Without hesitation, he lashed out at the nearest var, sending a testing jab towards his gut. He intentionally aimed to avoid major organs. He wasn’t sure what the punishment would be for accidentally killing someone during the truce, but he certainly didn't want to find out.

  The var lowered his mace to block the spear, and Sam immediately whipped it up towards his shoulder—shocked at how easy the motion was. The var’s eyes went wide, staring down at the wooden tip embedded below his collarbone. Despite being a blunt training instrument, the spear had pierced through flesh with staggering ease. Sam yanked it free, aghast at the fountain of blood that spurted from the wound. It was a dark purple colour and seemed thicker than it should be. The sight of it was utterly alien, and it took Sam a second to process the fact that he’d actually stabbed someone.

  The var took one look at the wound, then howled and charged him like a wild animal. Despite the frenzied anger, the brute’s moves were clumsy and telegraphed. Sam ducked under the swing and rammed his spear into the side of the warrior’s knee. Both the joint and the spear gave out, and the var collapsed with a howl of pain, dropping the mace to grab the shard of wood protruding from their leg. The other two warriors took a few seconds to respond, both stunned by the aggression from what they’d considered an easy mark.

  Sam didn’t give them a chance to recover. He grabbed the impossibly large mace from the ground, pivoting like an Olympic shot putter as he spun and hurled it at the sylvan. His aim was poor, but the glancing blow was enough to knock the lanky elf off his feet. The audible snap of bone echoed through the grove, and Sam noted the bones of the elf’s right arm poking through the skin, the limb bent at an unnatural angle.

  The var woman slowed her advance, regarding Sam wearily as they circled each other. Her axe looked more suited to felling trees than people, but Sam knew that if he let it connect, the chances of permanent injury were almost guaranteed—skills or no.

  Sam retrieved the broken spear haft from the ground, feeling the now familiar wood beneath his fingers. Without a head, he had little chance of causing a lethal injury, which meant he could go all out without risk of actually killing the woman. The two warriors exchanged a flurry of blows, Sam redirecting the axe and hitting back with quick strikes to the arms and shoulders. The blunt stick brought back memories of playing knights with his neighbours growing up, of stealing his family’s broom and staging mock battles in the backyard.

  The intrusive thought nearly cost him his life, as he barely saw the flash of steel that came hurtling towards him from behind a dummy. He whipped the haft up beside his head, rewarded by the sight of the sylvan’s dagger flying off into the bushes. The other warrior’s eyes narrowed, and he summoned another knife, a twin to Sam’s own. His right arm hung limp at his side, but he was otherwise uninjured.

  Sam skipped backwards, careful not to trip on the downed var, who was still howling, trying to pull the long wooden splinter from his leg.

  The two remaining warriors rushed him in unison, and he found himself on the defensive, using his superior reach to keep them at bay. Their attacks were clumsy and disorganized, and it was clear this was their first time fighting together. Sam fought to suppress a grin as the sylvan was forced to jump aside, narrowly avoiding losing a leg to a stray axe swing.

  He was shocked by how easy it was. A few hours ago, he would have been completely outmatched, left broken and battered, limbs crushed without mercy. Now, he felt in control, in a way he’d never felt in his old life. This wasn't some amorphous challenge, some metaphorical mountain to climb. His enemies were right in front of him; his actions had immediate and satisfying results.

  He feinted towards the var with an overhead lunge, driving her back a step before pivoting mid-swing to bring the haft squarely into the sylvan’s shattered arm.

  The ragged scream that erupted from the man’s throat made the hairs on Sam’s arms stand up. The shriek echoed through the grove, causing a flock of birds to take flight in surprise. The look of hatred on the man’s face could have cracked glass.

  Sam stared back at him and realized he felt…nothing. No hot rage poured through him, no wave of pity. This person had meant to do him harm, and so he’d defended himself. He hadn’t sought this out; he was just doing what he needed to do to survive. He didn’t hate this man; he was simply an obstacle to overcome.

  The sylvan lunged at him with reckless abandon, any form or technique forgotten in a haze of anger. Sam was forced back, a pang of fear coursing through him for the first time since the fight began. That fear was realized as he slammed into the simple fence that surrounded the ring. The impact jarred his shoulder, and his staff jerked awkwardly, allowing the sylvan to score a slice across his forearm.

  Sam hissed, gritting his teeth as he lashed out with a straight kick, sending the elf flying. He landed in a heap, lying not far from the fallen var, who was trying and failing to put pressure on his wounded knee.

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

  Sam looked down at the long gash that ran from wrist to elbow. He was surprised to find that it was only a few millimetres deep. Given the ferocity with which he’d been struck, he’d been half expecting to see bone. Even as he watched, the bleeding stopped; [Rodent’s Resilience] and [Basic Regeneration] working in tandem to close the cut.

  His fear faded as quickly as it arrived, and he turned and locked gazes with the axe-wielder. Her eyes went wide as the wound began to close, a scab already forming over the long gash. She stopped in her tracks, clearly not keen to further antagonize a warrior who could shrug off crippling blows with ease.

  The sylvan wasn't so cautious. He pulled himself to his feet and made a final, desperate charge. Sam watched as if in slow motion, shifting his grip and twisting to meet the attacker.

  He brought the wooden staff to bear like a baseball bat, the thick wood impacting the side of the elf’s head with a sickening crunch. The force of it blasted him from his feet, momentum sending him cartwheeling through the air. He completed a full rotation before slamming down with resolute finality.

  The clearing went still, and Sam’s heart stopped as he looked at the fallen Warrior. The moment seemed to stretch, even the birds pausing their chatter.

  The sylvan finally took a strained, shuddering breath, and Sam let out his own exhale, shoulders sagging. The blow had been stronger than he could have imagined, and this was only the first tier.

  What would he be capable of at tier five or ten? The thought brought equal parts excitement and anxiety. He’d avoided killing the elf, but only just. He needed to test the limits of his strength, set benchmarks that he could work from. Once the truce ended, it wouldn’t matter, but he doubted this was the last battle he’d see in the next few weeks.

  He returned his gaze to the var woman, a look of fear planted firmly on her blocky face. It made her look less alien. Their rough features and stoic expressions had made him liken them to statues, but he sensed they felt emotion as keenly as any human.

  “Take them and go,” he said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. “If you try to seek revenge once the truce ends, I will kill you. You don't want me as your enemy.” He wasn't sure if he believed the words, but he knew that he needed to say something to discourage retaliation.

  She gave a small nod. “We are all enemies, human. But I respect your strength. I had not known Earth birthed such warriors in these modern times. You have added to our knowledge, and with this, we may survive. My br?dr will not seek revenge, but I can promise nothing for the sylvan. He spoke of adding strength to our unit, but I can see that was false.”

  She looked down at the elf, lip curling with disgust. Sam was surprised by the musicality of her voice. He’d been expecting the sound of grinding rocks, but her speech was lilting and mellifluous.

  “We will leave him in the city. We saved spira for a healer, but I'd not expect to have to use it so soon. I thank you for your mercy.” She bowed her head, stowing her axe, and moved to lend a hand to her injured party member.

  In a moment of compassion, Sam stepped forward and offered the man his broken spear shaft. It had seen better days as a weapon, but would serve well enough as a walking stick.

  Both giants looked at him in surprise, but the man took it, giving a small bow. Sam stepped back and rested his hand on his knife, a small reminder that he was still armed. He needn't have worried, the woman stored the man’s mace and threw the elf over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes. The trio were out the gate and through the trees without a backward glance.

  Three dull chimes sounded in his ears, and he was surprised to see that his spira had shot up from the combat.

  [Spira: 1820]

  Clearly, the Arbiter still rewarded this early combat, even if they weren't allowed to kill each other. The amount was honestly shocking. Zetos clearly meant for the prospect of hunting other warriors to be highly appealing. He’d be able to purchase [Basic Perception] before heading out into the wild, completing his suite of basic skills. He still had plenty left over for a decent set of starter gear, and he couldn't help but smile at his good luck.

  Sam gave the warriors a few minutes before retrieving the dagger that the Sylvan had thrown. It was embedded in a tree not far from the ring, the blade glinting in the sunlight. The weapon had a wide curve and felt foreign in his hand, the grip suited for smaller, slimmer fingers. He stored it, figuring he’d likely be able to sell it in town.

  Though he mused, this is my first piece of real loot. Maybe I should keep it as a memento. He grinned at the thought, thinking there should have been some sort of music to celebrate the achievement.

  He spent the next few minutes putting away the dummies, actively avoiding the patch of bloodstained dirt. Now that the fight was over, the reality of it began to set in. These hadn't been monsters; they'd been sentient beings, just trying to survive. Yes, they’d been the aggressors, but would he have done the same in their position?

  He'd like to think not. He wasn't sure when he’d decided it, but the thought of hunting down and killing other people made him sick to his stomach. He now knew that large amounts of spira could be gained from killing other warriors, and conflict between groups was inevitable. But he was determined to avoid being the instigator unless absolutely necessary.

  They'd all been brought here against their will, and while he'd do what he must to survive, he wouldn't give the gods the pleasure of turning him into a cold-blooded killer. His mind flashed to the image of the Telactyth hive city. Well, maybe he’d make an exception for the giant murder bugs. Those things were fucking scary.