abel [https://imgur.com/gfZpXk6.png]

When Kenji was finished toying with Bernard, he dealt a blow which Abel first thought was meant to kill. From his vantage point, on the other side of the pit, he merely saw the man leap forward, around Bernard’s glaive, shoving his katana forward, piercing him, the tip protruding from his back. It wasn’t a weapon designed for stabbing, but in the right place with enough force, it went through clean.

Retracting the blade, the man stepped back, out of reach of Bernard’s glaive which began to flail about. It was then that Abel saw the wound was in the space between the shoulder and collarbone, and also that Bernard was hardly able to lift his dominant arm.

“You’re a piece of shit,” Bernard said, spittle flying from his mouth and he cursed the man, trying his best not to look at the blood beginning to flow down his side.

“I surrender.”

And just like that, Kenji vanished from the arena. The crowd boomed louder as Abel and Bernard met eyes from across the pit. They were both nursing their wounds. Perhaps that was all Kenji intended to do from the beginning, but he had made a show of it, leaping and twirling out of harm’s way before eventually dealing the blow to Bernard.

“Hi, Abel,” Bernard said, a grim smile on his face. Abel did his best to return the expression, his leg aching at the prospect of walking, let alone fighting.

Sooner than he had hoped, the man started forward, heading towards him with the glaive dragging the sands behind him. “We don’t have to fight. You can still give up.”

That was still an option, he was right. Abel readjusted the grip on his sabre, sweat making it slick. The sun beat down on them from high above. He turned his gaze skyward to see their holograms growing closer to one another, Bernard’s pace slow and deliberate.

He didn’t need to fight. This festival meant nothing. Regardless of the result, they would all still be trapped within the city and he would be a level zero in both Kara and Bara.

He had promised Lyssa he would protect Sarah, and he had told Sarah he would help find Lyssa. They were the only people he felt any connection to within the city; he couldn’t let them down by dying.

Abel licked his lips, Bernard now only a few paces away, glaive being heaved up onto his good shoulder. He was slow and could barely balance the thing. Abel’s fingers squeezed the hilt of his sabre.

The man was fearless, using his body weight to swing the glaive around in a wide arc, Abel stumbling out of its path, leg protesting. Bernard’s back was defenseless while he recovered the glaive once more, bringing it up to his shoulder, the crowds roaring. Abel suddenly realized that they were chanting his name, over and over. Bernard swung again, a chorus of boos following the motion. Abel’s leg screamed with pain, dropping him to a knee. Bernard was again defenseless, letting his guard down as he hefted his weapon.

“On the way here, I heard you say you wouldn’t kill anyone in order to win,” Bernard said, turning to him with another empty smile. “And that’s just who you are, isn’t it? Too afraid to commit to anything.” He grunted as he tried a quick swing, failing, the bladed end of the polearm sent down to the sands. “I know you won’t do a damn thing, Abel.”

A spark of anger flared within him. Abel told himself it wasn’t true, yet he didn’t swing at the man. Bernard stood, panting, exhausted from dealing with Kenji and now swinging his weapon with a single arm.

“So you should give up right now,” he pointed to Abel’s leg, “You won’t be able to run away much longer. Give up, or stand still so I can be done with this.”

“What happened to you?” Abel asked, his anger tinged with sadness as he remembered their shared experiences on the trains, Bernard carrying Annie on his back as they fled down the streets. “Why are you like this now?”

Bernard shook his head, smile fading. “I haven’t changed, Abel. I just don’t need to pretend anymore. That’s the great thing about this city, it doesn’t hinder you at all. You can let your true self bloom in full view, and nobody can look away.” He lifted his hands to encompass the stands. “This city, this is our life. It’s a rebirth. You can finally be yourself and be rewarded for it. I’m the future of Agona, and the sooner you understand it, the sooner you will flourish too.” He gave a small laugh, wincing at the pain. “Enough talk.”

He swung the glaive, then swung it again. He was right about one thing; Abel’s leg wouldn’t last. Each step he took back was stiffer, harder to manipulate, his leg feeling as though it was ripping apart.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

This couldn’t go on. He couldn’t murder Bernard, and the only alternative was surrendering. He could feel a pit growing in his stomach as he thought about uttering the words.

Sky Sight had built up the tournament to force him to continue.

Abel was the hero of the arena. Bernard was the villain. As much as he wanted to surrender, he knew that he couldn’t. It wasn’t for his sake he was fighting, he was fighting for everyone in the stands. This story needed a happy ending, or the festival wouldn’t serve its purpose.

At least that’s what ran through his mind when he took a step forward, kicking the glaive out of Bernard’s hand, the shaft smacking the sands.

Competitors who lose their weapons will be disqualified. The voice echoed through the arena. Grab your weapon or be disqualified.

Bernard looked at Abel a long moment, then quickly reached down and snatched the weapon, grip much tighter than before. He made to stab forward, but the weight was too much and the tip spiraled out of his control. Abel lifted his leg to kick it again, managing to send Bernard spiraling to the ground, but his bad leg buckled and he dropped as well, sabre landing to his side.

Competitors who lose their weapons will be disqualified. Grab your weapon or be disqualified.

They both propped themselves up on the sands, looking at one another. Realization was taking hold of both of them. Abel quickly grabbed his weapon, remembering how fast Zeal had been disqualified in his opening round. Without pause he used the tip, stabbing at Bernard’s hands, forcing him to loosen his grip on the glaive, then reaching over to try and snatch it from him. A well-placed boot caused Abel to yell out in pain, both hands reaching down to grab his leg which began to grow damp with warm blood. When he saw Bernard reaching for his sabre, he quickly grabbed it again and stabbed quickly, without logic, the sharp end catching him twice in the chest.

Bernard screamed as well, grabbing the length of the blade with his bare hands in an attempt to stop more blows from landing. He tried to bend the blade, but his shoulder gushed with gore, causing him to groan and put a hand to it.

Abel tried getting to his feet, but his leg refused to comply. His heart pounded in his chest as he fell into a patch of blood-red sand, not sure which of them the crimson had fallen from.

A moment passed, both of them panting beside one another on the sands, clutching their weapons tightly.

Bernard was up to his knees again and, taking a strong grip as close to the glaive’s blade as he could, lifted it like a dagger, swinging it down towards Abel, who barely managed to drop his sabre and pull himself free from it’s trajectory, watching the weapon slice into the sands.

Sick of the back and forth, Bernard tossed his weapon down atop the sabre and crawled on his knees, covering the short distance between them. Abel tried to push himself away, but the sands didn’t give enough purchase.

Competitors who lose their weapons will be disqualified. Grab your weapon or be disqualified.

Yet neither of them had their weapons as Bernard managed to get on top of Abel and lifted an arm back. His fists connected with Abel’s right cheek, twice, sending waves of pain and nausea through his body, until he finally managed to free one of his legs and land a knee across the small of Bernard’s back, who groaned and fell forward.

Abel tossed him off, panting, eyes watering as he stared up into the sun. The pain in his leg was unbearable, threatening to steal his consciousness away as he crawled to grab his sabre. Bernard grabbed his leg before he could, pulling him back and twisting it.

He screamed, kicking with his good leg, feeling it connect again and again until the pressure on his ankle was relieved and his hand could finally make contact with the hilt of the sabre.

When he turned and looked at Bernard, the man was covered in blood and sand. His face was one of utter contempt. He tried to get to his knees, to crawl towards his weapon, but Abel put out his blade to block him. It was a flimsy thing, thin and now thoroughly bent, but it still gave the man pause.

“Give up,” Abel said, throat dry.

Bernard looked at him. His face grew even more foul, and he began to crawl forward once more, letting the rapier slide harmlessly across his arms as he continued toward the glaive.

Abel closed his eyes, taking in a breath. He reminded himself that Bernard couldn’t win, that there were thousands watching who needed to see him lose. He told himself that if Bernard lived, he would be a terror to the city, and to himself. But he couldn’t find it in himself to do what he needed to do. Just as Bernard had said, it wasn’t in him to kill. But he could still be victorious.

He thrust the sabre forward, catching Bernard in the abdomen, a shallow wound that caused him to curl into a protective ball. Then as fast as his knees would allow, Abel made towards the glaive himself, grabbing it and tossing it like a javelin across the arena. It was heavier than it looked. It landed twenty feet away. But it was far enough.

Holding his sabre tight to his chest, Abel allowed himself to fall down onto the sands. It’s over.

Competitors who lose their weapons will be disqualified. Grab your weapon or be disqualified.

Bernard started towards his weapon, trying to get to his feet, but they collapsed beneath him, blood now dripping from his face and his shoulder. He crawled on his knees, desperate, sounding as though he was crying. But the glaive was too far away. Abel waited, squeezing the sabre against his chest, praying that he wouldn’t make it in time, praying that the match would end.

“Don’t think this is the end.” Bernard’s voice was a taut whisper, but it carried through the arena’s speakers, reaching the thousands in attendance. “I’ll remember this, Abel. I’ll remember you took the coward’s way out. I’ll-”

And then Abel was out of the sunlight. He was laying on a cold floor, not unlike the stone rooms he had been in while waiting between matches. But there were no smokeless torches, no lights at all. He was in total darkness.

Did I win?