Chapter 66
Last Monster Standing
I’m breathing hard, which makes sense it's fucking hard to breathe. Every time I inhale pain explodes through me and every time I exhale it ends in a gurgling wheeze. Yet somehow I feel…not strong, and certainly not good, but somehow loose at once separate from myself and elated to be here.
It is a weird feeling, but I don’t have time for introspection. If I don’t win here I may as well be dead, if I don’t win soon I will be dead. I’m not sure if my hearing has ceased to function or if the crowd has fallen deathly silent. Maybe they have, the fans have a knack for spotting when a fight has entered its final moments.
This fight has entered its final moments, one way or another it will end before I can count to twenty, of course, I’m not a very good counter. Klash is bleeding heavily from his neck, and his burned skin is lacerated all over from Xael’s sword and my axe. Somehow I doubt his injuries are worse than mine, the spear shaft lodged in my chest has been slowly killing me since I woke back up, and by slowly I mean with alarming speed.
I notice his eyes go to my fallen type two axe and I rush forward with whatever strength and speed I have left. Right now the metal pole I snatched off the ground is my greatest advantage, even as strong as he is the reach and speed of a weapon will cause Klash all sorts of problems. That advantage goes away if he manages to regain the axe, something I simply cannot allow.
The big bastard is smart enough to abandon his plan to seize the axe when I come crashing into range swinging the inert firestick with both hands. Even now I prove to myself and hopefully everyone watching that I am more than a beast. Faking an attack I duck under his counter-punch and slam the metal stick into his face. It hurts him, I know it does from the way I feel something crack, but Klash ignores the pain.
Pivoting I barely manage to avoid him grabbing ahold of me; something that would be a complete death sentence.
In a perfect world, I would be able to keep him outside the range where his fists can hit me but inside the range of my stolen firestick. Unfortunately, Klash is pretty pit smart and he instantly reacts to what I’m trying to do.
Bringing his arms up to guard his face the elephant cursed surges forward utterly ignoring my attempt to stave him off with a hard thrust of the metal staff into his midsection. He makes a little noise at the collision, but the weapon is almost ripped out of my hands by the mere forward pressure of Klash crossing the distance.
He throws a thunderous right-hand punch towards my face, which I manage to block with the metal stick. Block but not stop, the weapon I am using smashing into my face with enough force to tear my lower lip enough that part of it hangs loose from the rest.
I am in so much pain right now that a minor injury like that one barely registers against the growing difficulty of even drawing breath.
Faking him out again I switch the angle of my attack mid-swing, once more managing to drive the metal pole into Klash’s face. He reacts more this time, the pain of repeated strikes showing on his features, but it doesn’t make him hesitate like I’d hoped.
Matter of fact it doesn’t even slow him down. The huge pitter throws another pair of punches my way. I slip around the first, but he had anticipated that, and I’m left with no choice but to try and block the second.
It’s my forearms this time that catch the blow, my forearms, and my own backward momentum. It stops the boy’s attack from sending me sprawling and possibly headless to the sands, but I feel bone fracture in both of my arms.
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I hate Klash, but I think in that moment as I look into his face between my guardian arms and pole that I understand him better than almost anyone. The look in his eyes, the manic half smile plastered on his face like a shield against the pain, the sheer ferocity with which he keeps fighting despite the way his body is failing around him. It all reminds me so much of myself that I think I must appear almost the same from his perspective.
Though If I had to guess he probably hates me a little more than I hate him, after all, I won last time. And I’m going to fucking win this time too. I might understand the need Klash feels to avenge his loss, might understand him so well it’s maddening, but none of that means a thing compared to keeping myself alive, well-fed, and winning this tournament.
Fuck Klash, fuck his desire for revenge, fuck his little journey to redemption from out in the Faithless Isles, fuck his inhuman strength, and fuck feeling bad for him. Pretending to fall back in response to the staggering punch I catch him advancing with another strike to the face. He loses a tooth this time but keeps crashing forward trying to stay in a range where he can reach me. Jokes on him, I’m not going anywhere. Doing my best Xael impersonation I twist around him and clip his face with the poll one more time on the way past.
The huge pit-slave keeps coming. I stutter-step back then forward avoiding another grab attempt and BAM I smash the flamestick into his face yet again. This time I swear I feel his nose break. Eyes watering and blood pouring down his ruined visage Klash keeps coming.
He was always fighting desperately, from the moment he charged out of that swirling whirlwind of flame. Now he’s desperate and half-blind. I slam the stick into his broken nose again, then reversing my grip I do it once more on the backswing. To Klash’s credit, he recognizes that going on the defense is tantamount to losing right now, so he keeps pushing, keeps swinging, keeps trying to get ahold of me.
It isn’t enough to save him, not now. Showing everyone just how accurate I can be I send blow after blow into his shattered nose, I don’t even stop when it's completely flat on his face.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Finally, thankfully he falters. I can see it in Klash’s eyes as his hands go to his face and he collapses backwards. He still wants to fight, his body just can’t give him anymore.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
I don’t take any chances, instead raining down overhead strikes at his broken face until I simply don’t have the strength left inside me anymore. Breathing is all but impossible, the pole slips from my lifeless fingers, but Klash…Klash has stopped moving. I can see him drawing breath which is almost a surprise, but I have knocked that boy so senseless he can’t possibly rise.
I try to take a step but falter, I try to breathe but do nothing except cough blood. Even filled with the elation of victory, the elation of tens of thousands of people screaming my name in unison, my strength is as spent as the fallen colossus before me.
Still, I won, didn't I? With an effort of will that feels equivalent to the entire match I just fought I slowly turn my head to look up at the judge lady with the magically enhanced voice.
She is standing, but her mouth remains firmly closed.
‘No, No not again, I won can’t she see that he’s beaten? Can’t she see that the Itti’atti isn’t getting up any time soon either?’
I desperately try to keep my feet but it's a battle I find I am slowly losing. Soon I will absolutely collapse, and I don’t know if I will ever wake up again. That part doesn’t matter right now though, what matters is that the lady declares me the winner.
‘DO IT!’ I silently scream. Yet in my rapidly failing heart, I know she won't. This is just like when I ‘lost’ at the Saffron compound, some nonsense is afoot and they simply will not allow me to win. She isn’t going to say it, she’s going to wait until I collapse then call it a draw. At least it won’t be a long wait.
“END! Neither Klash Nor Embella can continue! Your winner is HOOUUUUUUUUSSSSEEEEEEEE BLOOOOOOOOOODDROOOOOOOCKKKKK!!!.”
‘Wait what?’
Shock that I was wrong is the last thought I manage to conjure before I fall flat on my face and darkness claims me for the second time in an hourglass.