Chapter 15 #2
He rolled a shoulder, feeling the makeshift armor shift and pinch.
The laughter swelled again as he reached the center mark, drowning out the announcer’s voice trying to introduce him.
They didn’t want his name. They wanted blood.
They wanted the joke to fall flat on its face so they could tear it apart with their teeth.
Let’s see how funny they find it when this nobody starts breaking their precious favorites in half.
He planted his feet, eyes scanning the far tunnel where the two teams would emerge any second.
Let them come. He was ready.
The teams spilled out of the opposite tunnels like predators scenting fresh meat. His gut tightened at the sight, that familiar warball buzz crackling through his veins hotter than any arena lights could burn.
Parac’Norr Exiles first. He knew those faces too well. Daavyn led them with that same ugly snarl he’d worn on the practice pitch, shoulders bunched as if he wanted to rip someone’s throat out. To be fair, he probably did.
Sorrath flanked him, claws half-extended and his red eyes glittering with the promise of violence. The rest of them looked half-mad already, new armor over bodies that he knew didn’t need it, and muscles corded from years of survival rather than training.
They moved like a pack rather than a team. The sort of pack that had learned the only way to survive was to take what they wanted. His chest ached. His almost-team… the ones he’d coached. Seeing them here twisted something sharp behind his ribs.
Then the Ascendants emerged beside them, and the air in his lungs turned to ice. They swaggered out in their gleaming black-and-gold armor like they owned the draanthing place.
His lip curled back from his teeth. These weren’t exiles scraping by… these were the league’s golden boys. His gaze locked on the Ascendants’ striker, and everything faded to static.
Vikrav R’Tev.
The draanthic strode out like one of the gods themselves, helmet tucked under one arm and basking in the adoration of the crowds.
His dark hair was caught back and stitched into place, imitating a warrior’s braids that he’d never have the right to wear.
He had a sharper jaw than Raaze remembered, and eyes that scanned the field as if he were picking out which of the Exiles to break first.
Raaze’s canines ached in his gums, and his fists flexed at his sides. This was the male who’d stolen everything… the one whose family had faked tests, ended careers, and murdered players so their golden boy could reign.
Every instinct he had screamed at him to close the distance and pound Vikrav into the dirt right now.
The teams lined up on either side of the commentator’s platform, the Exiles bristling with barely contained rage, and the Ascendants radiating cool arrogance.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the stadium. “We got the Ascendants, who basically own the whole damn galaxy at this point. And then there’s the Exiles… bunch of has-beens and monsters nobody wants, right? But hey, that’s what makes this grudge match so sweet.”
Raaze’s jaw tightened, bitterness flooding his chest. Those polished helmets, those smug strides… Vikrav out there like some untouchable god while he stood here masked and ignored.
The commentator’s voice dripped with excitement.
“And don’t forget, folks, this ain’t just any game.
One wrong move and we might see what real Blood Rage looks like up close.
And make sure to place your bets, because we have a wildcard on the pitch and he’s either gonna burn bright or get crushed under Ascendant boots. ”
The crowd erupted in fresh mockery, but Raaze didn’t hear it. He stared straight at Vikrav across the pitch, lips peeling back in a slow, vicious grin behind his mask.
Come and get it, you draanthing murderer.
The commentator took a deep breath, “Let’s play!”
The whistle screamed, and the world erupted into violence.
The first play came at him like a freight shuttle. An Ascendant barreled straight through the center line, shoulder dropped in a classic cheap-shot angle.
Raaze read it half a second too late, expecting them to hit the Exiles first. The impact lifted him clean off his feet and drove him backward into the turf.
Pain exploded through his ribs, bright and specific, like someone had taken a hammer to his side.
He tasted blood, copper flooding the back of his throat as he hit the ground with a mouthful of dirt.
Trall, that was going to hurt for weeks.
If you live that long. Get up and get it together!
Rolling, he got his feet under him, just as a clawed hand raked across his shoulder guard.
One of the Exiles had taken the Ascendant’s lead and decided the wildcard was fair game.
The claws punched through the cheap padding like it was wet paper and kept going through into skin.
He hissed and yanked away before they could rip through muscle and bone as well.
Blood sheeted down his arm, the sticky warmth already soaking through his undershirt.
Great, just draanthing great.
The Exiles were feral. Which meant they had armor just under their skin, claws that could punch through hull steel, and crazy-fast healing.
If he wasn’t having to concentrate on staying alive, he’d be laughing his ass off and waiting for the moment the Ascendants realized their opponents could play chicken with a shuttle and win.
Wiping blood off his palm against his thigh, he scanned the field.
The Ascendants were running a standard pincer formation, driving the sphere carrier toward the Exile defensive line, where the real damage could happen.
He almost sighed. It was textbook… aka boring and predictable.
It was the play you’d run against a team you didn’t respect, or that you assumed didn’t know any better.
The crowd was laughing, waiting for the Exiles to be handed their asses by the top-tier team.
Let them laugh.
Exploding into a run, he cut left and intercepted the ascendant sphere carrier’s vector, forcing him to change direction.
He took an elbow to the temple for his trouble, rocking him back on his heels as stars burst across his vision.
The Ascendant who’d hit him was already three meters away, not even bothering to check if the wildcard was still standing.
He stayed standing, just, and wheeled away to harass the Ascendant’s other flank.
The first quarter was a masterclass in misdirection. Every time the Ascendants made a play or tried to block the Exiles in, he was there, all up in their business and draanthing it up for them.
The Exiles didn’t trust him… why would they… so they didn’t capitalize on the gaps he opened for them. Frustrating as draanth.
He hissed as Vaath went down on a late hit that should have drawn an immediate ejection. The Exile’s knee bent sideways with a crack audible from twenty meters away, but the ref’s whistle stayed silent.
Raaze’s eyes narrowed.
It got worse. Bravnak took a blindside tackle that came three full seconds after the sphere had left his hands. The big Exile hit the turf hard enough to bounce, and when he got up, he was favoring his left side in a way that meant cracked ribs at minimum. The ref signaled to play on.
He blinked as he realized the Ascendants weren’t trying to win the match.
They were trying to break the Exiles, and the officials were bought and paid for.
They had to be because every dirty hit went uncalled.
Every foul that should have drawn a card was in the referee’s blind spot. Convenient as draanth.
He clenched his jaw. So they wanted to play dirty, did they?
Sorrath had the sphere. The young Exile was fast, faster than he had any right to be, but he was also predictable.
Two Ascendant defenders were already setting up the same trap they’d used on Vaath, and the Exile hadn’t seen it as he raced forward for a try.
But Raaze had. The angle was wrong, the timing was all wrong, and in about three seconds, Sorrath was going to learn what a shattered collarbone felt like.
He didn’t think; he just exploded into movement. Hitting the gap between Sorrath and the incoming defenders, he planted his feet, dropped his shoulder, and took the impact meant for Sorrath right across his back.
The world went white for a moment.
When he could see again, Sorrath was staring at him. The Exile’s red eyes were wide, confusion warring with rage for dominance.
“Move!” Raaze snarled. “Sphere’s in play. Let the Rage out, don’t let this draanthic take you down.”
Sorrath blinked, then he grinned, his mouth full of teeth that were way sharper than they should have been for a mere Latharian. Way too sharp for anything the Ascendants had ever seen or faced before.
The game continued, but something had shifted.
Vaath came at him from his blind spot two plays later… the same shoulder-drop Raaze had read in that corridor on Parac’Norr. He pivoted, covered the angle, and Vaath’s shoulder found empty air instead of Raaze’s kidney.
The Exile pulled up short, surprise flickering across his face.
“You’re still slow on the recovery,” Raaze growled. “Rotate your hips thirty degrees earlier and I wouldn’t have seen it coming.”
Vaath’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.
The Exiles started moving with him after that. When he called out a position, they adjusted. When he called a play developing, they listened.
By the third quarter, the Ascendants had the sphere and the lead, and they were getting cocky.
Their formation had loosened, confidence bleeding into sloppiness.
Raaze had been watching their patterns for forty minutes now, cataloging tells and timing, and the tiny hesitations that separated good players from great ones.
And the Ascendants weren’t great players. Oh, they were good. They were trained well and coordinated, and they were playing against opponents they’d been promised would be easy targets.
And now that confidence would be their downfall.
He caught Daavyn’s eye across the field and shot him a hand signal.
It wasn’t warball shorthand, but one of the adapted hand signals he’d drilled into the team when he was there because half of them couldn’t remember the correct ones.
He called for a three-phase press, staggered timing, with him as the pivot point.
Daavyn’s eyes widened.
Yeah. I taught you that drill, you ungrateful trall. Now run it.
The Ascendant sphere carrier never saw it coming. Daavyn hit him low, Sorrath hit him high, and Raaze was exactly where the sphere went when it popped loose.
Now he had the sphere in hand and an open field ahead.
The Ascendant goalkeeper was good. Big and fast, with reflexes that had probably cost his team a fortune in retro-genetic optimization. He saw Raaze’s approach angle and set himself perfectly, weight balanced, hands ready, every line of his body screaming you’re not getting past me.
Raaze smiled behind his mask.
The Raaz-or wasn’t a move you could teach or even anticipate. It was instinct and muscle memory wrapped in the absolute certainty that your body would do what your mind ordered and physics could just go and get draanthed.
A sharp cut that shouldn’t have been possible at that speed, a twist that used momentum instead of fighting it, and then the goalkeeper tried to grab empty air. Raaze sailed past him, twisted mid-leap to slam the sphere down behind the line.
The final whistle blew, and he stood there, chest heaving and blood dripping from a dozen wounds.
He’d won.
Draanth, he’d actually draanthing won.
The crowd went silent. Then it exploded.
He let the sound wash over him. The crowd was screaming, not laughing anymore, not jeering, but screaming his name.
Well, not his name, but “Raaz-or , Raaz-or , Raaz-or!”
Time to fix that. Reaching up, he pulled the mask off.
The stadium screens flickered, and his face appeared on every one of them… not the masked wildcard, but Raaze.
The screaming died. Not a slow fade, but an instant, heavy silence that sucked the air straight out of the stadium.
Good. Raaze dragged a hand through his sweat-soaked dark hair, letting it fall back to the nape of his neck. Look at the male you threw away.
Up in the booth, the commentator’s mic picked up a sharp drag of air. A hushed, trembling voice echoed through the massive arena.
“By the gods… It’s him.”
There was a silence so thick Raaze could practically chew it.
“Raaze S’Vre,” the announcer stammered, professional slickness completely gone. “The… the striker every team wanted on their lineup. The champion of champions. Exiled after a surprise Blood Rage diagnosis.”
Surprise. Yeah, that was one word for a faked test.
For a second, nobody moved.
Then the stands tore apart. It wasn’t a cheer. It was a roar of pure, unfiltered noise that shook the entire stadium.
The commentator scrambled, professional instincts snapping hard back into place. He pitched his voice to a bellow, spinning the trall as though this had all been planned.
“You are witnessing history right here, right now! Welcome the king of warball back to the pitch!”