Bram's eyes snap open—just in time to see empty air where Mercer stood.
His pulse jackhammers against his ribs. Flash Step. Damn elf moves like greased lightning.
The hairs on Bram's neck prickle a heartbeat before Mercer's voice reaches his ear:
"Looking the wrong way, lesser."
Bram barely twists in time. Mercer's fist screams past his temple. The displaced air pops against his skin.
"Hah!" Bram's grin stretches wide even as he backpedals.
Then—
A sharp crack against Bram's ribs surprises him. Fire explodes along his side—broken? Maybe cracked. He tastes copper, spits red onto the sand.
"Yer... faster'n last time," Bram wheezes.
Mercer's tattoos pulse as he flexes his fingers. "And you're just as loud."
The crowd's roar fades to white noise as Bram focuses. Gotta time this just—
Mercer blurs forward again. Bram dives left, feeling the whoosh of air as the dark elf's kick slices where his head had been. The moment Mercer's foot touches ground, Bram punches upward—
CRACK!
His fist connects with Mercer's jaw hard enough to rattle his own teeth. The dark elf's head snaps back, a thin line of black blood tracing his perfect chin.
"Heh. Gotcha." Bram shakes out his stinging hand. "How's that fer—"
Pain. White-hot and sudden. Bram looks down to find Mercer's fingers buried in his thigh, the dark elf having caught his leg mid-taunt.
"Predictable," Mercer purrs.
Then the world tilts.
Bram's stomach lurches as Mercer heaves him skyward. For one weightless moment, he sees the entire arena—
WHAM.
The impact drives the breath from his lungs. Sand and stone erupt around him. Somewhere distant, he hears ribs pop.
"Still conscious?" Mercer's voice cuts through the ringing in Bram's ears. "How... disappointing."
Barely lifting his head, Bram sees Mercer's boot descending—
ROLL!
He barely scrambles aside as the dark elf's heel craters the ground where his skull had been. Chunks of arena floor pelt his face.
"Stay... still," Mercer growls, reaching for him again.
Bram's fingers claw into the broken earth. Gotta... move...
With a roar, he lunges upward—not away, but into Mercer's grasp. His forehead smashes into the elf's perfect nose with a wet crunch.
"RRGH!" Mercer staggers, black blood sheeting down his face. "You filthy—"
Bram doesn't let him finish. He grabs Mercer's embroidered collar—
"Eat sand, lackey!"
—and yanks downward while driving his knee upward.
The sickening crunch of cartilage brings a vicious grin to Bram's face. Right until Mercer's hands clamp around his throat.
"Enough."
The world flips.
CRASH!
Stone shatters beneath Bram's back. Mercer lifts him again—
SLAM!
Again—
CRACK!
Again—
Each impact sends spiderweb fractures through the arena floor. Bram's vision darkens at the edges. His arms flop uselessly. Somewhere, the crowd is screaming.
Through the haze, he sees Mercer's snarling face hovering above him.
"This," the dark elf hisses, raising Bram for another impact, "is why your kind belongs in the dirt."
Bram's fingers twitch. His lips move.
Mercer leans closer. "What was that?"
With a twitch of a smirk, Bram spits blood directly into Mercer's eye.
"I said... yer momma fights better'n you."
The arena erupts as Mercer's snarl turns feral.
The world spins again in a nauseating blur as Mercer hurls Bram through the air like discarded trash. Wind whistles past Bram's ears, his stomach lurching as he tumbles end over end. Through watering eyes, he sees the arena lights streak past—white, then sand, then white again.
Gotta... land...
Mercer's voice cuts through the chaos: "Let's see how well you kiss dirt, dwarf."
A shadow blots out the lights. Bram barely has time to curse before Mercer's boot crushes into his gut mid-air. The impact folds him in half, a geyser of vomit and blood spraying from his lips.
CRACK!
Bram's body punches through the arena floor, stone shattering beneath him like glass. Dust plumes upward as he skids across broken ground, coming to rest against the barrier wall. His vision swims—faces in the crowd warp and stretch like nightmare reflections.
Get up. GET UP—
Mercer's polished boots appear in his wavering vision. The dark elf flexes his fingers, black blood still dripping from his broken nose. "I expected more from the caves' loudmouth."
Bram's laugh comes out a wet gurgle. "Heh... yer nose looks better crooked."
Mercer's eye twitches. His foot lashes out—
Bram rolls with the kick, using the momentum to scramble upright. His legs tremble like newborn foals, but they hold. The crowd's murmurs swell to a roar.
"Still standin'," Bram spits a glob of blood at Mercer's feet. "Yer hits got less bite than my gran's love taps."
Mercer's tattoos flare violet. "Then let's test that theory."
He moves—but this time, Bram's ready.
As Mercer's fist rockets toward his face, Bram ducks and pivots, driving his elbow into the dark elf's kidney. Mercer hisses, stumbling forward. Bram doesn't let up—he grabs Mercer's braid and yanks, smashing their foreheads together.
CRUNCH!
Both fighters reel back, blood streaming. The crowd explodes.
"That's it, lad!" Gideon's voice carries from the stands.
Mercer wipes black blood from his lips. "You... you dare—"
"I dare a whole lotta things," Bram interrupts. "Like winnin' this damn fight."
The dark elf's composure shatters. He blurs forward—
—only to eat Bram's boot square in the chest. The impact sends Mercer flying backward, his body carving a trench through the sand.
Bram doesn't wait. He charges, fist cocked back—
Mercer twists at the last second. Bram's punch smashes into the arena floor instead, stone fracturing beneath his knuckles.
"Missed." Mercer's knee crushes into Bram's ribs. "Again."
Bram wheezes, but grabs Mercer's leg before he can retreat. With a roar, he heaves the dark elf overhead and slams him down like a sack of grain.
BOOM!
The impact shakes the arena. Mercer gasps, the wind knocked from his lungs. Bram doesn't let up—he mounts the dazed elf, fists raised.
"This..." Punch. "Is..." Smack. "For..." Crunch. "MY DAMN RIBS!"
The crowd's roar reaches a fever pitch as Bram's fists pummel Mercer's face into pulp. Each impact sends black blood splattering across the sand, the dark elf's perfect features collapsing under the assault. Bram's knuckles scream in protest, but he doesn't stop—
Then Mercer's body dissolves.
Bram's next punch meets only air, sending him stumbling forward. The arena gasps as Mercer's form melts into swirling black liquid that pools on the sand before reforming ten paces away.
"Shit..." Bram wheezes, barely keeping his feet. His vision swims, the world tilting dangerously.
Mercer's rebuilt face twists in contempt as he flexes newly-formed fingers. "Now to end this," he declares, voice carrying across the silent arena, "and prove to King Valthoris his daughter's vassals are worthy."
The dark elf blurs into motion. Bram barely has time to raise his arms before Mercer's foot crushes into his gut, launching him skyward. Wind howls past Bram's ears as he tumbles through the air, his broken ribs screaming in protest.
"Ugh—!"
Mercer appears above him mid-flight, both hands clasped together into a single hammer-fist. The blow smashes into Bram's stomach with the force of a falling boulder, driving him back toward earth like a meteor.
CRACK!
The impact sends shockwaves through the arena floor. Bram's body bounces once before skidding to a stop against the barrier wall, leaving a spiderweb of cracks in the stone. Blood pours from his nose and mouth, his vision tunneling to a narrow pinprick of light.
He just...does the same fucking move...get...up...
Through the ringing in his ears, Bram hears Mercer land nearby.
"Disappointing," Mercer sighs. "I expected more from someone who dared strike a noble."
The crowd's cheers swell as Mercer turns to acknowledge them, raising his arms in triumph. Nobles in their private boxes rise to their feet, applauding politely while commoners in the lower tiers roar their approval.
Then—
"Not...yet...fucker..."
The words barely carry past Bram's broken lips...but they might as well have been a thunderclap.
The arena falls silent as Bram's bloodied fingers claw at the fractured stone, dragging his broken body upright.
Mercer turns slowly. "Still breathing? How...persistent."
Bram's legs tremble, but somehow they hold. He wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving a crimson smear across his orange cheek.
"There's...only one way this ends," Bram rasps.
He raises a shaking finger to point at Mercer.
"You...face down in the dirt...me standin' over ya."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Mercer's lips curl into a cruel smile.
"Ah yes, the delusions of lesser beings," he purrs, rolling his shoulders until the joints pop. "You neglect proper training, mock your instructors, waste time on dead techniques..." His tattoos begin to pulse with violet energy.
"This isn't a fight anymore. This is an execution."
Bram's answering grin is a bloody, broken thing. He curls his fingers in a come-hither gesture.
"Then quit yappin'...and try me, bitch."
…
Lyth floats unseen above the bloodied sands, his form wrapped in rippling invisibility magic that bends light around him like water.
Crack.
A staff materializes beside him - its polished surface etched with glowing runes. "Headmaster," comes the disembodied whisper, tight with tension. "Mercer's next strike could be fatal. We need to—"
"Not yet." Lyth says. His eyes track Bram's staggering form below - the imp's breaths coming in wet, ragged gasps.
There's something... hungry in the Headmaster's gaze.
The staff pulses. "This isn't-"
"Conditions must be met," Lyth interrupts, his...smile widening just enough to flash teeth.
On the Sands
Bram spits a glob of blood and something darker onto the cracked stone. His left eye has swollen shut, but the right still burns with defiance. "Yer... runnin' outta fancy moves... elf."
Mercer's answering laugh is crystalline and cruel. He flexes his fingers, shadows pooling between them. "Oh dwarf... you have no idea what's coming."
The dark elf moves.
Not with the angered poise from before - this is something primal. His form blurs, then splinters into three identical figures mid-charge. Bram barely gets his arms up—
THOOM.
All three Mercers strike simultaneously. Ribs crack like dry kindling. Bram's feet leave the ground as he's lifted by the force of impacts - chest, gut, face.
"Guh—!" Blood sprays in an arc as he tumbles through the air.
Above the Arena
The staff vibrates violently. "SIR!"
Lyth doesn't blink. "The first condition," he murmurs, "is the crucible of perfect despair." His fingers twitch as Bram's body impacts the arena wall with bone-shattering force. "The second..."
On the Sands
Bram slides down the cracked stone, leaving a crimson smear. His vision tunnels. Distantly, he hears Gideon and Obinai screaming his name.
Mercer approaches slowly, his boots clicking against bloody sand. "Look at you," he purrs. "A broken, mewling thing." He crouches, gripping Bram's hair to yank his head up. "Any last words before I—"
Bram's remaining good eye snaps open. "Yeah." His shattered hand shoots up, fingers digging into Mercer's face. "Go... to... hell."
Then—
Mercer's eyes glaze over—whites swallowing the violet irises whole.
A feral snarl rips from his throat as—
CRUNCH.
His hand punches through Bram's chest in a spray of viscera. The arena falls deathly silent. Even Mercer seems momentarily stunned as warm blood gushes over his uniform.
Bram's mouth opens in a soundless gasp. His body jerks once... twice...
Then goes still.
Above the Arena
Lyth's fingers curl slightly, his smile never faltering.
"And the second condition…" He tilts his head, watching...
"You have to die."
The staff shudders violently in the air beside him, its runes flickering like dying embers. "You—" The glow dims to a sickly pulse. "You planned this. You wanted him to—"
Lyth doesn't look away from the spectacle below. "The final condition," he continues, "is the choice offered in death."
His fingers tap idly against his forearm. "A test of temptation. Most fail—grasping for power, for revenge, for salvation—and in doing so, they either become soulless husks or…" His lips quirk. "Well. Let's just say their bodies don't survive the influx of essence."
The staff's glow gutters out entirely. "You're a monster."
"No. I'm an educator."
Below them, Bram's corpse twitches.
The staff makes a sound like a choked gasp. "He's—"
"Refusing," Lyth murmurs.
Within Bram's Fading Consciousness
Darkness. Then—
PATHWAYS ARE SHUTTING THEMSELVES AWAY FROM YOU, CHILD.
A voice like grinding stones.
CHOOSE: POWER. REVENGE. SALVATION.
Bram's spirit chuckles at this.
Ain't choosin' shit from you bastards.
The darkness ripples.
On the Sands
Mercer wipes blood from his face with fastidious disgust. "Filthy creat—"
Bram's corpse twitches.
Above the Arena
Lyth throws back his head—a deep, resonant laugh bursting from his throat. The sound echoes unnaturally across the arena, making several spectators flinch. Then, just as suddenly, he composes himself, pressing a hand to his chest. His fingers linger over his pounding heart.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
A shaky exhale escapes his lips. "He actually did it..."
Below him, the forgotten staff trembles. "Did—did what, sir?" it rasps. "Is the child alive?"
Lyth doesn't look away. His fingers twitch slightly, a barely restrained excitement thrumming through him. "From where you're actually sitting Raundal," he murmurs, "you can see everything perfectly. Watch."
His whisper slithers through the now screaming crowd:
"Master... your technique still lives."
On the Sands
Mercer turns away, already dismissing Bram's corpse as it stays perched on his arm from being impa—
"I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL YOU!"
The scream rips through the air. Enough to make even the nobles in their boxes recoil.
Lyth's lips curl. "Ah," he muses, eyes flicking downward. "The ticking time bomb himself."
Mercer freezes mid-step. His shoulders tense. Slowly, he turns—just in time to see Obinai land in the arena with a crunch of shattered stone.
The boy is a mess of rage and desperation. His chest heaves, sweat streaking his face. His fists clench so tight his knuckles pop.
"I'LL KILL YOU!" Obinai roars again, already surging forward in a blind charge.
Lyth sighs, lifting a single finger. "As much as I appreciate this... enthusiasm," he murmurs, almost fondly, "[Ensnare]."
The ground erupts.
Black vines thicker than a man's arm burst from the sand, coiling around Obinai's limbs with terrifying speed. They wrench him to his knees, thorns biting deep into his flesh.
"LET ME GO!" Obinai thrashes, veins bulging in his neck. Tears streak through the dirt on his face. "I'LL FUCKING END HIM—"
Mercer watches, lips curling in amusement—until Obinai's head snaps up.
Obinai's left eye—
—pitch black, the iris replaced by a molten gold ring that pulses like a heartbeat.
Mercer stumbles back a step. "What—?"
The crowd's murmurs swell to a terrified buzz.
Then—
Squelch.
A wet, grotesque sound cuts through the noise.
Mercer whirls—just as Bram's corpse twitches again on his arm.
A low rattle escapes the imp's lips.
Mercer's blood runs cold. "No. No—"
Above the Arena
Lyth's breathing forces itself steady in anticipation.
"If you circulate your ki as your life leaves you..."
Mercer's arm - still buried in Bram's chest - jerks violently as fingers like iron vices clamp around his bicep.
"...and apply the First Technique..."
Lyth's throat bobs as he swallows. His pulse thrums at his temples.
"...reject the path of a Viantant without trial..."
A beat.
The arena holds its breath.
"...close yourself to orthodox..."
Then—
Bram's eyes snap open.
The crowd gasps as one. Where warm brown once shone, there is only void—a black so deep it seems to swallow the light. Wisps of dark energy coil from the corners of his eyes like smoke.
CRACK.
The sound echoes like a gunshot. Mercer's arm bends at a grotesque angle, bones splintering under Bram's grip.
The sound echoes like a falling oak. Mercer's scream is high, reedy - unbecoming of a noble. His free hand scrabbles at Bram's grip, nails drawing black blood that sizzles where it touches the sand.
"W-What sorcery—?!" Mercer chokes, yanking back—but Bram's fingers are iron.
Lyth exhales, long and slow.
"...and embrace primordial karma."
Bram rises.
Mercer's breath comes in panicked bursts. "Let go—LET GO—!"
Bram's head tilts, the motion unnaturally smooth. His voice, when it comes, is wrong—layered faintly with a distant echo.
"Ain't." A pause. "This." Another pause. "Somethin'."
Above the Area
Lyth watches, rapt. His lips shape the final words:
"...fate chooses whether you rise an angel..."
On the Sands
Bram twists.
Mercer's arm snaps like dry kindling, bone shards tearing through velvet and flesh alike. The dark elf collapses to his knees, his scream cutting off abruptly as Bram's other hand closes around his throat.
Above the Area
Lyth watches, a hint of satisfaction in his expression, as he murmurs, "...or a demon."