King Leonis steadied himself, though his anger crept up his cheeks. “Has Kyrus stolen your tongues? What is the name of this slave?”
“Lion of Zarall,” Caesh muttered.
“Lion of who ?”
“Lion of Zarall, Your Majesty.”
“Now imagine my people uttering these words:” He paused after each sentence to gasp his next breath. “Lion of Zarall got injured and retired. Retired . Do you grasp the weight of that word?” He didn't expect an answer, but he paused anyway, before hissing, “Weak. It implies he became weak.”
The room was dead quiet. No one dared to make eye contact with the King. “Master Vanalten,” King Leonis said, controlling his voice.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“And what becomes of those injured beasts whom you cannot heal?”
“As extensive as my competencies as a physician, we all know it is not always possible to recover from some injuries.”
“What happens to those who cannot do what they are bred to do?”
Lion knew the answer. Every slave did, whether they were freeborn or purebred. He suppressed a shiver that crept up his spine.
“The fortunate ones are sold to the tribesmen of the North.”
“To keep a beast that cannot fight is sheer wastefulness.” King Leonis nodded. “And I refuse to send my champion beast to those cannibals.”
Badimar bowed his head. “I understand your wish, Your Majesty.”
“Do you?” King Leonis examined the armour, which hung on the stand. He swiped his finger across the breastplate, still dusty and stained from the last battle. When Moral elbowed the old freeborn house slave, the man rushed to wipe the breastplate clean until the golden lion engravings shone bright.
“I do not wish him to lose,” King Leonis said. He picked up the metal half mask from the table, which was custom made to complement Lion of Zarall's arena gear. It wasn't much of a helmet; it only provided protection for his upper face, leaving his bearded chin unprotected. It was shaped like a lion's face. With his bushy blond beard and rich blond hair framing the metal mask, Lion's head resembled a lion while he wore it.
Turning and twisting the mask between his bony fingers, King Leonis made his way to Lion. “Can he win, Master Badimar?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Badimar said quickly. Lion knew the Master of the Beasts enough to hear the lack of faith in his tone. The King didn’t seem to notice, and nodded like he was given what he wanted.
“What do you think, purebred?” the King asked quieter. “Can you win?”
“I live to serve, I breathe to please, Owner.” Lion's reply came within a heartbeat.
“Purebreds don't have opinions,” Doha started, but King Leonis snapped. “I am not talking to you, child. I am well aware of what purebreds are.”
Above the room, the crowd's cheer exploded into a series of roars and exclamations, followed by thunderous claps, marking the end of the fight. Next was the final battle between the winner and Lion.
King Leonis pressed his palm against Lion's chest over the brands that marked his past victories. He lowered his voice, so only Lion could hear. “You want to fight him, don't you? You want to fight him bare. As yourself.”
Lion’s fingers twitched. The word yes crept to his lips, but he didn't say it. There was only one way he could answer this question. “I do as my Owner wills,” he said.
The King stared at his face, then smiled. Lion's heart pounded loud in his chest. His blood rushed.
“Then I am willing you to win.” Leonis placed the mask on Lion's face. “The Lion of Zarall shall not fall.”
Lion stared at the vertical line in front of him. Bright daylight outside squeezed into a line between the two gates that remained shut in front of him. He slowed his breathing, using each inhale to steady his nerves and each exhale to focus his mind.
“Do you understand what you need to do?” Badimar asked for the fifth time.
“Yes, Master,” Lion replied respectfully. He understood, and he barely kept himself from bouncing from one foot to the other. His heart thrummed, and his muscles tensed, ready for action. Yet, he remained still and focused. He needed to control his mind more than ever in this fight.
Badimar, on the other hand, made no attempt to conceal his nerves, pacing back and forth and checking Lion’s armour over and over again. It was just the two of them in the launch room. Sir Dramesh and the guards secured the door, giving them privacy. The rest of the team had gone up onto the stands allocated for them to watch the fight. Outside, the announcer was making a long speech about celebrating House Zarall’s hundredth year of reign. His voice was muffled by the thick stone walls and the sound of Lion’s heart beating too loud in his ears.
He clenched and unclenched his fists. He was itching to charge out there and fight.
“You got to keep level,” Badimar reminded him, as if he could sense Lion’s eagerness. “Don't overthink but use your brain. Control the fight.”
“Yes, Master.”
Badimar tapped Lion’s left elbow. “Keep that arm tucked against your side. Vanalten said no pulling or pushing, and no lateral movement.”
Outside, the announcer said something, and the crowd cheered ecstatically.
“Yes, Master,” Lion said. He flexed his neck muscles and bent his knees slightly. His grip on his weapons tightened.
Badimar stood beside him and put a hand on his right shoulder. “Steady.”
Lion exhaled a slow breath. Focus .
The announcer spoke louder. Lion could almost hear the spectators holding their collective breath. The entire Switchblade Arena was filled with anticipation. His muscles twitched.
He inhaled. Steady .
He heard the announcer say his name. The doors broke apart, inviting the bright daylight into the room.
“Go!” Badimar yelled.
Lion was already out, sprinting across the pale sand reflecting the brutal sunlight. He carried a trident in his right hand, and a weighted net was draped loosely over his left shoulder. The crowd's ecstatic shout greeted him. The noise was so overwhelming, it shrouded his thoughts for a moment. That was fine. He didn't need a lot of thoughts. His body knew how to fight.
The opposite gate across the arena opened at the same time. His opponent charged into the arena. The name he carried was Skullsworn. He was a purebred beast too, but unlike Lion, he was Raged.
Lion didn't need to see Skullsworn’s face to know he was Raged. He moved like a Raged beast. Fast, focused, feral. His mind was quiet and dark. Kill Word quietened all the thoughts, took control, and left no memories. Lion knew that. He had experienced that blissful state many times. Stripped from any thoughts, feelings and distracting sensations like injuries and pain. Raged state gave the purebred beasts an indisputable advantage.
One Lion didn't have in this fight.
Lion lifted his trident over his shoulder and switched to a throwing grip. He didn't have the advantage of being Raged in this fight, but he still had a strategy.
“One third of the battleground,” Badimar had instructed before the fight. “Adjust your speed, so Skullsworn reaches the centre first. You need to control the space.”
Skullsworn, who wielded a one-handed mace and a round shield, charged at a dead speed. Lion timed his approach, then slowed down. He planted his feet, aimed, and threw the trident. As soon as the shaft left his palm, he resumed running.
Skullsworn sidestepped without breaking his stride. The trident flew past him. Lion had perfectly calculated its downward tilt and the weapon plunged into the sand just behind Skullsworn. Lion’s eyes remained locked on his rival. He ignored the spectators’ disappointed exclamation at the failed throw. In one fluid motion, Lion pulled the weighted net from his left shoulder and threw it with practiced precision.
The net sailed through the air, aimed directly at Skullsworn. The Raged beast, still moving at full speed, twisted his body and narrowly avoided the net.
Another disappointed howl filled the arena. Using the momentary distraction, Lion veered sharply, darting past Skullsworn. The Raged beast lunged for him, swinging his mace with the agility of a predator. Lion dodged with grace, his feet barely touching the ground as he sped toward his trident. Skullsworn pursued, but Lion was already out of reach. With a swift dive, Lion’s fingers wrapped around the shaft of the trident, pulling it free from the sand. He rolled to his feet, the weapon now back in his hand, and faced his opponent.
Skullsworn didn't hesitate. From this close up, Lion caught a glimpse of the beast's eyes through the slits of his helmet. A wild fury burned through Skullsworn’s shrunken pupils. The Raged beast swung his mace. Lion parried. The sound of their clashing weapons rang through the arena.
Skullsworn’s mace swung again, relentless and brutal. Lion used the trident’s long range to keep him away.
Wielding the trident with one hand, Lion was limited with the range of moves he could use. He only used his left hand to support but avoided putting pressure on it. Most defensive moves required a two-handed grip, so he would have to drive the exchanges and keep moving. He jabbed, aiming at Skullsworn’s neck. The Raged beast brushed it aside with his shield and followed with a relentless counterattack. Lion kept moving. He spun and skipped from one side to the other, jabbing rapidly and barely keeping Skullsworn at bay. He cleared all thoughts from his mind as he kept his eyes on Skullsworn’s shield. He watched how the Raged beast lifted it and brought it back down after each parry.
“When he does an overhead strike,” Badimar had instructed him, “he tilts his shield to the left.” The Master of the Beasts had spent weeks gathering information about Skullsworn and other likely opponents, watching them, building strategies. He was the best trainer in all of Chinderia. And there was a reason why he sent Lion out here with a weapon clearly designed for a two-handed grip, despite its limitations.
Skullsworn raised the mace for an overhead strike. The shield tilted slightly to the left.
Lion’s trident sprung forward like a snake lunging at its prey and caught the shield between the prongs. He gripped the shaft with both hands, twisted, and pushed it upwards.
Skullsworn’s shield was strapped to his left forearm. When Lion pushed the shield up, Skullsworn’s arm was dragged with it. The Raged beast tried kicking and swinging his mace, but his shield was locked with Lion’s trident. He could neither close in nor step back.
The crowd roared with anticipation of blood. The fight hadn't lasted long. Only several intense minutes had passed since the gates had opened, and it was already about to finish.
Lion pushed the trident, forcing Skullsworn to move with it. He had to put more pressure than he wanted on his left arm, because Skullsworn was big and heavy and very reluctant to cooperate. Lion’s shoulder throbbed sharply, warning him not to push harder. He changed his grip and pushed with his chest. Skullsworn stumbled towards the direction Lion wanted him to go. He stepped over the edge of the net.
The crowd gasped, only now noticing how the weighted net was perfectly spread wide, exactly like how Lion threw it. A few more steps and Lion could...
With an enraged grunt, Skullsworn yanked his arm free of the straps. The sudden loss of resistance made Lion fumble. Before he could fling the shield away and regain his stance, Skullsworn was within range. The beast brought his mace down in a vicious arc, catching Lion on the left shoulder.
Pain exploded through Lion’s body, nearly causing him to drop his weapon. He stumbled back, gritting his teeth. Raged or not, he was an experienced fighter who knew how to ignore the pain and stay focused. He spun, twirling the trident in one hand, and he brought the end of the shaft on Skullsworn’s unprotected side. He followed through with two quick jabs, one at Skullsworn’s helmet, and the other at the centre of his chest, with enough force to push him back out of close range.
He breathed through the pain. The agony, he could ignore. The thoughts, he couldn't. His shoulder was throbbing like a nightmare. If he wasn’t wearing shoulder plates, the mace would have crushed every bone in his upper arm. It might already have. He couldn’t help but test the damage by moving his fingers. The pain became worse.
How bad was it? Was it still treatable? Had he just aggravated it?
He narrowly dodged Skullsworn’s next blow. As the mace flew past his face, one of the spikes caught Lion’s face mask and yanked it off. Lion withdrew further, barely keeping Skullsworn from rushing him. He kept his left arm close to his torso, yet it still throbbed.
Was the injury going to be permanent? Was this his last fight? If he couldn't fight anymore, he was going to die regardless of if he won here or not.
Skullsworn swung his mace wildly. Lion parried and dodged, then followed up with one handed swipes and jabs. The Raged beast didn't even care that he didn't have the protection of a shield anymore. He didn't see Lion as a threat. He had every advantage in this fight: uninjured, Raged, unburdened by thoughts and fears that flooded his head.
Lion growled as he dodged another strike. He hated that he had thoughts. He hated that he had to think about the possibility of this being his last fight. Thoughts didn't belong in a fight.
Anger did.
With a roar, he landed a strike at Skullsworn’s helmet, causing it to twist just enough to partially obscure his sight. The Raged beast yanked the helmet off and threw it away. He barely parried Lion’s next strike. The trident became a blur. Fury drove Lion’s strikes, the pain and fear fuelling his anger. He launched at Skullsworn with renewed ferocity, each strike carrying the weight of his rage.
He drove the prongs of his trident deep into Skullsworn’s unprotected side. They tore his light armour and found flesh.
Skullsworn wouldn't register the pain, so Lion didn't wait for a reaction. He didn't just want to hurt the purebred beast; he wanted to kill him.
The arena seemed to blur as Lion’s focus narrowed on Skullsworn. Their weapons clashed in a brutal dance. Skullsworn, despite bleeding from his side, fought back with wild, relentless energy. Lion stabbed his arm next, but Skullsworn fought on.
Lion’s strikes, fast and precise, were driven by a desperation to end this fight before it took a bigger toll on him. He drove Skullsworn back with every attack, forcing him to withdraw, step, dodge to the side, withdraw again, and step to the same side. He herded Skullsworn like a shepherd’s dog. When Skullsworn stumbled, his chest opened for another attack.
Lion didn't take the shot.
Instead, he tossed his trident aside, rolled to the ground and pulled the net.
He flung it over Skullsworn, and the Raged beast swung his mace without thinking. The weapon got tangled in the net. Skullsworn struggled, his movements hindered by the weighted mesh.
Lion wasted no time. He pulled the net tight, catching Skullsworn’s limbs and further restricting his movements. Skullsworn thrashed wildly, but it only tightened the net around him.
Lion picked his trident back up. Moving without hurry, he drove it into Skullsworn’s chest.
The arena erupted in deafening cheers. Lion stood over his fallen opponent. He watched Skullsworn’s face as the purebred beast blinked rapidly. He was waking from his Raged state. Lion had wondered many times what it would be like to die in Rage. If he would wake up from it in time to understand that he was dying? He saw the answer in Skullsworn’s face.
The purebred beast, now conscious and himself, coughed and spat blood. His eyes found Lion.
He spoke.
Despite the crowd’s overwhelming noise, Lion heard the words.
“I will see you in Farhome,” the purebred beast said.
Lion stared at him in shock until Skullsworn’s eyes glazed and his expression stilled. This shouldn't have happened. Purebreds didn't speak to each other. It wasn't permitted. It was an Act of Defiance.
Purebreds didn't go to Farhome either. They couldn't. They didn't have rhoas .
Lost in his confusion, Lion stood over Skullsworn’s dead body longer than he should have. He looked up. The spectators filled every available space in the rows. No one was sitting. They were all jumping up and down, chanting the name he carried.
Lion of Zarall! Lion of Zarall!
His chest heaving, and the pain in his shoulder throbbing with each breath, Lion spared one last glance at Skullsworn’s lifeless body.
I will see you in Farhome.
A shiver ran down his spine.
He moved away. He took two steps towards the Gate of Life, before he remembered he hadn’t saluted his Owner yet. He turned sharply, hoping his slip-up would go unnoticed. He approached the royal grandstand, dropped to one knee, and raised his trident.
Like a free man.
He suppressed that annoying flutter in his chest. He stood back up, keeping his head down respectfully.
The Gate of Life swung open, welcoming him into the cool shadows behind.