Damien didn't hesitate. The moment the whistle blew, he shot forward, determination burning in his chest. The mud beneath his boots clung like tar, each step a battle against the thick, sucking earth. It slowed him down more than he liked, but he didn't care. He had to close the distance. Fast.
Across the river, Jeremiah stood like an immovable force, his hulking form still and unbothered, not even flinching at Damien's approach. His posture was that of a predator waiting for its prey. He wasn't moving. He wasn't even preparing to attack.
Damien's jaw clenched. He's waiting for me to come to him.
The fog around him swirled in thick, suffocating tendrils, reducing his visibility to nothing more than a few feet. Tree roots jutted from the ground like natural traps, gnarled and twisted. Every step was a calculated risk—one wrong move, and he could trip and humiliate himself in front of the entire arena.
Why couldn't it have been the tundra?
The river loomed ahead, a thick, murky expanse stretching twenty feet across. It was the perfect trap, placed just where it would be hardest for Damien to fight. He could feel Jeremiah's eyes on him, unwavering and confident. The brute wanted him to cross. Wanted him to be vulnerable in the water, where his footing would be even worse.
Damien's mind raced. If he crossed, he'd be a sitting duck. His chances of closing the gap quickly would be shot, and any misstep in the water could give Jeremiah the opening he needed to end this fight before it even started.
But standing still wasn't an option. Not now. He could already feel the weight of the captain's gaze on him. This wasn't just about winning—it was about proving himself, showing them all that he could rise to the occasion. This wasn't just a match; this was his moment to be seen, to remind them why he'd made it this far.
Would they think he was reckless for charging in, or would they see him as a coward for hesitating?
Damien exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Screw it. His lips curled into a smirk, the familiar thrill of the fight rising in his chest. Surely, they don't want to see a boring match.
A plan clicked into place. His grip tightened around his sword, and with a few measured steps backward, he sprinted toward the water, his boots sliding in the mud as he built momentum.
At the last second, he leapt.
His body shot through the air like a missile, but there was no way he could clear the gap in one jump. Instead, he drove his sword downward, aiming for the riverbed below, praying the ground wouldn't be too deep to support the strike.
Please work.
The blade sank into the mud with a satisfying thunk, its tip catching just inches into the soft earth. A breath of relief escaped him. Guess the water's not as deep as I thought.
But now came the hard part.
Damien's body plummeted. In the split second before impact, his eyes locked onto the sword's hilt, calculating the perfect landing. He needed to land on it, regain his balance, and push off again—all before Jeremiah could react. He had no choice. The clock was ticking, and he couldn't afford to be caught off guard.
His foot connected with the hilt just as he expected. The landing was awkward, far from graceful—his balance was shaky, his foot barely fitting—but he didn't falter. Using every bit of his momentum, he bent his knee, sprang off the blade, and with a burst of raw strength, pushed himself forward again.
The sword, now freed from the muddy riverbed, spun through the air, hurtling directly toward Jeremiah.
Damien couldn't help himself. A grin tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched his weapon fly. A little present for you, bastard.
Jeremiah's eyes went wide, his expression shifting from stoic to surprised. He hadn't expected this. His massive arms shot up to intercept the sword—a move that would give Damien the opening he needed.
In that fleeting moment of distraction, Damien cleared the river, landing lightly on the other side.
The plan had worked. He'd made it across. But now, there was a new problem: He was unarmed.
Jeremiah lowered his arms, his surprise evident, but it quickly turned to amusement. He wasn't used to opponents who fought like this. He wasn't used to the unpredictable, reckless tactics Damien employed.
Most fighters would have been proud, even exhilarated by the moment, but Damien's face remained unreadable. His pale grey eyes locked onto Jeremiah's, hard and unblinking.
The man hadn't even tried to attack. He had just stood there, waiting. The very thought burned in Damien's chest, venomous and hot. Coward.
The word tasted foul in his mind. It wasn't just a word. It was a reminder of everything he hated—of his brother, of his father. People like Jeremiah, arrogant and self-serving, were the reason his family was dead, and they deserved nothing but defeat. The thought twisted his gut.
Without breaking eye contact, Damien spoke, his voice cold and steady. "I'm going to embarrass you, coward."
Jeremiah's grin widened, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Then get to it," he said coolly, settling into a defensive stance.
Damien's jaw clenched. I'll show you.
Everything about this fight—this man—made his blood boil. But emotion wouldn't win this battle. He couldn't afford to let his anger control him. One wrong move, and that spear would end him before he could even blink.
Damien wasn't stupid. He could see the danger in front of him. The brute had power, strength, and reach—he was deadly in his own right. Worse, Damien was now without a weapon. The fight had just turned against him, and his mind raced to formulate another plan.
He could feel his pulse thumping in his ears as he studied the behemoth across from him, eyes scanning every twitch of muscle, every shift of weight. Then it came to him. A risky, dangerous plan—but it might just work.
Damn it all, I'm going to regret this.
Without warning, Damien surged forward, his feet tearing through the mud as he closed the distance between them. His body moved faster than it ever had before—not from adrenaline, but from pure, instinctual survival. This wasn't a spar anymore. This wasn't training. If he made a mistake, he wouldn't just lose—he could die.
Jeremiah's spear shot forward with terrifying speed, the point aimed straight for Damien's chest. Far faster than Damien had expected from someone of his size, but still, it was within his calculations.
Damien leapt, his body twisting mid-air, narrowly avoiding the strike. To the audience, it might have looked like some impossible feat, but Damien knew the truth—this was the result of pushing his body to its absolute limits. Year after year of grueling practice, of endless repetition, had brought him to this point.
Jeremiah didn't pause. In one smooth motion, he twirled the spear upward, angling the blade to impale Damien before he could land. But Damien was ready. He flipped again, planting a foot squarely on the shaft of the spear.
In the split second that followed, he pushed off with all his might, but this time, the brute was ready too. With a primal roar, Jeremiah twisted the spear, throwing Damien off balance. The world around him spun wildly as he was sent hurtling through the air like a ragdoll.
Oh shit.
Damien dodged tree after tree by inches, his heart hammering in his chest. But luck couldn't hold forever. Ahead, a massive tree loomed—a solid wall of wood, an unmovable obstacle.
He twisted mid-air, trying to rotate his body to avoid the collision, but it was too late.
BANG!
The impact was deafening. Every inch of his body rattled as he slammed into the tree. Pain exploded through him, a jolt that left him breathless, his left hand going numb. His vision blurred.
He struggled to move, but his body refused to obey. Pain flared up with every attempt. He twitched his fingers. Please move. Please...
They moved, but barely. Maybe not broken. Maybe.
Damien tried to push himself up but collapsed again, the pain too much.
Through the haze, he saw Jeremiah walking toward him, spear in hand, a smug grin stretching across his face.
"Who's going to embarrass who now?"
Damien couldn't respond. Breathing was enough of a challenge.
Jeremiah shrugged, looking to the referee. "Hey, why don't we call it? He can't even stand."
The referee glanced at Damien, then at Jeremiah. "The match will continue."
Jeremiah blinked in surprise, then shrugged again. "Fine. But I'm not responsible for what happens now."
He advanced slowly, each step thudding in Damien's ears, the sound of his arrogance shaking the ground.
Finally, he stood over Damien, the spear raised, ready to end it.
Damien didn't flinch. Instead, a wicked grin spread across his face. His eyes flashed open, grey and cold.
Got you.
In a single, swift motion, Damien twisted his body and snatched the spear's shaft with his right hand. Before Jeremiah could even register what was happening, Damien spun, ripping the weapon from his grip.
With a sickening crack, he snapped off the tip and drove it into Jeremiah's back.
The brute let out a guttural scream, which echoed through the arena and instantly silenced the crowd.
And then—he collapsed.
Once still in disbelief, the arena erupted into thunderous applause and cheers, and gasps, shouts, and roars filled the space.
Jeremiah groaned, barely conscious, his eyes fluttering. Damien stood over him, chest heaving, one hand still trembling from the pain of his injuries. His expression remained cold, unfazed.
He raised the spear tip once more, ready to finish it.
A sharp whistle rang out.
"The match is over! The winner—Damien Love!"
The crowd's roar reached a deafening pitch.
But before Damien could even enjoy the moment, Jeremiah, through gritted teeth, spat out bitter words.
"You called me the coward… and yet you set a lowly trap like that."
Damien looked down at the man, whose face was buried in the mud. There was satisfaction there, but it was a twisted kind. A satisfaction that only someone like Jeremiah deserved.
He leaned down slightly, eyes gleaming with cold steel.
"Oh, you see… we must have different definitions of the word coward."