Joran panted heavily, each breath ragged and laced with fire. The wound in his shoulder screamed with every twitch of muscle, but he kept his posture steady—shoulders squared, back straight, expression unshaken. Blood dripped steadily down his arm, soaking into the dirt at his feet, but he didn’t so much as flinch.

  He couldn’t afford to.

  Pain means nothing. Not here. Not now.

  If the knights had taught him anything in thirteen long years, it was how to wear a mask—how to bury pain so deep it couldn't be seen, not even by those closest to him. They had made sure of that. Beat it into him, lesson by agonizing lesson.

  When they broke his fingers, he learned how to smile.

  When they shattered his ribs, he learned how to bow without wincing.

  When they told him he was nothing, that his screams were music and his silence weakness, he taught himself to laugh.

  And no one ever caught on.

  The palace saw only the charming prince, the well-mannered heir with perfect posture and a carefully measured smile. They didn’t see the bruises. The fractures. The nights he bit his tongue until it bled just to keep from crying out.

  Only the knights had ever seen his tears.

  Only they heard him scream.

  If I were facing them, Joran thought bitterly, I’d be running. I’d be breaking.

  The very thought chilled him.

  His confidence in Korr’s Maw—in the arena, in these fights—was something foreign. Something borrowed. With Sarrak, with Varkul, and now with Takeda, he could choose to fight. He wasn’t being punished. He wasn’t being trained like a dog or torn apart to test limits. Here, he stood on his own feet.

  But the fear never left him. It only sat quieter, just beneath the surface.

  A ghost wearing his skin.

  He rose to his feet slowly, pushing through the blinding pain, careful not to let his grimace show. Every nerve in his arm burned as though lit by a branding iron. His vision swam for a moment—but the crowd couldn’t see that. Nor could Takeda.

  No one can see it, he told himself. No one.

  Across from him, Takeda stood frozen. His chest was rising and falling with deep, steady breaths, but his face was filled with something strange—something like guilt.

  He had injured Joran. Cut him deep. And the realization seemed to hollow something inside him.

  “I… I’m sorry,” Takeda said softly, voice cracking with sincerity. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Joran moved.

  He surged forward like a thunderclap, closing the space between them in a blink, and before Takeda could react—

  CRACK!

  His fist collided squarely with the bridge of Takeda’s nose, snapping the man’s head back with a wet burst of blood. The crowd gasped at the sudden, brutal strike.

  Takeda stumbled, eyes wide, hand clutching his face as blood dripped between his fingers. “Wh—what are you—?”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Joran growled, his voice raw and full of fire.

  The mask cracked—but not from weakness. From rage.

  “This is a fight!” he shouted, his bloodied arm shaking with exertion. “An arena! You think it’s over just because we dropped our weapons?”

  His voice echoed across the stone walls, sharp enough to cut.

  “We’re not here to bow out. We’re not here to apologize. You want to carry your master’s legacy? Then show me something! Show me the will of a man who fights when he’s outmatched. Who doesn’t wait for permission to chase justice!”

  Takeda stared at him—stunned, blood trailing from his nose, his mouth open slightly.

  The crowd had fallen quiet.

  Joran’s chest heaved. His injured shoulder burned. His hands were slick with his own blood. And through it all, he still held himself high.

  Don’t shake, he told himself. Don’t show them.

  Takeda’s lips slowly closed. His expression shifted. Not to anger—but to understanding.

  He remembered his master’s teachings.

  When all else falls away, only the will remains.

  He clenched his fists. The soft crack of his knuckles sounded like a hammer striking steel.

  He’s right, Takeda thought. This fight isn’t about victory. It’s about resolve.

  He exhaled slowly, blood still running from his nose, and whispered in his thoughts:

  Joran… thank you.

  Then he launched forward.

  They collided in the middle of the arena like twin storms, fists swinging, magic crackling at their fingertips.

  No weapons. No shields.

  Just two men born of pain and purpose—breaking against each other like waves on jagged rock.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Sarrak and Thraza sat side by side in the upper tiers of the arena stands, the sun casting sharp shadows across the stone as the roar of the crowd surged and ebbed like a restless tide. Around them, spectators shouted, cheered, or whispered in disbelief at the brutal display below—but the two seasoned fighters watched in silence.

  Thraza paused mid-chew, a piece of popcorn half-raised to her soot-smudged lips. Her goggles had been pushed up onto her forehead, eyes narrowed as she tracked every motion on the blood-slick sand below. Sarrak leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, long fingers stroking his chin with deliberate thought. The usual lazy smirk was gone from his face—replaced by something far more contemplative.

  “That prince…” Sarrak muttered, voice just above the noise of the crowd. “He let himself get stabbed. Took a blade straight through the shoulder. Just so he could rip Takeda’s sword out of his hands.”

  He exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment sinking in. “Incredible… and utterly foolish. Could’ve cost him the match.”

  Thraza swallowed her bite and nodded slowly. “Mm… maybe. But it wasn’t just about the fight,” she said, reaching absently for another handful of popcorn. “He’s teaching Takeda something. You can see it in the way he moves. The way he provokes him, pushes him. It’s not about victory. It’s about awakening something.”

  Sarrak raised a brow, glancing at her sidelong. “You think so?”

  “I know so,” Thraza replied, brushing a few crumbs from her apron. “Dwarves are smiths by nature. We mend and shape. Forge and temper. I’ve spent over a century working metal—learning how to read it. When to strike. When to cool. When to start over.”

  She nodded toward the arena, where Joran and Takeda were locked in an increasingly savage exchange—fist and foot, spell and strike, each blow more brutal than the last.

  “That’s what he’s doing. He’s trying to reshape Takeda,” Thraza continued, her voice quieter now. “Bending him without breaking him. Hammering away at guilt, regret, shame… whatever the hell that man carries around. Joran’s not just fighting—he’s forging.”

  Sarrak let the words settle before turning back to the arena. Down below, Joran took a punch to the ribs but countered with a vicious palm strike that blasted Takeda back with a pulse of magic. Takeda recovered instantly, spinning and landing a brutal knee to Joran’s side in return.

  “Hmph,” Sarrak mused. “When I fought him, he was different. Focused on control. On efficiency. He kept his distance, used precision strikes, conserved energy. He was cautious. Still dangerous—but he was… guarded.”

  He leaned back with a slow sigh, his crimson eyes thoughtful.

  “Now? It’s like he doesn’t care how much damage he takes. Like he’s using pain to fuel him.”

  Thraza was quiet for a while, her gaze still fixed on the fight. Then, without looking at Sarrak, she said softly, “He is a damaged tool.”

  Sarrak blinked. “What?”

  She turned to him, her expression unreadable behind the smudges and soot.

  “Joran,” she said. “He’s cracked. Like a sword left too long in the flame. Warped and brittle in places. Maybe still sharp, sure—but compromised.”

  She turned back to the arena, watching Joran land a blow, take one in return, and keep moving as though the blood down his arm didn’t matter.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  “He’s got a long way to go before he’s whole,” she murmured. “And even if he gets there… even if he’s reforged, reforged right—he might never be perfect again.”

  Sarrak said nothing. He just nodded, slowly.

  But both of them kept watching.

  Because despite the damage, despite the cracks and scars—Joran still fought like a weapon in motion.

  And sometimes, a flawed blade was the one that cut deepest.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Joran and takeda stood across from each other panting heavily. They were covered in bruises, joran had a swollen cheek, and takeda had a black eye. Joran spit a bit of blood out of his mouth before moving his hand to rub his amulet through his shirt. His cloak was untouched in damage but soaked in blood on the side of his injury. The shoulder on his opposite arm was still bleeding profusely and hung lower than his right shoulder. The pain had gone numb and it was hard for him to do anything with it. “Do you… feel it yet?”

  Takeda wiped some blood from his mouth. His kimono was in tatters and now stained with blood from wiping his mouth. “Yes… I feel it…"Joran forced a smirk and raised his good arm. “Let’s finish this then. I have a third match to win.” They both charged towards each other with a roar and began exchanging blows once more. Bones cracked, knuckles bled, bruises formed. They kept going while the crowd watched in awe of these two determined warriors who refused to back down.

  The fight went on with joran and takeda landing blow after blow against each other. Takeda landed a blow right on joran’s injury but even then he didn’t cry out in pain. The prince finally decided to go all out and focused his magic into his right arm. Takeda went for another head shot only for joran to force his injured arm up to block it before punching takeda across the jaw with a reinforced fist that created a shock wave through the arena. Takeda coughed up blood and fell to one knee. Joran raised his fist for a finishing blow when takeda raised his hand. “Stop! Stop…”

  Joran paused and stared at the ronin as the crowd went silent and the only noise was their panting and joran’s cloak fluttering in the wind. Takeda settled himself on his knees and looked up at joran. “I submit… you win…”

  “I entered this arena ready to forfeit,” he said. “I had planned to lay down my sword before the match even began. I thought I was unworthy… unfit to face someone like you.”

  Joran’s gaze didn’t break. He was too tired to speak, but he listened.

  “But you didn’t dismiss me. You fought me like an equal. You didn’t give me pity—you gave me a reason to fight.”

  Takeda’s shoulders shook slightly—whether from pain or something else, Joran couldn’t tell.

  “You helped me see that I still have worth. That I can be more than a disgraced title. More than a name stripped of meaning. You reminded me that I can choose to stand. To rise. To fight for something again.”

  He breathed in deeply and let it out slowly.

  “You’ve given me more than a fight. You gave me back my will… and my future.”

  He bowed low, one hand clenched over his heart.

  “Thank you, Prince Joran.”

  Joran and Takeda stood across from one another, chests heaving, breaths ragged in the hot, dust-laced air. Their boots sank slightly into the blood-slicked sand of the arena floor, surrounded by the shattered remnants of stone and magic. The world had narrowed down to just the two of them—the cheering of the crowd a distant, hollow roar behind the pounding in their ears.

  Both warriors looked like they'd been through a dozen battles.

  Joran’s body ached with every breath, his right cheek swollen and beginning to bruise a deep purple, his knuckles raw and bleeding from repeated impact. Blood dribbled from the corner of his lip as he spat into the dirt, tasting iron and grit. His shoulder still bled freely, warm rivulets running down his left arm in slow pulses, soaking the already darkened fabric of his inner shirt. That entire side of his cloak—still whole and untorn due to its enchantment—hung heavy with blood.

  And yet, he stood tall, as he always had.

  His right hand reached up with slow, deliberate effort. Beneath the torn collar of his shirt, he brushed his fingers across the amulet resting against his chest. The silver felt cool against his skin, its presence grounding. Still here, he thought. Still standing.

  Across from him, Takeda looked no better. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and his bottom lip was split wide open. His kimono was torn to shreds, the once-elegant fabric clinging to him in bloodstained strips. His arms hung heavy, fists still clenched, one shoulder lower than the other from a partially dislocated joint. But his feet were planted. He hadn’t backed away once.

  Joran’s voice came low and rough, barely more than a growl. “Do you… feel it yet?”

  Takeda wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing a new streak of blood across his jaw. His breathing was uneven, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath. For a moment, he said nothing.

  Then: “Yes… I feel it.”

  A breath of silence passed between them.

  Joran forced a half-smile, laced with exhaustion and defiance. He raised his good arm—his right, still wrapped in a faint glow of residual magic—and extended it toward Takeda.

  “Then let’s finish this,” he said. “I’ve got a third match to win.”

  No more words were needed.

  They roared—not out of hatred, but out of sheer, burning resolve—and charged at each other, fists raised.

  What followed was less a fight and more a final act of willpower. Each blow was bone against bone, bruised muscle against bruised muscle. Joran’s right arm became his sole weapon, his left too damaged to lift, too blood-slicked to clench. And yet, he used it—when he had to—ignoring the blinding pain just long enough to land another strike or absorb a hit.

  Takeda hit him in the ribs. Joran grunted but didn’t stagger.

  Joran cracked his fist into Takeda’s sternum, sending him stumbling.

  Takeda answered with a backhand that split the already-bruised skin along Joran’s cheekbone, but the prince surged forward and delivered a brutal knee into the ronin’s thigh.

  Each time they were knocked down, they got up again.

  The crowd was on its feet now, shouting, cheering, roaring with every brutal exchange—but neither fighter heard it. They only saw each other.

  Takeda spun and caught Joran’s injured side with a clean hook.

  Joran felt something flash behind his eyes. Pain surged. He tasted blood in his mouth, his vision dimming slightly—but he didn’t cry out.

  He never did.

  He’d been trained—conditioned—by pain. The knights had taught him well. Never show weakness. Never let them hear you scream. Never let the tears fall where someone can see.

  So he didn’t scream now.

  Instead, he snarled.

  Joran planted his foot and let his magic surge one final time. It wasn’t a full spell—just raw energy forced into motion. He forced his left arm to rise—just long enough to intercept Takeda’s next strike, even as it burned white-hot through his shoulder.

  Then he swung.

  His right fist, glowing faintly with mana, cracked across Takeda’s jaw with the force of a battering ram. The shockwave rattled the arena, a burst of force rippling through the air and kicking up dust at their feet.

  Takeda gasped, stumbled, and fell to one knee.

  Joran raised his arm for another blow—eyes blazing.

  But Takeda lifted a hand, palm out.

  “Stop,” he rasped. “Stop…”

  Joran froze, fist suspended in the air. The crowd hushed, as if the entire arena held its breath.

  Takeda exhaled sharply and let his arm fall to his side. He bowed his head, still kneeling, his voice hoarse with defeat—but not shame.

  “I submit…” he said. “You win.”

  Joran stood over him, chest rising and falling, blood trailing down his arm, cloak fluttering faintly behind him. His hand lowered slowly. He didn’t move to attack again.

  Takeda looked up at him. And in his eyes, there wasn’t fear.

  Only gratitude.

  “I entered this arena ready to forfeit,” Takeda said quietly. “I had planned to lay down my sword before the match even began. I thought I was unworthy… unfit to face someone like you.”

  Joran’s expression didn’t change. His jaw was tight. His body trembled slightly from the pain and fatigue—but he listened.

  “You didn’t dismiss me,” Takeda continued. “You didn’t see me as a failure. You fought me like an equal. You didn’t give me pity—you gave me purpose. You reminded me what it felt like to fight for something real.”

  Takeda’s shoulders shifted. Not in shame, but in clarity.

  “You helped me remember that I have worth. That I’m more than a disgraced title. More than the shame of exile. You helped me believe there might still be a future for me. A future I don’t want to run from anymore.”

  He bowed low, one fist placed over his heart.

  “You gave me back my will. And my future. Thank you… Prince Joran.”

  The crowd erupted—applause, chants, the sound of hundreds rising to their feet.

  But Joran heard none of it.

  He only saw the man before him—kneeling, bloodied, but no longer broken.

  Joran held Takeda’s gaze a moment longer, then gave a slow, respectful bow—wincing as the motion pulled at his wounded shoulder. He didn’t care. The gesture was earned.

  Takeda bowed in return, still kneeling, his expression calm… whole.

  With effort, Joran turned and limped toward the gate, each step heavy with exhaustion. Blood trailed behind him, soaking deeper into the sand, his cloak fluttering softly with each staggered pace. The crowd watched in stunned silence—until the announcer’s voice rang out, booming across the arena like thunder.

  “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! MYTHICS AND MERCENARIES!”

  The silence shattered in an instant.

  “AFTER A BATTLE OF GRIT, FIRE, AND FURY—YOUR WINNER OF THE SECOND MATCH—THE MERCIFUL PRINCE… JOOORAAAAANNN!”

  The arena erupted into chaos—cheers, chants, stomping feet, hands raised high.

  But Joran didn’t raise his arms. He didn’t wave to the crowd.

  He just kept walking—head high, body broken, and spirit burning—as the gate creaked open to receive him once more.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  “That was fucking spectacular!” Thraza bellowed, springing to her feet as the arena erupted with applause and thunderous cheers. Her voice joined the roar like a smith’s hammer striking steel—sharp, proud, and reverberating. She clapped with fervor, her soot-stained gloves sending little puffs of dust into the air with each strike, a wild grin spreading across her grease-smeared face.

  Beside her, Sarrak stood more slowly, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp as ever. He folded his arms, studying the sand-swept battlefield below. “I have to admit,” he muttered, a note of begrudging respect in his voice, “the prince is full of surprises.”

  He turned slightly, glancing at Thraza from the corner of his eye. “You don’t plan on going easy on him now, do you?”

  Thraza gave him a look—equal parts offense and excitement. “Easy?” she scoffed. “That fight made me more eager to face him! No chance in the molten halls of the forge I’m holding back now.”

  She pounded a fist into her palm, eyes alight with anticipation. “The old Ironhowl’s ready. More than ready. I’ve been tuning and upgrading it for months, and if anyone can push it to its limits, it’s a stubborn royal pain like Joran.”

  Sarrak gave a quiet chuckle. “Just don’t forget—he might be stubborn, but he learns fast. He adapts.”

  Thraza nodded, her expression growing more serious as her gaze returned to the arena. Below, Takeda was limping toward the far gate, battered but upright. Joran still stood in the center, shoulders heaving, blood-soaked but unbowed.

  “He’s gonna have his work cut out for him,” Sarrak said softly. “And if he manages to beat you…” His voice trailed off, heavy with meaning. “Well. I worry about his chances with the Champion.”

  The name lingered between them like smoke.

  Thraza’s grin faltered slightly. “Yeah… I’ve thought about that too,” she admitted, tone more subdued. “He’s tough. Fierce. Has heart and talent both. But the Champion…” She exhaled, shaking her head. “That’s a whole different battlefield.”

  She was quiet for a moment—then shrugged, forcing a smile back onto her face. “But hey, stranger things have happened. Maybe he’ll surprise us again.”

  With that, she turned and began descending the stone steps two at a time. “I better check on Ironhowl—make sure everything’s in top form. No excuses when I grind that prince into the dirt.”

  Sarrak followed at a slower pace, sliding his hands into his coat pockets. “Think I’ll grab a drink before the next match. Ale, maybe. Something cold.”

  Thraza tossed him a look over her shoulder. “Oh. You didn’t hear, did you?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Hear what?”

  She chuckled darkly. “The tavern down the road’s gone. Burned to the ground last night. Some idiot started a brawl, and it spiraled. Someone kicked over a mana lantern or flung a spell—whole place went up like dry timber.”

  Sarrak stopped short, stunned. “What?! That place had the best fucking ale in the whole damn Maw!”

  Thraza shrugged. “Apparently not fireproof.”

  Sarrak groaned, rubbing his temples. “This place just keeps getting worse.”

  They continued walking—one toward steel and steam, the other toward a ruined hope for ale—unaware that the very idiot they blamed was now nursing his wounds, bloodied but unbroken… and preparing for whatever came next.