Chapter 56: BLOOD AND IRON
The crystal displays flickered above the arena. The crowd was still buzzing from Greer’s stand, from the blink Victor had been forced to reveal, from the image of the B-rank Warrior swinging until his body gave out. The healers had carried him off on a stretcher, and the applause had followed him into the tunnel.
Now the next match appeared. Baines versus Lysandra Li.
The rematch. This was the fight they’d been waiting for since the bracket was announced. The berserker and the shy girl. Two fighters who didn’t know how to quit.
Dorian Hale’s voice cut through the noise. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the one. Baines, A-rank Berserker, versus Lysandra Li, A-rank Warrior. They’ve faced each other twice in this tournament. She won both times. But Baines has been saving something. We all know it. The question is whether she can survive it."
Lysandra stood in the tunnel, her new rods crossed on her back. Black steel with gold patterns forged into the metal. Heavy. Much heavier than her old ones. The drake-leather grips were warm against her palms. The black gloves with gold spikes fit her hands.
Dominic stood beside her. Wobbly was on his shoulder, a steady blue glow in the dim light. "You ready?"
She looked at him. The switch was already warming up. Her eyes were going flat, the shy girl retreating into some quiet place. But she was still here. Still present. "Yes."
"Baines is going to come at you with everything. He’s been waiting for this. Whatever it is, it’s going to be bad. You can’t let him trade hits. You’re faster. Stay faster."
"I know."
"And Lysandra." He paused. "Don’t hold back. Whatever happens in there, whatever you do, don’t hold back."
She looked at him for a long moment. Something flickered in her flat eyes. Then she turned and walked into the arena.
The crowd erupted.
Baines was already on the platform. His berserker axe was in both hands, the blade freshly sharpened. His spiked gauntlets gleamed under the arena light. His armor was thick leather over chain, scarred from years of combat. He looked bigger than he had in the team phase. Angrier. She could see it in his eyes, the hunger, the anticipation, the need to prove that the first two fights were flukes.
"You," he growled as she stepped onto the platform. "You’ve been a problem for me. Twice now. That ends today."
Lysandra drew her rods. The weight was familiar now, comfortable in a way the old ones had never been. She settled into her stance, Florence’s correction, weight centered, back knee slightly bent. "You said that last time."
"Last time I didn’t have this." He slammed his axe against the stone. The impact cracked the platform. "I’ve been saving it. For you."
"Then show me what you’ve got."
The match began.
Baines charged. His opening swing was a brutal horizontal arc, the axe whistling through the air. She ducked under it, felt the wind tear at her hair, and drove one rod into his lead knee. The crack of bone echoed through the arena. He didn’t go down. He didn’t even stumble. The blood-fury was already active, pain converting to power, and the knee she’d just broken locked into place as he swung again.
She sidestepped. The axe buried itself in the stone where she’d been standing. She brought both rods down on his shoulder, the weighted caps cracking his pauldron. He grunted, grinned, and backhanded her across the face. The spiked gauntlet tore open her cheek. Blood sprayed. She stumbled back, and the crowd gasped.
"First blood!" Dorian Hale’s voice cracked. "Baines draws first blood!"
Lysandra touched her cheek. Her fingers came away red. She looked at the blood, and the smile started. Small at first. Just at the corners of her mouth. Then wider.
"There you are," Baines growled. "There’s the smile. I’ve been waiting for that."
He came at her again. Faster this time. The blood-fury was building. Every hit she’d landed was making him stronger, faster, more dangerous. His axe came around in a diagonal arc. She parried with both rods, the impact jarring her arms, driving her back a step. He swung again. She parried again. He was pushing her across the platform, step by step, and she couldn’t stop him. He was too strong now. Too fast. The blood-fury had turned him into something that didn’t feel pain, didn’t slow down, didn’t stop.
He caught her across the ribs with the axe haft. She felt something crack. Pain flared white-hot. She spun with the hit, used the momentum, and drove a rod into his elbow. The joint shattered. His arm went limp, the axe dropping from nerveless fingers. He caught it with his other hand before it hit the ground and kept swinging.
"You can’t break me!" he roared. "I’ve been saving this! I’ve been waiting!"
He entered the death-rage.
His body swelled. Muscles bulged under his armor, veins standing out like cords. His broken arm straightened with a sound like grinding stones. His shattered knee locked into place. The wounds she’d given him—the cracked ribs, the broken elbow, the damage from the first exchange, all of it sealed over with scar tissue in seconds. His eyes went red. Blood vessels burst in his face, in his neck, in his arms. He was bleeding everywhere and didn’t care. Couldn’t care. The death-rage had consumed him.
He charged. The axe came down in an arc that would have split her in two. She sidestepped, Florence’s footwork, the correction she’d drilled into her, and the axe buried itself in the stone where she’d been standing. The platform shattered. Cracks spiderwebbed outward. Baines ripped the axe free and swung again, faster than before. She ducked. He swung a third time. She dropped flat, felt the blade pass over her skull, and drove both rods into his knee. The joint cracked. He didn’t stop. The death-rage sealed the wound as fast as she could make it.
She scrambled back, breathing hard. Blood ran down her face, her side, her arms. The smile was still there, but her eyes were clear. She was riding the edge. The switch wanted to take over completely, to drown her in the hunger, but she held it. Barely.
Baines stalked toward her. The death-rage had thirty seconds left. If she could survive that long, he’d collapse on his own. But thirty seconds against an opponent who didn’t feel pain, who healed as fast as she could damage him, who was stronger and faster than he’d ever been, thirty seconds was an eternity.
He swung. She dodged. He swung again. She parried, the impact numbing her arms. He brought the axe down in an overhead strike that would have caved in her skull. She crossed the rods and caught the blade between them. The force drove her to one knee. The stone beneath her cracked. He pressed down, all his weight behind the axe, and she felt her arms giving way. The blade inched toward her face.
"You’re done," he snarled. Blood dripped from his mouth, his nose, his eyes. The death-rage was burning him out.
Lysandra let go of the rods.
They hit the stone with a sound that echoed through the arena. Heavy. Much heavier than anyone expected. The crowd saw them drop. Dorian Hale’s voice caught in his throat. "She—she dropped her weapons! The rods are on the ground! What is she doing?!"
Baines’s eyes widened. The axe was still pressing down, but without the rods to brace against, she slipped sideways. The blade buried itself in the stone where her head had been. She was already moving.
She was faster now. So much faster. The rods had been slowing her down all along, Florence’s words echoed in her head. "When you’re ready for light, you’ll know." She was ready. The weight was gone. Her hands were free. The gold spikes on her knuckles caught the light.
She hit him.
The first punch was a straight right to his liver. A precise, compact strike that sank into his side with a wet, heavy sound. Baines’s body absorbed it, the death-rage healing the damage, but the force behind it was different now. All her strength, all her speed, focused into a single point of impact. He staggered. She was already hitting him again.
Left hook to the ribs. Right cross to the solar plexus. Left uppercut to the jaw. Each punch landed with a sound like stone hitting meat. She wasn’t just hitting him. She was dismantling him. Her hands moved in combinations that blurred at the edges, insanely fast, each strike flowing into the next without pause. She’d never thrown punches like this before. She’d never needed to. The rods had always been her voice. Now her voice was her fists, and they were screaming.
Baines tried to swing the axe. She stepped inside the arc and drove three quick punches into his stomach. The death-rage sealed the wounds, but the force went deeper than the surface. Organs shifted. Blood vessels burst. His insides were turning to mush, and the death-rage couldn’t heal what it couldn’t reach. He doubled over. She brought both fists down on the back of his skull. He hit the stone on his hands and knees.
She didn’t stop.
A right hook to the temple. A left cross to the jaw. The gold spikes tore through his skin, his muscle, the death-rage trying and failing to keep up. Her speed was overwhelming. She’d been born fast, unnaturally fast, and she’d been holding back. The rods had hidden it. Everyone had seen the heavy weapons and assumed she was just strong. Nobody had realized the weapons were slowing her down.
Now everyone knew.
She hit him again, and again. The crowd was silent. The only sound was the wet, rhythmic impact of her fists on his body. Baines collapsed to the stone, his axe forgotten, his death-rage flickering like a dying flame. He tried to push himself up. She drove a knee into his chest and pinned him there. Her fist came down one last time, the gold spikes punching through what was left of his defenses.
He went still.
The death-rage faded. His eyes cleared. He was looking up at her, blood pooling under his head, his body a ruin of broken bones and pulped flesh. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. His lips moved, but no sound came out. Whatever he’d been trying to say, died in his throat.
She stood over him, breathing hard. Blood ran down her face, her side, her arms. Her outfit was a ruin. Her knuckles were shredded, the gold spikes slick with red. The rods were still on the stone where she’d dropped them.
The healers were already running. The crowd was silent. Then, slowly, they started to rise. The sound made was something closer to awe. The shy girl had just beaten a berserker to death with her bare hands, and eighty thousand people didn’t know whether to scream or pray.
She turned and walked toward the tunnel. The switch was fading now, the cold leaving her eyes. The smile was gone. What was left was a girl in a torn clothes, covered in blood that was already starting to dry. Her hands were shaking. She’d left the rods behind. Florence would scold her for that. She didn’t care.
Dominic was waiting for her. He didn’t speak. He just stepped aside and let her pass, and when she stumbled, he caught her arm. She looked up at him. Her eyes were red. The tears hadn’t started yet, but they were close.
"You did good," he said quietly.
She nodded. A tiny, almost invisible motion. Then she walked past him, toward the infirmary, leaving a trail of blood on the stone. Behind her, the healers were lifting Baines onto a stretcher. He still wasn’t moving. The crowd was still rising. And somewhere in the stands, Florence was grinning. "That’s my girl," she murmured. "That’s my girl."