Jason looked around. The chamber was nearly empty, save for the guards and officers keeping watch.

  He walked to Tahuuk, who still wore the same calm smile. Relief washed over Jason, but confusion clouded his face — something Tahuuk picked up immediately.

  “I’m a warrior,” Tahuuk said simply. “I fight.”

  Jason hesitated. Yes, Tahuuk was a warrior, but Jason had still forced him into this place, forced him to fight. It made him feel no different from their captors.

  “You’re… not mad at me?” Jason asked quietly.

  Tahuuk paused. His expression softened. “It is hard to find someone who has your back here. Someone capable. You showed determination. We have each other’s back.”

  He hesitated again, as if weighing whether to speak. “Where I come from, when warriors fight together as we have… we become blood brothers. Brothers who know they can trust each other with their lives.”

  Jason blinked. “Then… am I your blood brother?”

  “I suppose you are,” Tahuuk said, almost shyly. “Though not in the traditional way.”

  Jason lowered his eyes. “Even after everything I’ve done to you?”

  “They told me what happened, what needed to be done,” Tahuuk replied firmly. “In this place, you did the right thing. And besides… like I said, I am a warrior. I fight.”

  Behind them, a guard gestured impatiently for them to prepare.

  “Let’s get ready,” Tahuuk said.

  Jason nodded. At the counter, Tahuuk collected his spear, as always. Jason lingered on the glove he had made the day before. “A shortsword,” he said. “And a dagger.”

  “Dual wielding?” Tahuuk asked, raising a brow.

  “Not exactly.” Jason muttered, inspecting the weapons laid out before him.

  Once done, he strapped another plated glove onto his other hand, taking extra care with the hand-made one. He tugged at the straps again and again until it felt perfect.

  Soon, the two of them stood ready at the foot of the slope that led up into the arena. Tahuuk, unarmored, spear in hand. Jason, in plated gloves, a shortsword at his side.

  Jason glanced at Tahuuk, who was already steadying himself for the fight ahead. After a moment, the alien looked down at him.

  “Get ready. We’re facing mercenaries.”

  Jason frowned. “What’s so special about them?”

  “The ones we’ve fought until now were trained to survive.” Tahuuk’s face hardened. “Mercenaries are trained to kill.”

  Fear jolted through Jason, but only for a moment. With Tahuuk at his side — willingly this time — he could face it.

  Still, the question returned, pressing harder in his mind. Do I need to kill them? Vincent’s words echoed back. Should I kill the ones I don’t even know?

  The guards motioned them forward, cutting off his thoughts.

  At the top, the gates creaked open. A wall of sound surged into Jason’s ears — the jeering cheer of the crowd. Their joy fed on despair. To them, death was just another wager, another game.

  Jason clenched his teeth. He would not become like them. The lives of the unknown would still matter.

  “Tahuuk…” Jason muttered. “Is there a way I don’t have to kill my opponent?”

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  Tahuuk gave him a puzzled look. “When warriors fight, the final respect you give… is to kill them.”

  “What if my opponent isn’t a warrior?”

  Tahuuk faltered, frowning in thought. Before he could answer, the announcer’s booming voice filled the arena.

  “Welcome, honored guests! Today’s fight will be something special! The Blue Warrior returns, alongside the wonder boy himself! And their opponents… the mercenaries of the Grey Sight Guild!”

  The far gates opened. Five mercenaries entered, their armor gleaming, each exuding a sharp, distinct aura.

  One spun twin daggers with casual precision, the blades flashing silver arcs. Another tested the weight of his sword, swinging it in deliberate, practiced cuts. A third waved lazily at the crowd, a needled dagger twinkling as he turned in the torchlight. The last two remained silent, their faces unreadable. They didn’t wave, didn’t posture — their eyes locked directly on Jason and Tahuuk, cold and unblinking.

  Jason felt the noise of the crowd fade to a dull roar. Those two men’s stares pulled everything else away, narrowing his world until it was just him, Tahuuk, and death waiting at the other end of the sand.

  The announcer raised his voice, feeding the frenzy.

  “A worthy challenge indeed, as the Grey Sight Guild counts among its ranks the legendary Valion the Gunslinger!”

  At the name, Jason noticed the mercenaries’ faces sour. They probably hate living in his shadow, he thought.

  “Saying they didn’t need him today,” the announcer crowed, “will they start a legend for themselves, or will our warrior duo carve another miracle? Place your bets!”

  The crowd erupted. Coins and tokens clinked, voices screamed, insults flew between the stands.

  Tahuuk leaned closer to Jason. “Only the strong can decide whether their opponent lives or dies. Even I…” He shook his head, a rare shadow of doubt passing his features. “Even I struggle with that choice.”

  Jason’s pulse quickened. If even Tahuuk can’t control the outcome… then Vincent was right. For now.

  He gripped his shortsword tighter. I have to survive. I need to become stronger — strong enough to one day choose.

  The announcer raised his hand high, letting the silence stretch, milking the anticipation.

  “Now… are you ready… for the battle between wonder… and skill?”

  His hand slashed down.

  “Begin!”

  The tension snapped.

  Jason and Tahuuk moved into formation, braced shoulder to shoulder. Across from them, three mercenaries advanced. Loose. Relaxed. Smirking, as if the fight were already won.

  The dagger-wielder twirled his blades in a fast, fluid rhythm. The swordsman prowled to his right, boots grinding against the sand. The third hung back, arms crossed, waiting.

  Jason could feel their confidence, their ease. They’ve killed before. Many times.

  The dagger-wielder feinted first, his blades flicking toward Tahuuk. A lure. The swordsman lunged from the side, his blade flashing for Tahuuk’s ribs.

  Tahuuk braced to take it — until sparks flared. Jason’s plated glove caught the strike, diverting it just enough to miss.

  Pain shot up Jason’s arm, his fingers numb.

  The mercenary staggered, overextended. For a heartbeat, his chest was wide open.

  Tahuuk’s fist rose — only to snap back as daggers whistled past his head. He narrowly ducked, then lashed out with a heavy kick that pushed the swordsman away and cracked his shoulder with a sickening crunch.

  The man stumbled and collapsed to his knees, his arm limp, teeth bared against the pain.

  The crowd exploded in cheers and curses.

  The mercenaries regrouped, grins gone now. Their eyes burned with new resolve.

  Jason pressed closer to Tahuuk. They stood back-to-back, weapons raised, waiting.

  The wounded swordsman lunged again, blade clumsy in his off-hand. His arc was slower, less controlled. Jason’s eyes tracked every tell — the stance, the angle, the weakness.

  He raised his plated glove, sparks shrieking as steel scraped metal. His shoulder jolted, but he held.

  For a moment, the man was wide open. Jason’s grip tightened on his shortsword.

  This is it. Do I kill him?

  From the back, one of the silent mercenaries barked: “Kill the kid already, you’re gonna cost us money!”

  The crowd booed, demanding blood.

  Jason’s resolve hardened. Vincent was right. I’m not strong enough yet. I don’t want to — but I have to.

  He stepped forward, driving his blade cleanly between the man’s ribs. Flesh parted, bone gave way. The strike pierced lung, then heart.

  The mercenary collapsed, blood spilling, eyes dimming.

  Jason stood firm. No shaking. No numbness. He understood now: to survive, he had to kill.

  As he yanked the blade free, something whipped around his arm — a rope ending in a needle-tipped dagger.

  Before he could react, he was yanked off balance, dragged across the sand.

  Two boots thudded down in front of him.

  The third mercenary had closed in.