“Oy! Did I miss the fight?”

  The voice rang out, sharp and rough-edged, carried by the thudding of heavy boots on stone. Thraza climbed the steps two at a time, the scent of smoke and hot metal clinging to her like armor. She dropped onto the bench beside Sarrak with a casual grunt, brushing soot off her apron before peering down toward the arena floor.

  Sarrak didn’t look at her right away. He lounged with practiced ease, one arm resting along the back of the bench, a dented bowl of popcorn in his lap. “Not yet,” he said, voice calm and dry. “But you’re just in time for the shift.”

  Thraza adjusted her goggles and followed his gaze to the sand below.

  “The prince came out swinging,” Sarrak added, flicking a kernel into his mouth. “Lot of shouting. Murder, honor, worthiness—your typical righteous-fire sort of thing. He’s got energy, I’ll give him that.”

  Thraza let out a noncommittal grunt. “Hmph. Green or reckless?”

  “Hard to tell,” Sarrak said, chewing. “Takeda looked like he was trying to talk. Say something important. But the kid wasn’t having it.”

  There was a pause, filled only by the low murmur of the crowd and the rising pressure in the air.

  “Now the ronin’s dropped the mask,” Sarrak said, voice quieting as he leaned forward slightly. “He’s serious. And the prince… he’s not backing down.”

  Thraza narrowed her eyes, watching as energy shimmered faintly around both fighters. “Well,” she muttered, shifting to get comfortable. “This might be worth the damn walk up here after all.”

  “Hmmm… interesting,” Thraza murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

  She reached into one of the deep side pockets sewn into her soot-darkened apron, fingers disappearing into the folds of worn leather. A moment later, she began pulling out what looked like a random assortment of parts—bits of brass tubing, slivers of rune-etched glass, gear teeth, and lengths of coiled wire. The pieces clinked together softly in her palm as she began sorting through them with practiced precision.

  Sarrak glanced over, arching a brow. “I’ve never understood why you haul around half a workshop in your pockets.”

  Thraza didn’t answer right away. Her hands were already moving—snapping pieces together with the ease of long practice, each movement careful, deliberate. A soft glow lit the joints of her fingers as small pulses of magic sparked between contact points. Tiny runes flared to life across the metal.

  A sudden boom echoed from the arena, deep and thunderous. The crowd gasped in unison.

  Sarrak’s attention snapped back to the fight just in time to see a burst of light ripple across the sand. Joran and Takeda had launched at each other, their blades colliding mid-air in a flash of steel and raw power that cracked the stone beneath them and scattered dust in all directions.

  “Damn!” Sarrak growled, leaning forward. “I blinked! What was that?” He narrowed his eyes. “Takeda’s got some kind of spiritual flow technique—old-school, high-discipline stuff—but how the hell is that prince keeping up?”

  Thraza didn’t look up. Her creation gave a low, satisfying hum as the final piece clicked into place—an elegant, rune-lined set of arcane binoculars, copper and crystal fused together like it had always meant to be one piece.

  “You’re gonna feel real silly about that ‘junk’ comment in a moment,” she said, smirking. “This here’s my newest baby.”

  She raised the device to her eyes, the lenses flickering to life with a pale blue shimmer. Through them, the chaos below resolved into razor clarity—she could see the faint shimmer of magic trailing behind Joran’s movements, the precision in Takeda’s footing, the flickers of energy between every clash.

  “Enhancement magic on the prince,” she said absently, adjusting the focus. “Speed, strength. Burnin’ hot. Takeda’s channelin’ inward—legs, arms, blade. That’s martial discipline. Controlled. Lethal.”

  Sarrak watched the two fighters dash and strike, their movements too fast for the naked eye. Blades met in bursts of light, shadows flared, and the sand churned like a storm had descended on the arena floor.

  “It’s enhancement magic,” Thraza muttered, still glued to the lenses. “Focused into the prince’s limbs—speed and strength, mostly. Refined and powerful.”

  She adjusted a dial delicately, the faint hum of her device shifting tone. “Meanwhile, Takeda’s channeling internally. More disciplined. He’s pushing energy into his footwork and blade, reinforcing every strike. That’s not brute force—it’s precision. Old school martial channeling.

  Sarrak raised a brow, half-grinning. “You can tell all that with that doodad?”

  Thraza slowly lowered the binoculars just enough to glare at him over the rim, her eyes sharp behind soot-flecked lashes. “Do not call my baby a doodad.” Her voice was flat, dangerous.

  Sarrak chuckled, holding up a hand in mock surrender.

  “But yes,” she added, lifting the binoculars again. “It doesn’t just magnify—it reads. Designed it to track aura threads and active spells. It catches flickers most eyes miss. Took me three months to get the rune balance right.”

  Below, Joran suddenly leapt back from Takeda, boots skidding across the churned-up sand. He dropped low, palm slamming into the ground. Immediately, a vein of darkness spilled out beneath his hand—liquid and living, expanding like spilled ink across the arena floor.

  From its center, a pool of shadow burst upward.

  Dozens of tendrils lashed out in all directions—black, writhing coils that twisted around Takeda’s legs and arms in a coordinated strike. They moved with eerie intelligence, wrapping and constricting in unison.

  But the ronin was already cutting through them.

  Blade flashing like lightning, Takeda danced between coils, his movements measured and merciless. One tendril fell, then another, each severed in a clean arc of steel. More surged forward, only to be sliced apart with fluid economy. It was a flurry of perfect counters—grace within chaos.

  And then he surged forward, leaving the pool of shadows behind entirely.

  “I don’t need your fancy lenses to tell me one thing though,” Sarrak muttered, eyes narrowing. “Takeda’s holding back.”

  “Agreed,” Thraza said, lowering the binoculars at last. Her gaze was distant, thoughtful. “He’s testing. Like a blacksmith tapping the steel before committing it to flame.”

  Sarrak turned toward her, curious. “Did you build that detection array into your toy?”

  Thraza sighed and shook her head. “Oh, I wish. But no. Didn’t have time to sync the glyph network before the match queue got shuffled. Maybe after my next fight.”

  That made Sarrak laugh—a dry, knowing sound. “You’re fighting again? Who’d they throw into the pit this time? Poor bastard.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Thraza didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her head toward the arena just as Joran whispered a spell. The earth beneath Takeda shuddered, then crumbled—rising in uneven spires, sudden and jagged, designed to trip or slow.

  But Takeda didn’t falter. He used the shift in terrain to his advantage, launching himself from one of the higher chunks of stone like a coiled spring. He soared high, blade overhead, descending fast with a crushing downward strike.

  Joran raised his sword just in time.

  Steel met steel, and the impact rang out like a bell struck with a warhammer. A shockwave blasted outward from the clash, sending sand and loose rock tumbling across the arena.

  Sarrak’s breath caught as realization struck him. “Wait… you’re fighting Joran?”

  “Yup,” Thraza replied, casually popping the ‘p.’ “That’s the only reason I left my workshop. Wanted to see what he was made of before I faced him.”

  She leaned over without waiting and stuck her soot-streaked fingers into his bowl of popcorn, grabbing a generous handful.

  Sarrak blinked. Then slowly looked down at her hand, then back at the bag. His eye twitched once.

  “You know what?” he said flatly, holding out the bowl with two fingers. “Take the whole thing. I’m not touching it after your greasy forge fingers have been through every kernel.”

  Thraza grinned, entirely unbothered. “Aww, thanks, Sarrak. You’re a real gent.”

  With that, the two of them fell into a comfortable silence, sitting shoulder to shoulder as the fight raged below—watching, waiting, and already weighing the next match to come.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Their blades clashed—again—and then broke apart with a sharp ring of steel. Joran and Takeda slid backward across the sand, each kicking up dust in wide arcs.

  Takeda came to a stop, breathing hard. His chest rose and fell beneath his robes, sweat trailing down his jaw. “You… fight well…”

  Joran smirked, rolling his shoulders as he caught his breath. “Thanks. I’ve still got a few tricks left.” He raised an eyebrow. “Think you can handle them?”

  Takeda’s eyes narrowed, cautious. But then they lifted—just slightly—and widened.

  Above him, a dozen glowing spears of magic hovered in the air, surrounding him like a constellation of death. Each one hummed with pulsing light, sharp and motionless in the still air.

  “When did you—?”

  “Oh, conjuring multiple light versions isn’t too hard,” Joran said casually, rotating his wrist. “They’re weaker than the one I used on Sarrak… but they still hit hard.”

  He snapped the fingers of his off-hand.

  The spears launched all at once.

  Takeda reacted instantly. He dropped low, weaving between them as they screamed toward him. Each impact sent bursts of light and force across the sand, peppering the ground with explosions. He spun through them, using his katana to deflect one, then ducked another, the blasts erupting just behind his heels.

  Smoke and debris filled the arena in seconds, swirling in thick clouds around them.

  Then—whoosh—Takeda thrust his hand forward in a sharp motion. A sudden gust of force burst outward from his palm, sweeping the smoke away in all directions like an exhaled breath.

  Across the arena, Joran stood ready—now wielding a circular shield of glowing blue-white magic strapped to his left arm.

  “Pretty cool, huh?” he said with a grin, tapping the rim of the shield with his sword before charging forward.

  Takeda didn’t hesitate. He surged ahead, blade drawn, and leapt into the air.

  Joran didn’t meet him head-on.

  Instead, he dove forward—and landed flat on the shield.

  The crowd gasped as he slid across the sand, turning the shield into a sled, speeding beneath Takeda’s mid-air strike in a blur of motion.

  Takeda twisted midair, trying to follow—but too slow.

  Joran flipped onto his feet in one fluid motion, pivoted, and hurled the shield like a spinning disc. It whirled through the air and slammed into Takeda’s back with a loud crack.

  “Ghn—!” Takeda stumbled forward, catching himself just before falling.

  He spun around, sword raised, face serious once more. His stance sharpened—balanced, guarded, ready.

  Joran caught the returning shield on his arm with a thud after recalling it with magic and smiled.

  “Round two?”

  Joran charged.

  Shield raised, blade angled low, he sprinted forward with focused speed. The air crackled with residual magic from his earlier spellwork, his boots kicking up dust as he closed the distance. His eyes locked onto Takeda’s chest—a center target. Clean. Direct.

  Takeda didn’t move.

  He stood rooted, katana held loosely at his side, the tip barely lifted. His breath slowed. His knees bent just slightly. No tension. No anticipation. Just calm.

  The crowd roared as Joran swung.

  A sharp, sweeping arc of steel aimed for Takeda’s ribs.

  And then—nothing.

  Takeda shifted.

  He didn’t block. He didn’t retreat. He flowed.

  One step. Barely a whisper of motion. A glide to the right, precise as the ticking of a clock. Joran’s blade sliced through empty air, missing by inches. He overextended—just slightly—just enough.

  That was all Takeda needed.

  His foot turned. His body pivoted with the grace of a falling petal. In one seamless motion, his katana rose, then swept in a tight, cutting arc across Joran’s exposed side.

  Whsssshhhck!

  The sound was soft. Almost elegant. A clean line drawn through wind.

  Joran gasped and stumbled forward, a searing line of pain blooming across his ribs. He caught himself, spinning to face Takeda again, shield raised—but the ronin was already still, blade returned to its neutral stance, breathing slow and deep.

  The two stared at each other across the churned sand.

  Takeda’s voice was quiet but steady.

  “Strength is impressive, Prince… but control is everything.”

  His cloak had shifted slightly from the motion, the enchanted fabric fluttering behind him, untouched by the blow. Not a thread torn. But the line across his skin was real. Blood beaded at the edge of the cut.

  Takeda had held back.

  Joran looked up at the ronin across the arena. The man stood motionless, sword relaxed, breathing steady despite the exertion. He hadn’t gone for the kill. He could have.

  Joran straightened, chest rising with a slow breath. His hand pressed briefly to his side, then dropped. A smirk tugged at the edge of his mouth.

  “That was pretty good,” he said. His tone was casual, but beneath it was fire. “Let’s see how you handle this.”

  He drew in magic—not elemental, not raw aggression, but pure will. It flowed into his blade and shield with practiced ease, a quiet hum building as energy threaded through the runes etched into their surfaces. The sword pulsed in his dominant hand, a steady, vibrant red glow coursing through the metal. The shield on his arm answered in kind, the surface gleaming with a cool blue sheen—not icy, but calm, focused, resilient.

  He moved without warning.

  The shield came first. He hurled it forward with a twist of his arm, sending it spinning through the air toward Takeda’s head. In the same fluid motion, he turned and slashed with his sword, unleashing a crescent wave of compressed magical force aimed at the ronin’s waist.

  A dual strike. Fast. Precise. Forceful.

  Takeda remained perfectly still. His blade dipped slightly. His eyes tracked both projectiles.

  Then he moved.

  In a blur of motion, Takeda leapt sideways, his body turning in midair with a graceful spin. The shield missed him by inches, slicing through the air before slamming into the far wall and disappearing. The arc of energy hissed beneath him, striking the stone barrier behind and detonating in a small, sharp pulse of force that echoed across the arena.

  Takeda landed lightly, crouched with one hand on the ground, his blade humming now with its own charge—clean, pale light drawn from deep within.

  He rose.

  Then struck.

  A wave of compressed magical force burst from his sword, streaking across the sand with blinding speed. Joran’s eyes widened. He braced.

  There was no time to move. Only enough to act.

  He raised his blade with both hands, feet planted. The arc hit hard.

  A jolt ran up his arms as the pressure of Takeda’s attack slammed into him. The force shoved him backward, boots dragging twin trenches in the arena floor. His cloak whipped behind him, the fabric catching the shockwave but holding strong.

  He held the block for a moment—but only a moment.

  Then the energy shattered against him in a bright, concussive burst.

  Joran was thrown off his feet. He hit the ground hard, rolled, then skidded to a stop in a trail of dust and sand. His sword clattered to the side, still glowing faintly.

  He groaned and sat up slowly, brushing grit from his face, breath short but steady. The wound on his side still burned, but he was far from done.

  His eyes locked on Takeda across the field.

  “Alright,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”