This scenario was in no way what Conor had expected to happen today. When he rolled out of bed this morning to Eivaleys tantalizingly nude form standing near the window, letting the breeze waft across her scales, he thought today would be brimming with bliss.
The day was supposed to be spent relaxing in the gardens with him, Eivaley, Mulaney, and Burlai until the sun began to wane. They would snack, read books, laugh, and tease one another without a care in the world.
The palace was supposed to be a sanctuary, shielding the sisters from the constant death of royals. It was sacred ground—a place for the sisters to meet without fear of daggers in the shadows or guns in the halls.
Conor could easily understand why Sheruai wanted to kill him; granted, understanding did not mean condoning. The man had been misled by someone to believe that Conor had not only broken a truth that stood for nearly a thousand years but that he had also killed the woman he loved.
Seeing the man rapidly closing the fifty-meter distance, Conor sighed. He would deal with the complexities of what was happening under the surface later. All that mattered right now was facing the threat and eliminating it.
At this exact instance, misguided or not, Sheruai was an enemy and not one that Conor could be careless about.
Sheruai was as tall as the Human, weighed about the same, and had years of combat training. The man was referred to as the God of Close Combat for a damn good reason.
Conor had watched thousands of videos documenting Sheruai's rise in the arena. To date, he was undefeated, an impressive figure when you realize most of his bouts were to the death and stretched back nearly ten years.
But none of that mattered; Conor would end this. He popped into a shooting stance and reached for his pistol, preparing to draw it and end this matter before it really began.
Conor was no idiot; he knew how strong the man was, and fighting him on equal terms was moronic. All it would take was a quick presentation to the target and a kilogram trigger pull.
Would killing someone with all these witnesses be good for his image or aid him in clearing his name? It wasn't likely, but Conor would rather be judged by twelve than carried by six.
“Please don’t kill him,” Eivaley yelled from behind him as Conor pulled back the hammer on the magnum and started to draw.
Those words shot through his soul, piercing every fiber of who and what Conor was. Her angelic words coiled around his hand, lashing the weapon in place.
Why? He had done this millions of times. This would just be another body. But something seemed odd. It was like a little shadow whispering in his ear, demanding he listen to his woman's desires.
Conor's brain went on overdrive, trying to piece it all together. Why did Eivalys's words feel like a command and not a request?
He had defied her plenty of times today alone. But those were instances where she was being playful or did not genuinely care about the outcome. This was different. Eivaley truly wanted Conor not to kill.
While he could not consciously understand it, the beast in his heart that lived for the kill did. Conor's id understood that it had been tamed right under his nose.
Eivaley had leashed the Wolf of Heavalun.
Consciously, A hollow pit grew in Conor’s chest. The thought of defying her wasn’t just painful—it was unbearable, as though his heart was being torn out.
With assured conviction, Conor let go of the pistol. Eivaley asked him not to kill the man so he would do his utmost to oblige her desires. Was it stupid? Yes. But if she wanted him to survive this encounter, he would.
Conor unclipped his gun belt, letting it fall into the sands as he rushed to meet the fight with the mantra, never shall I fail screaming in his heart. This act confused most of the onlookers.
They had all assumed Conor would have lived up to his reputation as the Lord of War. In their minds, Conor would have drawn his pistol, shot a single time, and vacated all that Sheruai was, spreading his hopes, dreams, and memories across the cooling corpse of his dead wife.
A few months ago, they would have been correct. The brawl would have already been over, with the God of Close Combat having been made mortal by a single shot from a magnum pistol older than the Kurlatra empire itself.
That the Human had not done that was beyond all they could understand. Was the Human suicidal? Sure, they all knew he could fight, but that was the God of Close Combat he was running toward. Cybernetics or not, they all expected the Human to be envenomed and torn to shreds. None of them expected what came next.
With ease, Conor lunged forward, locking onto Sheruai’s wrists despite the claws tearing into his unaugmented palms. Blood dripped steadily, but Conor’s grip was unrelenting, his will of equal caliber, as the two locked in a stalemate of unrelenting force.
Their feet sunk into the sands, engulfing boot and three-toed claws alike, anchoring them in place.
“Dude, you have to stop,” Conor barked. “I don't want to kill you.”
“That makes one of us,” Sheruai snapped back, spitting venom into Conor's eyes.
The caustic venom burned like lava, making Conor's eyes water. Dozens of warnings appeared in his HUD. Flashing warnings alerted him that the passive nanites in his body were reacting, preventing the venom from causing permanent damage to his eyes.
His eyes were filled with just as many wires as the rest of his body, so there was no risk of blindness, just a reduction in natural vision until the nanites entirely repaired any lasting damage.
He had no idea how long it would take for the microscopic robots to reconnect nerve endings, rebuild complex proteins, and reconstruct the intraocular lenses. That problem and question were neither here nor now. A far larger problem was real right now.
Fully believing that the Human was now blind and not still entirely capable of seeing him through using non-natural spectrums of vision, thermal, infrared, and even a motion tracker that worked before Conor’s optical nerve had a signal run across it, Sheruai attempted to strike.
Like lightning, the Kurlatra shot his head forward and attempted to drive his fangs deep into Conor's collarbone. The move was simple but effective. With the Human's feet restrained by the shifting sands, he should not have been able to counter.
Sheruai had come to this conclusion because this strike always brought results when he fought in the arena. But those were young buck challengers, filled with piss and vinegar out to prove they could claim the title of God of Close Combat.
It was too bad that in his rage-filled shortsightedness, he did not account for Conor's far more experience in battle. Unlike those young, bold men, the Human did not have to think about fighting; it was as natural as breathing.
Attempting to bite him while they were locked up and trying to topple the other was an obvious course of action that Conor had seen coming from a lightyear away. By Urla, Sheruai might as well have screamed his attack's name like in a cheap holo-flick made by the lowest bidder.
All those factors astronomically tipped the scales in Conor's favor. That was before you considered the wiring running through the Humans body.
Conor was no mear man. There was no non-augmented sapient this side of the Milky Way that could go toe-to-toe with him, in raw physical strength at least.
If you were considering other factors: intelligence, tact, knowledge of the universe, and willingness to tolerate others' shit, he was nowhere near the pinnacle of Humanity. He likely was one of the worst examples of those factors. It was good that this was a brawl, not a debate stage because those faltering traits held no weight here.
Just as Sheruai opened his maw and his two dagger-like fangs deployed, he felt every fiber of his being scream in agony. A wave of force traveled up through his torso from his groin and crashed into his brain.
Every male in the audience sympathetically felt the pain as Conor's quick, lightspeed knee crushed Sheruai’s balls. They could hear the dull pop as his two royal grapes popped like snapping fingers. The last thing they had expected was the Lord of War to execute a no-knock neutering on an undefeated champion of life-and-death fights.
Sure, it was not honorable, and in the arena, you would be considered uncouth and disqualified, but this was not the arena. This was a real fight that, as far as Conor saw it, should be to the death.
Sheruai certainly was out for Conor's head, but because of Eivaley's wishes, the Human was going to show him the mercy he did not deserve; showing him mercy did not mean the Human did not plan on brutally maiming the man. Literally busting his balls was just the start.
Before Sheruai had recovered, Conor flowed around to the man's side, outstretched the arm he retained control of. With practiced precision, Conor pulled his fist back, ready to bring it down.
“Are you done?” Conor snarled, tightening his grip on Sheruais wrist enough to nearly dislocate the hand.
Sheruai pathetically looked up at Conor and groaned in agony, the coursing eclectic pain still affecting every fiber of his being. For a moment, the Human almost thought that the God of Close Combat understood that he was outmatched. But be it through hubris or sheer uncontrollable rage, the man did not stop.
Conor spotted the flash of movement as Sheruai attempted to use his thick tree trunk tail to swipe his feet out from under him. Not allowing that attempt to continue, Conor slammed his foot into the tail, stopping it like the Kurlatra had struck a wall of duracrete.
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There it was, in that singular moment, Conor saw the mouthwatering pang of understanding in his opponent's eyes. Sheruai understood the vast berth between their abilities.
Even if Sheruai had a hundred lifetimes and millions of battles under his belt, he could not approach Conor. Conor, simply having lived through battles since being only as tall as a knee, made him the antithesis of Sheruia.
Sheruai might be a formidable fighter in the Kurlatra empire, but his lack of experience in genuine battle and his overly inflated ego made him unworthy of facing Conor.
The Human loomed over him like a predator, ready to do what predators do to prey—kill. The look was one Sheruai had never experienced. It was bestial and primal and came from the soul of a man who never wanted to taste defeat again.
Sheruai might be the God of Close Combat, but Conor was something else entirely—a warrior forged by countless battles and hand-chosen as Champion by the Kurlatra empire’s most resolute princess.
Unlike Sheruai, a sledgehammer solution, Conor was a dagger through the ribs, a bullet fired from the distant horizon. He was a man who, while not specialized in one form of battle, could hold his own in any space. He would never fail again, not after letting Brakul and stitch down.
Conor forced his fist through the back of Sheruai’s elbow in a strike so fast the observers could not follow the motion. In an eyeblink, the Human had split the Champion's arm in two.
The sheer force of the blow did not just break a bone; it was a far more devastating strike that crushed Sheruais' imposing build and all the rumors of his grandiose, unreproachable abilities.
A crunch reverberated through the area, and the beatific sound of muscles tearing, tendons snapping, bone being turned to dust, and scale-covered skin giving way filled the air.
It was a sound none of the nobles or servants could comprehend. Even Eivaley and Mulaney struggled not to gag. But to Conor, it was the sound he fell asleep to for years.
Many of the nobles had seen the aftermath of violence in their lives—it was just what happened when you were around nobility—but this was the vast majority's first time seeing it in person.
The pulsing crimson shower across the sands and seeing a man most believed to be undefeatable brought to his knees were inconceivable. How was there so much blood in someone's body? How could it just pour out like a waterfall? These were some things they could not comprehend, but over everything else, they could not fathom the sight of a man born in violence and a professional in it working.
Conor’s movements were cold and calculated, each step measured with practiced precision. He wasn’t angry—he was something far worse: calm. The venomous stare in the Humans' eyes only told a story of pity. Sheruai never had a chance of winning; even the nobles and servants understood that now.
Sheruai screamed with such volume and in a tone so bestial it would haunt their dreams until death. Despite the Kurlatra clearly being defeated, having been ripped from his rage by the feeling of being overpowered, Conor was not done.
“I tried to give you a chance,” the Lord of War growled, taking hold of the dangling limb with both hands. "but you spit in my face. I'm taking this as payment."
Dozens of the onlookers vomited and fainted as they were reintroduced to the vile sound of ripping scales and a sadistic chuckle as Conor literally disarmed the threat.
Conor pressed Sheruai’s head into the sand with a boot and pulled on his broken arm. With as much effort as one would put into raising their arms, Conor ripped Sheurais lower arm off, tossing it off into the crowd.
Through the force anointed to him by the dozens of servos in his body, ripping the forearm and hand off was easy. Fuck, it was childsplay. Conor could have torn the arm off without breaking it first.
“That is enough!” a commanding yet caring voice boomed through the crowd.
Conor was well aware of who it was by her voice alone. The crowd's murmurings only made the empress's presence more apparent. Eyurali and Vuraley had arrived at last and could hopefully prevent more bloodshed.
They did not take time to address the bowing crowd. Instead, they rushed forward to within feet of the fight, and the soldiers with them could handle the crowd.
Eyurali rested a hand on Conor's shoulder, completely trusting the Human would not harm her. She believed this solely because Eivaley did. The young princess's words held much weight in the mother's mind. She wanted to believe in her daughter, and the empress's having seen Conor defend the fifth princess also aided the situation.
As she understood the man, Conor was level-headed, capable, and did not fight unless needed. But when a fight broke out, the Human would not hold back against the threat—something she was not.
“Conor, can you please stop crushing his head?” Eyurali asked. “Nothing will come from killing him.”
The Human looked up at her and the entourage he heard approaching from her rear. Vuraley and a dozen guards were armed to the teeth. Their weapons were still lowered, but they had their rifles off safe and were entirely ready to dust Conor if he lashed out.
It was good for them that he had no plans of doing so; that and Vuraley was there. Conor wholeheartedly believed he could kill the soldiers in close combat with little issue. But Vuraley, not so much.
If their sparring matches were anything to go by, the high Champion would send Conor's head rolling long before the Human could so much as raise a hand to harm the empress.
“Fine,” Conor said, dropping the wounded man and stepping back.
Like flowing water, the soldiers with the empress flowed forward and began to tend to the wounded man. They quickly bandaged the stump where his arm used to be, and one even retrieved the removed appendage and rushed off to the royal doctor, hoping to save the limb.
At the same time, several of the soldiers pulled out a stretcher and carried the princess's body off, following the man to the doctor. They could not save her.
There was no force in the universe that could. Dead was dead. Conor knew that Vuraley and Burlai did as well, but the attempt had to be made.
They understood that you might stave off the reaper for some time with technology, but her brain was spread out on the ground. Even a layman could tell she was already gone; even the troopers toting her corpse knew she could not be saved, but they would not look like they did not care.
One of the medics approached Conor and asked about his condition, easily able to see his inflamed eyes.
“Are you alright, sir?” the medic sheepishly asked, seeing Conor soaked in blood.
“I,” Conor started but was cut off by Eivaley.
“He is not; please see to his eyes,” She insisted, grabbing Conor's hand. “Conor, please sit.”
Conor looked at her using the motion tracker in his vision; his standard color vision was wholly lost. Even his thermal vision was beginning to fade from the vemons potency.
He knew he was in no danger of losing sight, the hud alerting him that the venom had been neutralized and the nanites were starting to repair damages.
He wanted to argue with her, but why she stepped in was obvious to him. Eivaley knew he would tough it out and deal with the pain, so she had taken the choice away from him.
“Fine,” Conor replied, sitting in the sand and not letting go of Eivaley.
It only took the medic a few moments to have a saline flush pressed against Conor's eyes and begin clearing away any venom remaining around his eyes. The experience was in no way pleasant. It did not hurt, but having water rushing over your eyes while the medic constantly reminded you to keep them open was not fun.
As the medic worked, the empress and Vuraley approached, asking for a brief explanation of what had just happened.
Conor was frankly not in any mood to talk right now; between pain and just having to deal with the endless chatter of the onlookers, he was ready to snap and tell the pair to fuck off.
He could deal with combat, fighting, and death, but social issues—never. That entire idea could go pound sand. Conor would rather eat hot ten millimeter than try to chat about what happened.
Oh yeah, your son-in-law tried to kill me because he thought I killed your daughter. At this point, that explanation would be filled with more expletives than the empress knew. So, to save face and not have to struggle with that, Conor did something he had learned from Vuraley. Conor delegated the issue.
Well, delegated was not right. Conor pressed the issue to a man he knew could explain clearly and not miss a detail, Burlai.
“Ask Burlai; he can explain,” Conor said, pointing to where he last knew the spook was. His point was off by a wide margin, Burlai and Mulaney having moved since he lost his vision. Despite the fight and motion of the crowd, he knew where they had been a minute ago.
Burlai was entirely prepared for this, not because he wanted to but because of who he was. Burlai had a near-photographic memory and could recall events like a movie. Explaining an at most twenty-second ordeal was natural to him, especially after he had to do the same, covering months of operations when he was a true blue spy.
The empress and Vuraley looked at Burlai. They had known the man for decades—well, at least Vuraley did.
The High Champion met Burlai when he was a young soldier just learning how to be a man, whereas the empress did not until well after Burlai became a man and had already fallen in love with her oldest daughter. Either way, both had expectations of the man that were as vast as the galaxy—an expectation Burlai faced like a stalwart guardian designed from birth to face.
“So what happened was—”
Thus began the relatively short recounting of the fight's events and what led up to the event. The empress and High Champion, of course, had follow-up questions to get a full scope of the events. Naturally, they wanted to know who called Conor here and why.
Burlai could easily answer that Conor was called her by Sheruai but could not explain why the man attributed the death of the woman to the Human. He could and did provide an alibi for Conor, assuring the empress that the Human was with him when the shot rang out; Mulaney parroted the statement.
They could not account for what led up to the call out and could not describe how the empress's daughter was killed. Thankfully, another servant and Sheruai could.
They explained that Sheruai and Kurelay were walking from a guest room to the throne room to visit with her mother when a shot rang out. The single slug thrower shot had killed Kurelay instantly. At that point, Sheruai went into a rage, looking around the area for a shooter; having found no one, he grasped at a choice.
Sheruai, being a simple man, had seemingly jumped to the conclusion that Conor, the unknown factor in the palace, must have killed his wife. It was the only explanation that made any sense to him.
The man still wholeheartedly believed that the Human was the only one who could do such a thing. Killing a potential empress in the palace was beyond taboo. Even thinking of doing it would have you killed.
It did not matter that both the guards and Conor used slug throwers as primary weapons, and anyone could have wielded the weapon. The man seemed obsessed that Conor must have been the perpetrator, but the empress did not care.
All the evidence was happenstance. As of now, there was no proof that Conor could have killed her. It was the word of several against one man who desperately needed closure for who killed his love.
The empress's choice was obvious: She would involve investigators. They could collect evidence and come to a conclusion that, hopefully, would exonerate Conor from suspicion and put Sheruai’s aching heart to rest.
To most, that was the end of the matter. The empress had spoken and decided to have the matter looked into by professionals. To Sheruai, the empress was showing favor to the Human.
She had to favor the Human because Eivaley was involved with him. There was no other explanation that made sense. The Human was Eivaley's assigned Champion, so the empress must have been protecting her favorite daughter by shielding him from his crimes.
Sheruai could not accept that. He had just watched his wife die, was thrashed by a fighter because of a cheap shot, and could not allow anyone to believe he was weak.
There was one thing he could do. He possessed a right that Conor could not deny. Because Sheruai was an actual Champion and Conor was merely assigned, he could challenge the Human for the right to be Eivaleys.
It had not been used in hundreds of years and was hardly ever considered by people because it was rare for a Champion to live while their Lady had died. That and there had to be an assigned champion within their bloodline to be challenged.
“Empress,” Sheruai groaned, pushing the medic away.
The empress looked down at the man clutching his wounds on the ground, waiting to hear what he had to say, assuming he likely must have recalled additional details about what happened. But what the man said shook all of kurlatra society.
He requested what had only been chatted about in political science classes for their entire lives. No one even considered the next few words out of his mouth.
“I challenge the Human for the right to be Eivaleys Champion.”