“Two men enter, one man leaves,” the crowd chanted as Layra, the beastkin woman with feline grace, faced off against the polite zombie man. “Two men enter, one man leaves!” The chorus of voices reached a crescendo as the undead moved quicker than Mitch expected, wrapping himself around the cat woman’s back like a clamp.

She threw herself forward, twisting midair with the zombie still clinging on.They crashed onto the floor, her weight smashing him beneath. The crunch of the undead ribs made the crowd cheer. His arms loosed, and Layra slithered out, wrapping her own furry legs efficiently around the man’s head.

The zombie scrambled frantically, his rotting fingers clawing at her thighs. She seized one decaying arm and yanked back. Bone cracked and pushed through gray skin as she threw her hips upwards. The man screamed but didn’t relent, scratching at her thick arm. Mitch watched her squeeze his head with all her might, but the undead didn’t need to breathe.

“Enough!” Sable’s voice cut through the chaos as she rushed onto the dancefloor, now a makeshift arena pit. “Layra, you win. Let him go before he’s done for good.”

The cat woman gave his broken arm one final, savage pull, tearing more flesh from bone, before standing to cheers. She flicked her tail in satisfaction and joined the crowd.

Hathgar used to see HER?!

From the sidelines of the circle, Mitch watched with rapt attention. Now that the real fun had begun, his barbacking duties had slowed to a crawl.

The fights had been quick and brutal. Most losers were knocked out, but Mitch had witnessed countless arm and ankle breaks, even a beheading by bare hands that ended with a gnome’s rolling skull cackling like a madman as his accomplices struggled to stitch it back onto his body that kept running away.

Now that the chaff had been handedly dealt with, the fights were ramping up. Only a few undefeated winners remained.

Crae’s Agency swigged from bottles and cheered the spectacle. Fighters opted for a sip of Nightswart Absinthe before their bouts, the glowing liquid fueling their ferocity. The prize–the Shadowshroud–hovered above. Dark tendrils flailed as it watched. Robin’s skill elevated everyone’s primal battle lust.

Sable waited patiently for the chatter to die down. “Warrick, you’re up. Choose your opponent. Someone undefeated.”

The crowd hushed as Warrick, the giant orc that hung around Sable, took a ground-shaking step into the circle. The orc stood confidently, green-skinned and almost seven feet tall. His bottom tusks were shined to a polish.

His eyes, sharp and predatory, scanned the crowd. He lingered on Layra, but a grin split his face as his gaze landed on Mitch. Raising a muscled arm, he pointed straight at him with a bent finger.

“You,” Warrick growled, his voice rumbling like thunder. “Time for the big barback to show us what he’s made of.”

Mitch’s gut clenched in a mix of nervousness and excitement. He hesitated a moment, but before he could register anyone’s reaction, he stepped forward. Laughter from Warrick's challenge filled the club around him.

They think it’s funny?

Anger rose in Mitch from their laughter. He was tired of being pushed around. Now, with a body like his, he wanted to test it out. Hathgar shouted behind him about something, but Mitch couldn’t hear him above the ruckus. The Souls within him buzzed with dark anticipation and urged him forward.

This is it. Time to see what I can really do.

As Mitch stepped into the ring, the crowd’s laughter shifted. Laughter morphed into a chant. “Two men enter, one man leaves! Two men enter, one man leaves!”

Over the noise, Hathgar’s voice rose above in desperation. “Mitch, you don’t know how to fight!”

So what?

Warrick let out a guttural roar and charged. Mitch squared up, his heart pounding. For a split second, he caught Robin’s wink from above. Then the orc was on him, barreling forward like a stinking freight train.

Mitch braced, feet digging in, bones jarring as Warrick crashed full-force into in a tackle attempt. He twisted and slammed an elbow down onto Warrick’s back. The orc barely flinched, but Mitch felt something ignite inside him. A spark kindling into a flame. This wasn’t a stumbling Grimmer. This was a real fight.

This is pretty fun.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Growing up, the only thing that allowed Mitch to keep pushing forward through all the abuse was the ability he had developed. He was able to think clearly while in dangerous situations, a result of dissociation to endure the pain and humiliation.

They pushed off each other, circling warily. The Souls raged within him, feeding his movements. Warrick feigned a fist, then threw a sweeping kick at Mitch’s head. He swerved and countered, slamming a fist into the orc’s gut. warrick took the hit and swung–a viscous hook that Mitch dodged by a breath. The giant fist cut the air, inches from breaking his face.

Instinct took over. Memories from his body surged through him, guiding his moves. He felt deadly as he delivered a left jab, then a right cross. Warrick and Mitch exchanged brutal hits, each landing heavily. Mitch snapped a kick to Warrick’s ribs, connecting shin bone with tensed muscle. The orc stumbled back, shook himself like a bull, and lunged again with blazing eyes.

Warrick swung wide. Mitch raised an arm to block, but the hidden cross came fast. It smashed into his shoulder. Pain flared, sharp and hot, but he pivoted, and slammed a knee into Warick’s side. Something cracked. The orc barely grunted, countering with a front kick that sent Mitch flying back. His spine jolted against an unforgiving wall of flesh that circled him.

The impact fueled him. Agony’s Embrace pulsed within, his Skill feeding on the pain. Power coursed through his veins, his body hardening just a touch more with each blow.

This is what I needed. Just the right tool to fight back.

He felt the call of the instinctual, brutal battle. The Souls he harbored, his Skill, his desire to fight back–all of it urged him on, driving him to dominate. He’d never felt this alive, save for the first time he was murdered. The memories of how to fight from his body melded with the rage of his own soul, making each strike more deliberate.

Warrick loomed above him. Mitch was ready. He sprang forward, low and fast. His uppercut connected with Warrick’s jaw, sending the orc reeling. He followed up with a relentless series of blows–punches, elbows, knees–a seamless combo, delivered by his new body. Each strike was more brutal than the last, driving Warrick back.

The crowd’s roars became a distant hum. Mitch pressed the attack, fists flying with a speed and precision that stunned onlookers. He was a blur of rage and retribution. Every punch landed harder, especially when he felt a knuckle break. Warrick staggered, his green skin slick with sweat and black blood. Mitch could feel the Souls within him urge him on again, impatient.

He threw a sharp elbow into the orc’s temple as a finisher. The orc gasped in pain, stumbling but refusing to fall. Mitch’s eyes narrowed. With a sweeping leg kick–up and down in a question mark–his boot slammed into Warrick’s neck. The orc finally crumpled to the ground.

The crowd erupted, but Mitch wasn’t finished. He leapt onto him, raining blows onto the orcs blocky face. The world around him blurred, fading into the background as he continued his bone crushing punches.

Think you’re going to pick on me? Make fun of me?

The Souls within him screamed, mixing with his own shouts, a symphony of violence and release.

Suddenly, he felt himself yanked back, thrown off balance. A weight had slammed into him from the side. Mitch sprawled, blinking away the haze, and realized that Urgar, the black-beared dwarf, had tackled him. The dwarf’s laughter filled his ears as reality snapped back into focus.

“Alright, alright, big man. I take it back,” Urgar chuckled, hauling Mitch to his feet with surprising strength. “Seems like ye’ can fight after all.”

Mitch steadied himself, chest heaving. His fists throbbed and screamed in protest, blood trickling from split knuckles. He looked down at Warrick’s motionless form. The orc’s chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. A bloody, broken mess on the floor.

The crowd was roaring, but Mitch could barely hear them. His own pulse hammered in his ears, and the Souls within him vibrated with dark energy.

Bit too much. Shit.

Hathgar stared at him from across the circle, wide-eyed, like he’d just seen a ghost. Mitch’s gaze found Robin hovering above, clapping his ghostly hands with a mischievous grin.

“Well done!,” Robin shouted over the crowd. “Our barback, just full of surprises!”

Layra stepped forward into the arena, tail flicking with excitement. Her eyes locked onto Mitch, a predatory hunger gleaming.

“My turn,” she purred, pointing to her next opponent. “Let’s keep this party going.”

Before Layra could take another step, Sable strode forward. The crowd's clamor hushed instantly as she placed a firm hand on Mitch’s shoulder. Her multi-colored eyes inspected him. The split knuckles, the blood smeared across his skin. A crease formed between her brows, a flicker of concern that vanished as quickly as it appeared. She pulled the bottle from her side.

Uncorking the glowing Nightswart Absinthe, she held it out to him. “Take a swig,” she said. “You’ll need it.”

Mitch took the bottle, his fingers brushing against hers.

Warm.

He was surprised by the heat of her touch. Despite her Patchling nature, her skin felt human. Alive and real.

He hesitated a moment, meeting her gaze. Then, tipping it backwards, he swallowed a deep mouthful. It burned all the way down. Sloshing heat settled in his stomach, then a fiery warmth spread through his veins.

Nightswart Absinthe. Liquid battlelust, as they call it.

His blood felt like it was boiling, his muscles surging. Every sense sharpened further. The roar of the crowd, the scent of flesh and musk.

He turned back to the circle, eyes locking onto Layra. Her predatory gaze made his heart pound. The fear that flickered earlier was gone, consumed by the Absinthe’s potent effects. A grin spread across his face. Whatever came next, he was ready for it.

The crowd began to chant once more. “Two men enter, one man leaves! Two men enter, one man leaves!”

Layra’s muscles coiled. In a flash, she launched herself at him, a blur of fur and claws.

Without realizing it, Mitch had begun to feel more comfortable in the body he inhabited.