Rohan woke to his body aching from the previous night’s fight, bruises blooming across his ribs and arms. As he shifted, a dull sting reminded him of the wounds that had barely begun to heal.

  The woman, Sera, sat on the edge of the bed, wincing as she dabbed at her bruised cheek with a damp cloth. Her friend, the one who had glared at Rohan the night before, was nowhere to be seen.

  “You’re up early.”

  Sera said without looking at him.

  Rohan sat up, stretching his sore limbs.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  She scoffed.

  “You’ll get used to that in this city.”

  Rohan watched her for a moment. The swelling on her face had worsened overnight, and he could see faint fingerprints on her throat. He clenched his fists.

  “Who did that to you?”

  Sera shot him a sharp look, then sighed.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  She smirked, though there was no humor in it.

  “What are you gonna do? Fight every bastard in this town?”

  Rohan didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

  Sera shook her head.

  “You don’t get it, kid. Some fights aren’t worth picking.”

  Rohan stood, wincing as pain shot up his side.

  “Then why are you still here?”

  Sera hesitated before answering.

  “Because this is all I have.”

  Rohan knew that feeling all too well.

  After a moment, she waved him off.

  “Go on, then. You’ve got fights to win, don’t you?”

  Grabbing his belongings, he stepped out into the morning streets, determined to make his next move.

  Rohan made his way back to the fighting pits, moving through the narrow streets with purpose. When he reached the pit entrance, the same organizer from the night before was there, leaning against the stone archway, chewing on a strip of dried meat. He smirked when he saw Rohan.

  “Didn’t think you’d be back so soon.”

  Rohan met his gaze, unfazed.

  “I need another fight.”

  The organizer chuckled.

  “That eager for a beating? Or are you just that desperate for coin?”

  “Does it matter?”

  The man shrugged.

  “Not to me. But you’re in luck. We’ve got another brawl starting soon. Bigger stakes this time. Twelve men, last one standing wins.”

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  Rohan cracked his knuckles, ignoring the soreness in his hands.

  “I’m in.”

  The organizer grinned and gestured for him to follow.

  “Good. Try not to die.”

  Rohan stepped into the pit, rolling his shoulders as he sized up the twelve other fighters. He had done this once before, and while the pain lingered from last night’s bruises, he felt ready. The crowd roared above, their excitement electric in the air. He took a breath, steadying himself. Another fistfight. Another victory to earn. Then the announcer raised his hand.

  "BEGIN!"

  The moment the words left his mouth, the fighters around Rohan unsheathed knives, clubs, and jagged bits of metal.

  Before he could react, a blade slashed across his side. He staggered back, barely dodging another strike aimed at his face.

  A bald man with a rusted short sword lunged at him, swinging wildly. Rohan ducked to avoid it, but a boot crashed into his face, sending him sprawling onto the ground.

  He forced himself to roll just as another blade slammed into the sand where his chest had been.

  Something dark stirred inside him, anger, desperation, survival. He had to move. He had to win.

  Rohan kicked out at the nearest man's knee, sending him to the ground with a scream. Without thinking, he snatched the fallen man’s knife and drove it into his shoulder, twisting it hard.

  Another fighter lunged at him. Rohan barely brought the blade up in time, deflecting the strike and stabbing him.

  Two more came at him, one with a club, the other with twin daggers. Rohan ducked under the club, but the dagger wielder was faster. A sharp pain burned across his arm as the blade found its mark.

  Ignoring the pain, he lashed out. His stolen knife buried itself in the club wielder’s thigh, forcing him to the ground. Rohan grabbed the club as the man fell, spinning just in time to catch the dagger-wielding fighter across the jaw with a brutal swing.

  “Come on!”

  He yelled, his grip tightening around his weapon.

  One of them, a lanky man with a serrated knife, charged first. Rohan stepped into the attack, took the blow to his already bleeding arm, and slammed the club into his ribs with enough force to break something.

  The last three came together. Rohan ducked under a wild swing, smashing the club into a knee before rolling away from another blade. He kicked out, catching one in the gut and sending him tumbling into the last man standing.

  That was all he needed.

  With savage efficiency, he ended it. A strike to the throat. A stomp on a fallen man’s wrist, disarming him. A brutal kick to the temple.

  When it was over, he stood alone, swaying slightly, his body screaming in pain. The crowd had erupted in cheers, and coins began raining down into the pit.

  As Rohan stumbled toward the exit of the pit, the announcer's voice boomed over the roaring crowd.

  "Now that was a fight!"

  The organizer stepped forward, arms crossed. His eyes scanned Rohan, bruised, bloodied, barely able to stand, yet victorious.

  "You fight like a cornered beast, sloppy at first, but you learn fast. That's good.”

  Rohan didn’t respond, still catching his breath, blood dripping from his fresh wounds. The other fighters who had been dragged off the pit floor groaned in pain, some unconscious, some clutching broken bones.

  "You're done with the brawls, you want real money? Real recognition? You start fighting matches. One-on-one. Weapons. No rules. Kill or be killed."

  Rohan wiped sweat from his brow, smearing blood across his forehead.

  "When do I start?"

  "Tomorrow night. Get yourself patched up, boy. The real fights begin now.”

  By the time he reached Sera’s place, his wounds burned, each step sending sharp pain through his body. He hesitated before knocking, but the door creaked open before he could. Sera’s friend, the same woman who had tended to her before, stood there, her expression darkening the moment she saw him.

  “You again?”

  She muttered, eyeing the blood staining his clothes.

  “You’re either stupid or cursed.”

  Before Rohan could reply, Sera’s voice called out from inside.

  “Let him in.”

  The woman scoffed but stepped aside. Rohan moved past her and found Sera sitting on the edge of her bed, her face still bearing bruises from the night before. Despite that, she managed a smirk.

  “I was expecting you to crawl in, not walk.”

  She teased, but her eyes softened when she saw the gashes on his arms.

  “Sit down. Let me see.”

  Rohan dropped onto a stool, exhaling sharply as he peeled his shirt off. Sera grabbed a cloth and a bowl of water, dipping it in before dabbing at his wounds. The cold sting made him tense, but he didn’t flinch.

  She worked in silence for a while, stitching a particularly deep cut on his shoulder.

  “You don’t talk much, do you?”

  She asked, threading the needle again.

  “Not much to say.”

  “You’re covered in fresh wounds every night, fighting in those pits, and there’s nothing to say?”

  Rohan glanced at her.

  “What do you want to hear?”

  Sera tied off the stitch and sat back.

  “Why you’re doing this. Most men fight for money. Some for sport. But you?”

  Her gaze locked onto his, sharp and knowing.

  “You fight like you have to.”

  “That’s my business.”

  Sera sighed, standing.

  “Fine. Keep your secrets.”

  She turned to grab a fresh bandage but paused.

  “Just don’t let them chew you up and spit you out, Rohan. No one cares about the dead.”

  Rohan clenched his jaw, flexing his sore fingers.

  He wouldn’t be another body left in the dirt.

  Tomorrow, the real fights began.