Jason looked up as the dust began to settle from his impact with the ground. His lungs burned, his chest tight. Across from him, the mercenary smirked and casually rolled up his rope. He looked relaxed, almost bored, yet Jason’s gut twisted with an eerie sense of being overwhelmed.

  Jason forced himself back onto unsteady feet, retreating a few steps. The mercenary didn’t follow. Instead, he began to swing the dart-rope, its needle-like dagger glinting in the sunlight that poured through the broken spaceport windows.

  Behind him, Jason caught a glimpse of Tahuuk. What had been a stalemate had now devolved into brutal close quarters. The mercenary pressing him clearly planned it this way, forcing Jason out and isolating Tahuuk. Sparks flashed as Tahuuk parried dagger after dagger, the heavy strikes driving him back. Occasionally he lashed out with his spear, but it was little more than breathing room.

  “Don’t think you can just run off now,” Jason’s opponent said, voice almost playful.

  Jason’s focus snapped forward again. He kept retreating step by step, mirroring the mercenary’s advance, the distance between them taut as a drawn bowstring.

  Then he noticed the two mercenaries in the back. They weren’t moving, weren’t helping. Just… watching. His frown betrayed his confusion.

  The mercenary caught it. “Don’t worry about them. We didn’t expect one of us to get killed, but it works out fine. See, the better the tension, the bigger the bets. The bigger the bets, the greater the payout. So those two? They’ll only join when the scales tip too far.”

  He leaned into his stance, rope whirling. Jason tensed, but the sword he’d lost when he was dragged into the fight still lay just out of reach. He needed an opening.

  He locked onto the mercenary’s arms, searching for a tell. A horizontal sweep. Jason braced, crossing both plates in front of him—

  But the strike never came.

  He flinched, pulling his guard aside—just in time to see the dart lash forward. It smashed against his hands, the impact sending a shock of numbness through his fingers. He stumbled back, his grip faltering.

  What—? His thoughts scrambled as the rope snapped back, the mercenary already spinning it again.

  Another step forward. Another flick of the arm. Jason tried to anticipate, angling his plate low to intercept. Again, nothing came. A heartbeat later, the dart slashed across his side, drawing blood.

  Jason’s chest tightened. Panic swelled. Every strike drove him deeper into a corner. The instincts Ashar had taught him—reading an opponent’s shoulders, their eyes—meant nothing here. His breath turned ragged, fast and shallow.

  The rope recoiled once more. The mercenary was already moving, already attacking—

  And then Jason saw it.

  Ashar’s words flickered in his memory: read the person, not the weapon. But here, the weapon was the person. The rope itself carried the truth. Each arc created ripples, a pattern lagging behind the mercenary’s movements. That was the tell.

  Jason forced a slow breath. Then another. His heart still hammered, but clarity bled through the fear. His gaze fixed on the ripple, not the arm.

  This time, the strike came low, aimed at his thigh. Jason tracked the wave along the rope—two-second delay. He swung his plate down in time. Steel sparked as dart met metal. A perfect deflection.

  Relief surged. There it is.

  Before the rope could snap back, Jason lunged, sprinting for his fallen sword.

  The rope hissed past his ear, but he ducked. The mercenary reeled it back, backpedaling now. Jason’s eyes narrowed. He doesn’t want me close… maybe I can use that.

  The rope sang through the air again, this time for his head. One second delay. Jason thrust his arm higher than needed. The dart coiled around it instead of striking.

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  The mercenary grinned, yanking hard—

  But Jason stepped into the pull. The force slingshotted him forward, straight toward his opponent.

  He tucked low, momentum carrying him past the mercenary’s guard, and drove a punch toward his temple with his right hand.

  The blow itself landed weak—too light, too desperate. The other mercenaries chuckled at the pitiful strike.

  Then their laughter froze.

  The rope-wielder staggered, eyes rolling. Blood welled from his temple. He stumbled forward, collapsing in a heap.

  Jason rose slowly, coughing grit from his throat, and raised his right glove. Metal clicked as he retracted a small dagger back beneath the plate on the back of his hand. The hidden blade gleamed briefly before sliding away.

  The mercenaries’ smirks twisted into shock. They stared at Jason now with wariness, their expressions hardening. He wasn’t just a kid scrambling for survival. He was unpredictable. Dangerous.

  A piercing screech erupted from the back. Jason turned in time to see Tahuuk crush his opponent’s arm with a single hand, bone splintering under his grip.

  The mercenaries shifted uneasily. Two down. Their game was turning serious. The bets no longer mattered—reputation did. To lose against a boy and an alien brute would stain them more than gold could fix.

  The broad one on the left stepped forward, pulling a crossbow from his back. He leveled it at Tahuuk and fired.

  “Watch out!” Jason shouted.

  Tahuuk had been ready to finish the mercenary in his grasp, but Jason’s cry tore his focus sideways. The bolt screamed through the air. He twisted, but not fast enough. It drove through his forearm, burying deep.

  Tahuuk snarled, blood dripping. He could handle pain, but the shock slowed him, his breathing ragged.

  The crowd roared, the arena shifting into frenzy. Some cheered for Jason and Tahuuk, others for the mercenaries—the odds suddenly alive again.

  Jason’s spine prickled. The air thickened with anticipation. The fight was only beginning.

  The ground trembled under the heavy, deliberate steps of the brawler. His armor gleamed black, his gauntlets thick and metallic, fists clenching as he advanced.

  Jason’s vision tunneled on him. The sounds of the crowd dulled, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. His mouth dried—sand and fear mixing on his tongue. He couldn’t move.

  Tahuuk noticed, clutching his bleeding arm. He had to act. He sprinted toward Jason, spear ready, eyes flicking to the crossbowman already reloading.

  Another bolt snapped free. The whistle sliced the air—too fast to dodge.

  Sparks burst between Tahuuk and death.

  The bolt ricocheted off steel—Jason’s sword.

  Jason hadn’t thought. He had simply reached, plates catching the hilt just in time to swat the bolt aside. His arms shook from the impact.

  Their eyes met. Jason’s wide with disbelief. Tahuuk’s burning with gratitude. A thin grin broke across both their faces.

  They were united again.

  Jason’s sword sparked the bolt aside, saving Tahuuk by a hair’s breadth. For a heartbeat, both stood stunned. Jason’s arms shook from the force, his palms stinging where the plates bit into his skin.

  Their eyes met. Jason’s wide, almost disbelieving. Tahuuk’s burning with relief. Slowly, both smirked. For the first time since the fight began, they stood as a united front.

  To their side, the mercenary with the broken arm staggered upright, pain twisting his face. He tried to retreat, limping back toward his comrades. The crossbowman was still reloading, and the brawler lumbered closer, each step kicking up bursts of sand.

  Even the odds, Tahuuk thought grimly. The brawler noticed, increasing his pace.

  Jason darted forward, intercepting. He swung his sword in a clean arc at the brawler’s throat.

  The brute didn’t even flinch. With one plated forearm, he knocked the blade aside like it was nothing. The impact rattled Jason’s arms to the bone, driving him stumbling back. His hands trembled, pain lancing through his fingers. The strength behind that casual deflection… it was as if Tahuuk himself had struck him.

  The brawler’s eyes barely flicked toward him. Jason was nothing more than a nuisance. His true prey was Tahuuk.

  He shifted his spear into his left hand — clumsier, but close enough to land a hit. He set his stance, drew back, and hurled.

  The brawler lunged at the same time, armored bulk slamming into him. The tackle crushed the air from Tahuuk’s lungs and drove him to the ground.

  But the spear was already in flight.

  The broken-armed mercenary looked up just in time to see it. The steel tip tore through his chest with brutal force, launching him backward several meters before he crumpled in the sand, lifeless.

  The crowd erupted, the roar deafening. Blood for blood. Another body down.

  Jason winced at the impact of the tackle, Tahuuk and the brawler thrashing in the dust. The black-armored brute bore down on him, gauntlets hammering, while Tahuuk fought to keep him off with his one good arm. Their struggle was raw, brutal — more like beasts than soldiers.

  Jason’s pulse spiked. His chest tightened as he realized the shift. Only three fighters remained now: himself, Tahuuk, and the two most dangerous mercenaries left.

  The brawler had Tahuuk pinned.

  And Jason stood in the open, squarely in the crossbowman’s sights.