The chamber rang with ricochets.

  Knives clashed, spun, and screamed as they tore through the close air in arcs that seemed to mock the laws of motion. Steel kissed stone and wood, rebounding with blistering speed before homing in on Sarrak from every direction.

  He moved like a man who had danced this dance too many times—graceful, practiced, deadly. His twin daggers flashed in the flickering torchlight, deflecting a volley of incoming blades even as he twisted to dodge another that came off the ceiling at an impossible angle.

  Every knife that missed him ricocheted again—off crates, columns, rusted lantern hooks—sometimes flying back into Velen’s waiting hands, only to be launched anew. The cycle never ended. It didn’t need to. Velen didn’t have to aim to kill—he just had to keep the storm spinning.

  Sarrak had long since lost count. Twelve? Twenty? Fifty?

  It didn’t matter.

  It felt like he was fighting an armory.

  Across the room, Velen paced slowly between the knives orbiting him in fluid, controlled circles. His silver eye gleamed as he caught another blade mid-air and flicked it back with the lazy elegance of someone brushing lint from a sleeve.

  “You know what I hate about magi-humans?” he said, voice casual, but pulsing with venom. “You come into the world with power just… handed to you. No study. No effort. Just born lucky.”

  Sarrak ducked a spinning dagger, feeling it part the air near his temple before he twisted to slap another off-course.

  “When the Dragon War ended, the magic that tore the world apart didn’t just vanish. It sank into the earth. Into the rivers. Into the blood.” Velen spun a blade on his fingertip. “And out came people like you. Special. Respected. Dangerous. Without lifting a finger.”

  Another blade flew—bounced once, twice, three times—then curved low toward Sarrak’s legs. He vaulted over it and landed hard, boots striking the stone.

  “You?” Velen sneered. “You got the best trick of all. Reflecting damage. Magical or physical. I stab you, I bleed. I burn you, I roast.”

  Sarrak didn’t answer at first.

  He circled, daggers ready, watching the blades blur through the air around them.

  Then he said, voice tight with strain but steady, “The thing is… you don’t even know if this is working.”

  Velen’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’ve made a lot of guesses,” Sarrak continued, deflecting a knife that ricocheted off two crates and came in high. “But for all your angles and math… you don’t know. Maybe indirect attacks slip past. Or maybe…” He paused, just long enough for the words to land.

  “Maybe it only works if the attack was meant for someone else. Like that tiefling.”

  The corner of Velen’s mouth curled.

  He stopped pacing.

  “…Let’s find out.”

  He reached into one of his pouches and pulled out a small, smooth stone. Round. Unremarkable. Deadly in his hands.

  He glanced at the spinning knives, eyes flicking from one to the next—mapping momentum, velocity, distance—then flicked the stone with his thumb.

  It bounced. Once, twice, three times—glancing off the blades mid-spin with chime-like clarity.

  Then it struck Sarrak squarely on the side of the head.

  The magi-human staggered, his vision swimming.

  And in that moment of lost footing, the knives struck.

  One tore across his back. Another sliced through the fabric of his chest. A third punched deep into his side, steel crunching against bone.

  Blood sprayed, a crimson arc against the pale stone wall.

  Sarrak grunted, sinking to one knee, fingers digging into the floor. His breath came fast. Shallow. Pain buzzed beneath his skin like lightning trapped in glass.

  The knives peeled away and spun back through the air, answering their master’s call. One after another, they settled into Velen’s open palms, save for the one embedded in Sarrak’s side.

  Velen stood still, catching the last blade with a flourish.

  “Well,” Velen murmured, twirling a blade still slick with blood, “guess luck only protects you until someone does the math. This is going to be fun.”

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Takeda was locked in his own war.

  The air hissed with the sound of steel slicing through it—six blade-tipped chains lashed at him in blinding succession, moving like vipers with a will of their own. Each one struck with enough force to shatter bone, their runed lengths glinting as they carved through the shadows. The ronin ducked, weaved, and blocked, his blade a blur of motion. Sparks danced along the stone floor with every clash, trailing behind the chaotic rhythm of Kaelin Vire’s assault.

  The chains never rested. They recoiled only to lunge again, fanning out wide before snapping back with lethal intent. Every movement was calculated, not from the limbs of a man—but from the command of his soul.

  “You honorable types are all the same,” Kaelin sneered, pacing behind the reach of his weaponry, his tone thick with disdain. “'Inner peace' this, 'willpower' that. Empty words to comfort the weak. You want to know what real strength is?”

  He stepped into a shaft of torchlight, and the runes carved into his skin began to glow faintly—green and red light tracing the spiral sigils like veins of molten magic. The chains mirrored them, their etched glyphs flaring in response, forming a pulsing, living circuit between man and weapon.

  “True strength comes from power you command. From fear you plant in the hearts of others.”

  Takeda’s eyes narrowed as he blocked another slash from the nearest chain, sidestepping before spinning into a defensive low guard. “You’re wrong,” he said, voice calm and firm, despite the chaos. “Honor is what separates men from monsters. It gives suffering meaning. My people—”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  All six chains launched at once, converging on the spot Takeda stood with a feral shriek of metal. He flipped backward in a burst of movement just as the chains slammed into the stone with a deafening boom—the floor cracked beneath the impact, shards of stone exploding outward in a cloud of dust.

  Kaelin’s voice roared over the din. “I’m done listening to your sanctimonious bullshit!”

  He advanced slowly, chains coiling behind him like predatory limbs.

  “You were exiled. Cast out. A disgrace. You think the crowd respects you because of some bushido fantasy?” His voice darkened. “No. They only respect you because you’re dangerous in the pit. Like me. But I make them afraid. Because I don’t spare. I don’t accept surrenders. I break bone. Tear muscle. Rip people apart until they beg me to end it.”

  Takeda’s jaw clenched.

  He shifted into a low stance, both hands now gripping his katana.

  The blade began to glow—subtle at first, then brighter, runes etched into its steel flaring to life. He breathed in, once, twice, and then struck the air with a swift upward slash. A wave of magic screamed from the blade’s arc, hurtling toward Kaelin like a crescent of raw force.

  Kaelin didn’t flinch.

  He snapped his arms outward, and his chains coiled into a woven wall—six serpents forming a barrier in front of him. The magical slash collided with the shield of steel and runes, exploding in a flash of light and dust.

  When the smoke cleared, the chains were still there.

  Undamaged.

  Still pointing at Takeda.

  Kaelin stepped forward, smiling. “Weak. I thought you’d be a challenge. But you’re just another empty sword swing in the wind.”

  Takeda said nothing.

  He launched forward.

  The air crackled with force as he moved, blindingly fast—his katana a storm of arcs and precise cuts. Kaelin’s chains lashed out to intercept, but Takeda deflected them mid-motion, parrying the blades aside with well-timed strikes and pivoting around their reach.

  Kaelin narrowed his eyes and changed tactics. Four chains kept the pressure up—sweeping and stabbing to hold Takeda at bay—while two silently retreated, slithering out of sight like shadows.

  Takeda didn’t notice.

  He was closing the distance, step by step, striking faster, dodging tighter. The crowd above, the roar of the arena, the tremors in the walls—it all vanished. There was only the duel. The dance.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Kaelin let him come.

  Then struck.

  The two hidden chains lashed out from blind angles, piercing Takeda’s shoulders in a flash of pain and steel. The ronin cried out as they drove through flesh and sinew, grinding against bone. Blood sprayed as the chains twisted and yanked him upward off the ground.

  Takeda hung in the air, gasping through clenched teeth, his katana still gripped in one hand.

  Kaelin’s laughter echoed as he approached.

  “Got you.”

  Two more chains stabbed into his thighs, pinning him further, while the last two coiled around his waist, crushing his ribs with inhuman force. Takeda’s head dropped forward, blood trailing from his mouth.

  But he never let go of his blade.

  Kaelin sauntered closer, hands behind his back, savoring the moment.

  “You see now?” he said, stepping into Takeda’s shadow. “You see where honor gets you?”

  He leaned in, voice cold as stone.

  “Nowhere.”

  He looked up, listening to the faint tremors above—the sound of combat shaking the arena above them.

  “You’re as weak as that fucking prince they’re all betting on up there.”

  Takeda coughed. Blood spilled from his lips.

  “Master Joran…” he breathed, “is not… weak…”

  Kaelin’s smile faded into a sneer. “You’ll never understand, will you? Still clinging to that fairy tale of virtue.”

  He eyed the katana still clutched in Takeda’s bleeding hand.

  “…Impressive grip,” he murmured. “Four blades through bone and you still won’t let go.”

  He reached out and dragged his palm down the exposed length of the sword, slicing his own flesh open with a hiss of breath.

  Then, dipping a finger into the blood, he turned toward Takeda’s face with a glint in his eye.

  “Let’s see what happens,” he whispered, “if I turn your cherished weapon against you.”

  Meanwhile, Daurial watched from the shadows behind a toppled shelf of crates, her breath shallow and body trembling.

  She wanted to move. To scream. To help.

  But all she could do was watch—helpless, trembling—tears streaking down her cheeks as Takeda, the warrior who had promised her safety, bled in midair like a crucified relic.

  And she knew—

  She had to do something.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Joran’s muscles screamed with every breath.

  His arms trembled, his lungs burned, and every inch of his body throbbed with dull agony. He stood, sweat-slicked and heaving, his skin streaked with dust and blood. But he stood.

  Across from him, the Ironhowl Mk. IV rose once more—its massive metal frame covered in claw marks, twisted plates, and fist-shaped dents that marred its once-pristine armor. Chunks of its outer casing sparked where torn wires jutted out like frayed nerves. Joran had left his mark.

  But the mech was still moving.

  With a hiss of escaping steam and the groan of stressed hydraulics, it straightened. Glowing mana sigils pulsed faintly along its limbs, recharging as it reoriented.

  From inside the cockpit, Thraza’s voice crackled over the intercom, sharp and manic.

  “You’re impressive, Prince! I’ll give you that!” Her voice was half laughter, half snarl. “But how long can you keep it up?! I haven’t shown you everything this beast can do!”

  With a mechanical clunk, six circular ports opened across the Ironhowl’s spine, glowing faintly with heat. Joran’s eyes narrowed.

  A moment later, six projectiles launched from the chambers—thin, finned cylinders that screamed toward him like miniature comets.

  Joran sucked in a breath and surged forward.

  His instincts roared louder than reason. There was no time to hesitate.

  He ducked beneath the first missile, feeling it blast over his head in a streak of fire. The second he narrowly avoided with a sharp pivot, his boots skidding across scorched stone. The third came in low—he twisted into a spin, letting it pass within a hair’s breadth of his ribs.

  The last three he didn’t dodge.

  He punched through them.

  His fists, covered in shimmering crimson scales, collided with the explosives mid-flight. Each one detonated in a flash of fire and smoke—but Joran didn’t stop. He burst through the blasts like a force of nature, embers licking at his shoulders, his eyes locked on the Ironhowl.

  The ground quaked as the mech lunged forward. It pulled back its massive arm, steam venting from its elbow, then drove a thunderous punch straight at Joran.

  He met it head-on.

  Their fists collided with a bone-shaking BOOM.

  The shockwave rippled outward in every direction, cracking stone, flattening dust, and blowing out the windows of nearby buildings. A small crater formed beneath their feet from the sheer force of the impact.

  But Joran didn’t have time to disengage.

  The Ironhowl’s forearm opened like a mechanical trap, snapping closed around Joran’s scaled fist. Metal clamps locked into place with a clack-clack-clack and mana surged through the joints.

  Joran growled, teeth bared, and tried to pull away—but the grip held firm.

  “Gotcha!” Thraza howled gleefully.

  With a screech of pistons, the Ironhowl swung Joran through the air and smashed him into the ground with titanic force.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A third time.

  Each impact shook the arena floor. Dust and shattered rock erupted with every slam, and Joran let out a grunt of pain with each bone-rattling hit.

  Then, with a final spin, the mech hurled him across the battlefield like a ragdoll.

  Joran crashed into the stone wall with a thunderous crack, sending a spiderweb of fractures through the surface. He slumped to the ground, coughing up smoke and blood, but still conscious. Still holding on.

  The mech didn’t wait.

  The buzzsaw snapped into place with a whirring scream, extending from the Ironhowl’s gauntlet in a flash of spinning steel. The rune-forged blade spun so fast it screamed in the air, vibrating with dangerous frequency.

  With another hiss of steam, the Ironhowl charged.

  Joran pushed himself to his feet, eyes blazing.

  As the saw came down, he crossed his arms in front of him, throwing up his scaled forearms just in time.

  The buzzsaw struck.

  Sparks exploded as metal ground against dragonborn scale, the noise deafening. The force of the blow pushed Joran back a full step, heels gouging lines into the stone floor. The saw shrieked as it scraped against his arms, throwing a halo of fire and friction into the air—but it didn’t cut.

  Not even a scratch.

  Joran fell to one knee, the grinding whine of the buzzsaw still echoing in his ears. He’d held against the devastating pressure, but barely. The steel-toothed blade had done no lasting damage—his scales had held true—but his body was flagging.

  Then came the second blow.

  From the Ironhowl’s opposite arm, a mana cannon emerged—humming with raw, condensed energy. With no time to react, Joran turned just in time to see the blast erupt.

  A projectile of pure arcane force slammed into his side, lifting him from the ground and sending him sprawling across the arena. He tumbled end over end, dirt and dust trailing in his wake, his limbs crashing against broken stone until he finally came to a skidding halt against a mound of rubble.

  The buzzsaw and cannon both retracted into the mech’s arms. With a heavy hiss and the rhythmic clank of its footsteps, the Ironhowl began to advance.

  “You are giving me wonderful data, Joran!” Thraza’s voice rang out, bright and delighted. “I really want to thank you for this incredible fight!”

  She was laughing—genuinely thrilled, as if this weren’t a matter of life and death but the testing ground for some great invention.

  Joran groaned and forced himself up, first to his knees, then onto unsteady feet. His vision swam. Blood trailed from his mouth, and a cough wracked his chest before another gout of blood stained the ground beneath him.

  He was reaching the edge.

  His draconic strength was fading—the scales receding, the fire dwindling in his veins. If he didn’t stop soon, he wouldn’t be able to stand, let alone fight. The transformation had taxed every fiber of his being.

  But his eyes fell on something just ahead.

  His sword—Vermillion Fang—was lying a few feet away, scorched but intact. He staggered toward it, each step dragging pain behind it like a chain.

  He reached down and lifted it slowly. The hilt felt heavier than usual.

  Then he turned, eyes locked onto the Ironhowl.

  “I have one more trick to show you,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “I hope you like it.”

  Thraza squealed with unfiltered excitement. “Oh, I can’t wait!”

  Joran inhaled deeply, his chest expanding. A dull glow built beneath his skin, first around his ribs, then rising up his throat. A reddish-orange light flickered in his mouth—and then, with a roar, he unleashed a jet of fire.

  The inferno burst out like a wave of molten light, slamming into the Ironhowl with full force. The mech raised an armored arm to shield itself, but the flame poured over it like liquid fury. Metal glowed red-hot, steam hissed from vents, and parts of the exterior began to melt and fall away in bubbling chunks.

  The sand beneath the fire turned to shimmering glass. Even the crowd could feel the blast of heat ripple over them, shielding their eyes and recoiling from the force of it.

  It wasn’t the breath of a true dragon.

  But it was close.

  Joran staggered forward, continuing to breathe fire as he moved—each step driven by raw will. The pain in his throat grew worse. His lungs burned. His mouth filled with the taste of copper and ash.

  So he lifted the Vermillion Fang and thrust it into the stream of fire.

  The blade caught the heat, glowing brighter with each passing second—until it burned white-hot, the runes along its edge pulsing with volatile energy. When he finally let the breath cease, the silence was deafening.

  The Ironhowl stood, its outer plates blackened and warped, joints steaming violently. The mech groaned beneath its own weight.

  Joran didn’t hesitate.

  He charged.

  He leapt onto the back of the Ironhowl, landing with a grunt. With the Vermillion Fang burning in his grasp, he found a clear opening at the base of the cockpit—a direct path to the pilot inside.

  He raised the blade.

  And froze.

  The heat of the blade shimmered in front of his face. He could see the vulnerable section in the armor, where a well-placed strike could end this. He could feel the pull of instinct urging him to finish the fight.

  But through the steel, he could still hear her voice—excited, amazed, marveling at her creation, not angry or cruel. Just a woman reveling in her work. No hatred. No malice.

  Joran's eyes narrowed, and his hand trembled.

  He couldn’t do it.

  With a frustrated growl, he drove the blade not into the core, but into the mech’s shoulder. Sparks exploded as he twisted and ripped the sword free, severing cables and tearing the entire arm off in a shriek of metal.

  The Ironhowl staggered, venting steam as the severed limb crashed to the ground.

  Joran dropped back, gasping, exhausted. His shoulders slumped. He assumed that would be enough damage to make it inoperable.

  But it wasn’t.

  The Ironhowl’s remaining arm grabbed him, faster than he could react. With a mechanical screech, it drove him into the ground with terrifying force. Stone cracked beneath him.

  Joran gasped—sharp, pained. The wind left his lungs. Then, slowly, he realized—his scales were gone.

  The transformation had ended.

  He was out of time.

  The Ironhowl stood over him, gears whirring.

  Its single arm reached down, grabbed the severed limb, and reattached it. Clicks, whirs, and hisses followed as internal systems locked into place. Cables reconnected. Joints rotated.

  Thraza’s voice returned, giddy.

  “Oooh, I can’t wait to try this!”

  Joran stared, dazed, as the Ironhowl flexed its newly reattached arm. It was weaker—damaged—but functional.

  He looked around the mech, disbelieving. Its outer armor was still scorched and torn, but the core functions were repairing themselves. Joints. Weapons. Movement.

  He had given everything.

  And it still stood.

  “You gave one hell of a fight, Joran…” Thraza’s voice softened with a hint of regret.

  “…But it’s over.”

  The Ironhowl raised its fist—runes along the forearm glowing once more—ready to deliver the final blow.