“CHOOSE!” A voice roared, rattling Arturo’s bones. Three objects hung in the void: his battered fighting gloves, a blood-crusted dagger, and a scarred crossbow. He snatched the gloves—his life, his fight. Power slammed into him, visions of speed and ruin scorching his mind. Then, blackness.

  Arturo woke, sprawled on slimy stone, the stink of rot choking him. What the fuck? Torchlight flickered in a damp, mossy cell. A shadow loomed.

  “Art, you alive?” Brock’s rough growl cut through. The bastard stood there, tanned and scarred, hunched under a greatsword too big for reason.

  “Brock?” Arturo rasped.

  “Aye, who else?” Brock’s grin was a grim slash. “Shithole, ain’t it?”

  “How’d we end up here? Weren’t we drinking?”

  “Buggered if I know,” Brock spat, shifting the blade. “You have that dream—‘choose’ and all that shit?”

  “Picked the gloves,” Arturo muttered.

  Brock snorted. “Bloody typical. Don’t see those coming into much use ere’.”

  The cell stank of rot and wet stone, torchlight spitting shadows across walls slick with moss and filth. The air hung heavy, thick with decay, and something sharper—something alive and ravenous. Arturo crouched on the slimy floor, heart thudding, as the beast emerged from the dark. It was a hulking monstrosity, bear-like but warped, its hide a patchwork of scars stretched taut over a frame too big, too wrong. Its face twisted into an almost-human sneer, yellow eyes glowing with a malice that cut deeper than hunger. Jaws gaped, dripping with strings of spit and something blacker, its breath a steaming reek of carrion that made Arturo’s guts churn.

  “Bloody hell,” Brock growled, hefting his greatsword. The blade was a beast itself—too massive, too heavy, a slab of steel no man should swing without staggering. But Brock was no man; he was a scarred slab of regret and muscle, and the sword fit him like a curse fits a sinner. It was cruel in a way, almost like a crude and larger imitation of the blade he once wielded, and the endless suffering it inflicted. It seemed to even have some of the familiar knicks and scratches, but that was impossible, so he pushed the thoughts away. He shifted its weight, testing it, nearly tipping forward.

  Arturo flexed his fists, the gloves from that roaring dream humming against his skin. Warm, alive, they thrummed with a promise he didn’t grasp but damn well needed.

  The beast didn’t wait for a signal. It exploded forward, claws gouging the stone, sparks spitting like tiny screams. Arturo threw himself aside, instinct kicking before thought. He drove a fist into its snout, knuckles smashing through bone with a wet crack. A jolt ripped through him—speed, raw and electric, flooding his limbs. Time crawled; the beast’s lunge stretched into a sluggish blur. He spun away as its paw swiped, claws slicing air an inch from his throat, the whoosh cold against his sweat.

  Brock hauled his sword up, muscles bulging under the strain. Too heavy—he swung, a lumbering arc that missed wide, the blade slamming into the floor with a dull thunk. “Fuck this thing!” he snarled, boots slipping on slime. He glared at the steel, willing and begging it lighter. It obliged, dropping weight like a shed skin and turning nimble in his grip, familiar. He slashed again, quick and vicious, carving a red line across the beast’s ribs. He grinned as he worked the beast, the familiar feeling of satisfied butchery coming back to him. Blood welled, dark and steaming, but the beast barely flinched. It roared—a sound that shook the walls—and charged him.

  Arturo darted in, fists a storm. Left to the kidney, right to the spine—each hit sank deep, splitting flesh like overripe fruit. He moved with surgical precision, one misstep could be the death of him. He had fought huge opponents in the rings, sure, but never a fucking monster.

  He continued his assault, regardless of the danger and absurdity of the situation. Every vital strike sparked that jolt, a fleeting burst of speed that faded too damn fast. He had to keep moving, keep hitting, or he’d be meat. The gloves didn’t tire, didn’t break; they drank the punishment and begged for more. But the beast was a wall of muscle and hate, its hide shrugging off blows like rain off stone. It whirled, jaws snapping. Arturo ducked, legs coiling, and launched an uppercut into its throat. The crunch echoed; its gullet collapsed inward. It gagged, staggering, but didn’t fall.

  Brock seized the moment. Heavier, he thought, and the sword obeyed, grounding him like an anvil. HIs muscles screaming and squirming under the weight of the monstrous blade. The beast lunged; he braced, blade meeting claws with a jarring clang that numbed his arms. Then—shift—he rolled the weight to the tip, a trick he felt more than understood. The sword swung, a top-heavy butcher’s stroke, smashing into the beast’s shoulder. Bone shattered, blood sprayed, hissing as it hit the stone—acidic, eating into the floor with tiny plumes of smoke. “Watch the blood!” Brock bellowed, dodging a splatter.

  Arturo wasn’t so lucky. A claw raked his side, deep and jagged, ripping through flesh. He stumbled, speed bleeding out with his blood, pain a white-hot scream in his skull. The beast reared, claws gleaming, ready to gut him. Brock roared, shifting the sword again—all to the tip. He swung, a desperate, arcing blow. The blade bit into its neck, tore through sinew, but the beast twisted, wrenching the sword from his grip. It flew, clattering against the wall, leaving Brock bare-handed.

  The beast lunged at Arturo, jaws wide. He rolled, barely, the gloves flaring as he slammed a fist into its knee. Cartilage popped; the leg buckled. Speed flickered back, just enough to scramble clear. “Brock, pin it!” he shouted, voice raw.

  Brock dove for his sword, snatching it up. Heavy at the base, he willed, turning it into a spear. He charged, thrusting at the beast’s flank, aiming to drive it against the wall. The blade punched through hide, pinning it for a heartbeat—long enough for Arturo to leap onto its back. He locked his arms around its neck, gloves tightening like a noose. The power surged, his grip crushing windpipe and bone. The beast thrashed, slamming him against the stone, but he held on, teeth gritted, blood dripping from his side.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Brock twisted the sword, shifting the weight mid-thrust—light to pierce, heavy to rend. He yanked it free, acidic blood spraying, burning his arm where it splashed. The beast howled, weaker now, and Arturo squeezed harder, feeling its pulse falter under his hands. “Now!” he gasped.

  Together, they struck. Arturo slid off, hooking the beast’s good leg and pulling it off-balance. It stumbled, and Brock—sword tip-heavy again—brought the blade down like a guillotine. Steel screamed through air, cleaving neck and spine in a single, gory stroke. The head hit the floor with a wet thud, rolling into a puddle of its own hissing blood. The body twitched once, then stilled.

  Arturo slumped against the wall, clutching his torn side, breath ragged. Pain pulsed with every heartbeat, blood pooling under him. Brock stood over the corpse, sword dripping, arm blistered from the acid, chest heaving. He sucked at his gums—a habit from old wounds, older fights—then spat into the mess. “Too damn close,” he growled, wiping the blade on his sleeve.

  Arturo leaned against the damp wall, wincing as he prodded the claw marks raking his side. Pain was nothing new—street corners, fighting rings, prison yard brawls, it all blurred together. He spat blood onto the stone floor and glanced at Brock, who was wiping his blade clean with a shred of the beast’s hide. Big bastard’s hands moved steady, like he’d done it a thousand times.

  “You good?” Brock grunted, eyes fixed on the steel.

  “Been better,” Arturo said, flexing his fists. The gloves pulsed faintly, warm against his knuckles. Felt alive. “What the fuck was that thing?”

  “Bled and died. That’s what counts.” Brock sheathed the sword, its weight settling on his hip.

  Arturo’s mind slipped back. Streets taught him to fight—5’10”, lean and wiry, built for speed and punishment. Dark eyes, sharp cheekbones, a nose crooked from too many breaks. He’d been a talent, a scrapper with dreams, until a sanctioned match went wrong. One punch, fueled by rage, caved a man’s skull. Intentional. Dead. The crowd’s cheers turned to screams, and Arturo stood there, hands shaking, knowing he’d fucked himself for good. Prison came next—more fights, more scars, until Brock showed up.

  Brock, with his soldier’s bulk and quiet regret, became the brother he never had. They’d met in the yard, Arturo bleeding from a shiv, Brock stepping in like a wall of muscle. Friendship grew from there, raw and real.

  Brock kept Arturo in his peripheral, cleaning his sword methodical-like. Kid was holding up—low twenties, compact frame, all boxer’s grace and grit. Olive skin, black hair cropped short, face like a punched-in statue. Tough as nails, but still young. Brock felt a twist of something—guilt, maybe. Should’ve guided him better, but his own hands were too stained for that.

  He stood, stretching his aching back. At 6’2”, he was a tower of meat and sinew, built for breaking things, was all he was good for anyways. Broad jaw, pale eyes sunk deep, a jagged scar running from brow to cheek—war’s little gift. High twenties, maybe thirty now, he’d lost count. Once a soldier, proud and straight, till it all went to shit. What he’d done to land in prison… he didn’t let it surface. Something terrible, something he regretted every damn day, and that was enough. He didn’t want to think about, and pushed the thoughts back behind his mental wall.

  He’d found Arturo in the pen, scrapping like a cornered dog. Watched him dodge a blade, then took down the bastard swinging it. After that, they stuck together—two men who’d seen the bottom and clawed their way up, or at least sideways.

  “Let’s move,” Brock said, voice rough as gravel. “This place ain’t done with us.”

  Arturo nodded, peeling off the wall.

  They’d trudged through the damp guts of this cursed place for hours—maybe days—time smeared into a blur of aching legs and shallow breaths. At last, they stumbled into a miserable little hole of a room, ten feet by ten, walls weeping with slime and rot. A door hung on rusted hinges, half-rotted, but it was something. Better than the open graves they’d crawled through before.

  Brock slumped against the stone, its chill biting through his tattered shirt. “Ain’t so bad,” he rasped, voice like a blade dragged over gravel. “Beats the shitholes we’ve rotted in these last few years.”

  “Aye,” Arturo muttered, barely there, his mind still gnawing on the beast’s jaws and the sting in his side. He sank to the floor, knees up, hands cradling his head like it might split open.

  Brock’s pale eyes slid to his sword. He hefted it up, the black steel drinking the torchlight, its cruel edge whispering of old butchery. Too big, too heavy—a slab of death no sane man would wield. Yet it was *his*. The shape, the nicks, the scratches—they matched the blade he’d carried through the wars, the one he’d drowned in blood till it was more red than black. Larger now, heavier, but the same damn soul. A shiver crawled through him, cold and sour, like guilt he couldn’t shake. No mistaking it—this was his past, forged anew, mocking him.

  He rolled it in his grip, testing. During the fight, he’d felt it shift—light as a knife one moment, heavy as a maul the next. It bent to his will, a trick that cost him sweat and stamina but promised ruin. He lightened it, the weight bleeding away, and swung. The blade danced, quick and vicious, a flicker of steel that could gut a man before he blinked. Then he poured the mass to the tip—a thought, a flex—and it turned savage, a crushing arc that could split shields or skulls with a butcher’s ease.

  Years of war flashed in his mind: men screaming, blood pooling, the wet crunch of bone under steel. He’d been good at it—too good. A soldier once, proud and upright, till pride turned to ash and he became a machine for killing. Faces blurred—enemies, friends, didn’t matter. He’d cut them down all the same, each swing carving away what little soul he had left. This sword? It was him now: scarred, heavy with sin, and eager to spill more.

  He played with it, a dark grin tugging at his lips. Lightened it again, raised it high like a dagger—effortless, a child’s toy. Then down, weight surging to the tip mid-swing, a thunderous drop that’d cleave a man from crown to crotch. He stopped it short, bleeding the mass back to the grip, the blade halting dead in the air. Controlled. Precise. Killing wasn’t just simple now—it was art. A skilled swordsman with this could dance through a battlefield, light and nimble to parry, then heavy as a hammer to smash through armor like it was parchment. Shift the weight mid-blow—feint light, strike hard—and no one’d see it coming. A duel’d be over in a heartbeat; a war’d be a slaughter.

  But it wasn’t free. Each shift tugged at him, a slow drain on his bones. Push too far, and he’d be a panting wreck, blade too heavy to lift when the next bastard came. Still, the power sang in his blood, a cold thrill he hadn’t felt since the wars’ worst days.

  He glanced at Arturo, hunched on the stone, watching with those sharp, battered eyes. “You seein’ this, Art?” Brock said, voice low and jagged. “This thing’s alive. Light as a feather, heavy as a grave—moves where I tell it.”

  Arturo tilted his head, gloves glinting faintly. “Aye. Looks like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Enjoyin’?” Brock’s laugh was a dry bark. “This ain’t a toy, lad. It’s a reaper’s tool. Imagine it—block with the base heavy, solid as a wall, then flick it light and take their head before they twitch. Or start light, all speed and flash, then drop the weight and crush ‘em flat. It’s a liar’s blade—tricks ‘em every time.”

  “Dangerous,” Arturo said, voice flat. “But you’re dangerous with or without it.”

  Brock’s grin faded, eyes hardening. “Aye. Been that way too long. War don’t leave you soft. Just gives you more ways to break things.”

  He swung again, a slow, deliberate arc, shifting the weight seamless-like—light to heavy to light. “This’ll make me worse. Quicker kills, messier ends. Suits me fine.”

  Arturo snorted. “Long as you don’t turn it on me.”

  Brock met his gaze, steady and cold. “You’re still breathin’, ain’t you?”