The arena had quieted, cheers and curses replaced by the hum of workers cleaning up the debris of the fight. Jude leaned against a splintered table in the corner.

I haven’t eaten all day, he realized.

The manager came by without fanfare or congratulations. His face was tight and his fingers twitchy. He didn’t even bother looking up as he shoved a small pouch of coins toward Jude.

“Your cut,” the manager said curtly.

Jude raised an eyebrow, picking up the pouch and weighing it in his hand. It felt… light. Too light.

“This can’t be right,” he said, his tone flat but sharp. “I just took down your top fighter. The place was packed. I should’ve made more.”

The manager’s lip curled into a sneer, his fingers rapping against the desk. “You know how much I lost because of you? I put a giant bet on Silas.”

Jude’s fingers tightened around the pouch. He wasn’t the type to lash out—years of discipline in and out of the cage had taught him restraint—but moments like this made it difficult. He took a deep breath.

“I don’t fight to make you money,” Jude said evenly. “I fight to win. You don’t like that? Find someone else to run your circus.”

The manager snorted. “You’re lucky you’re still getting anything. Now take your coin and move along, kid.”

Kid. It was so surreal to be the one everybody called a kid.

Jude stared at him for a moment longer, then pocketed the pouch without a word. No use arguing with someone like this.

He turned and walked back toward the fighter’s area, his footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor.

As Jude entered the cramped locker room, he caught the tail end of a conversation. Silas’s voice was low and gravelly—he recognized him immediately.

“—by the end of the week, all right? Just give me a few more days.”

Another voice, sharper and more insistent, replied. “You’ve been saying that for weeks, Silas. Three days, or you’re out.”

The conversation ended with the click of boots on stone as someone left through the side door. Jude stepped further in, spotting Silas sitting on the edge of a bench, his shoulders slumped and his hands buried in his hair.

He looked up as Jude approached, his face flushing slightly.

“What? You here to gloat?” Silas muttered.

Jude reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin pouch, tossing it lightly in the air before catching it. “You eaten yet?”

Silas frowned. “What?”

“You know, if we put our money together, we could buy a nice beef stew for two. I know a place.”

In all fairness, that was the only place Jude knew, but Silas didn’t need to know that.

Silas squinted at him, clearly not used to this kind of offer. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Jude said. “Can’t fight on an empty stomach. Plus, you earned it. You gave me one hell of a fight out there.”

For a moment, Silas just stared at him, as if trying to figure out what angle Jude was playing. But Jude’s expression was open and calm, without a trace of mockery or pity.

Finally, Silas sighed and pushed himself to his feet.

“Fine,” he said, brushing off his pants. “But if they’ve got bread on the side, we’re getting extra. And I swear to gods, if you run away and leave me to pay the tab—”

“I’ll pay in advance,” Jude said, grinning.

They shook hands on that.

* * * * *

The tavern was a modest hole-in-the-wall nestled in a quieter corner of the Warrens. Its wooden beams sagged under years of neglect, and the air carried the faint smell of spilled ale and smoke.

But the food was warm, the drinks were strong, and the clientele wasn’t trying to kill them—usually. That made it as good a spot as any.

Jude and Silas sat at a rough-hewn table near the back, two steaming plates of roasted meat and vegetables in front of them. The clink of mugs filled the air.

“I’ll admit, this doesn’t smell half bad,” Silas said, tearing into a hunk of bread. “Beats eating street vendor slop.”

Jude grinned, cutting into his portion with a knife that looked older than the tavern itself. “My coach once said there’s nothing sweeter than a decent meal after a day’s work.”

Silas raised his cup. “To your coach, then! A wise man indeed.” They clinked mugs, and Jude took a long swig, savoring the bitter taste.

Silas gestured at Jude with the bread. “I still say you owe me for carrying your sorry hide through that last fight.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jude replied, smirking. “You carried me so hard I had to win to make sure we walked out with cash.”

“Details.” Silas shrugged.

They ate in companionable silence for a while. Jude leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

When was the last time I ate like this?

“Y’know,” he said, glancing at Silas, “fighting’s not just about brute force. It’s about rhythm. Timing.”

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Silas raised an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully. “Is that what you call getting your ribs cracked?”

Jude laughed. “Not exactly. You caught me good, but I’m talking about controlling the fight.”

“Oh no,” Silas groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those assholes who always talk about the ‘art’ of fighting.”

“You don’t think it is art?”

“It’s not art if you only paint in red.”

“Then how come I beat you?”

Silas shrugged. “No offense, but you got lucky. Everybody does at some point.”

“There’s no luck involved in true fighting. Only skills.” The beer was getting to Jude, he could already feel it.

“Alright, I’ll humor you. What makes your style of fighting so different?”

“It’s all about the diversity of attacks.”

Jude leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He entered his coach mode. “You’ve got your bread-and-butter punches. The jab, that’s your fastest punch. Keeps your opponent at bay, lets you control the range.”

Jude launched a few playful jabs and smirked when Silas flinched.

“Then there’s the cross. Comes straight from your back hand. There’s real power behind it. You set it up with the jab, so when they’re too busy guarding against one...”

“They get hit with the other,” Silas finished, nodding. “I get that.”

“Exactly,” Jude said. “But it’s not just the hands. That’s what people get wrong. Your legs, your hips, they’re the real engine. Without them, you’re just slapping air.”

He stood suddenly, his chair scraping across the floor. “Footwork makes the difference. You can’t just stand there like a statue, trading blows.” He hopped lightly from one leg to the other, his movements fluid despite the beer in his system. “You’ve got to move. Circle your opponent, look for angles, force them into bad positions.”

“Angles?” Silas groaned, leaning back dramatically. “Ugh. I hate geometry.”

Jude laughed, shifting his weight and demonstrating quick sidesteps. “It’s simple. If you stand right in front of me, I know exactly where to hit you. But if you’re moving—changing angles—I’ve got to adjust. That split second? That’s your chance to strike or escape.”

Silas raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And what’s stopping me from biting you?”

“That would be against the rules.”

Silas sat back, his expression skeptical but intrigued. “Rules, huh? What’s the point of rules in a fight?”

“To keep it fair,” Jude said. “And to make it about skill, not just who’s bigger or meaner.”

Silas snorted. “Never heard of a fair fight in the Warrens. But all right. So, jab, cross, the silly dancing you do with your feet. That it?”

“There’s way more than just punching,” Jude said, his tone shifting into full coach mode. “Striking’s important, but what happens when someone closes the gap? You’ve got to know how to clinch. Grab their neck or their arms, control their movement. Knees to the body, elbows to the head. You make every second count.”

He stepped closer, lightly mimicking a clinch by grabbing Silas’s shoulders. “And if it hits the ground? That’s where grappling comes in. You take them down, pin them, or go for a submission.”

“Submission?” Silas tilted his head. “Like what, a choke?”

“Exactly. Like a rear-naked choke. Lock their neck with your arms, cut off their air until they tap out or pass out.” Jude demonstrated by shadowing the move, locking his arms in an invisible choke.

“I’d die before getting submitted like that,” Silas muttered, but he was leaning in now, clearly intrigued. “So, punches, grappling, fancy footwork. That it?”

“Not quite.” Jude smirked. “Defense wins fights too. It’s not about brute strength. It’s about positioning, timing, parrying.” He mimicked pushing a strike aside with his forearm, turning the motion into a counter punch.

Silas tapped the table thoughtfully. “Sounds like dancing. Didn’t think I’d need to be graceful in a fight.”

“Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee.”

“Is that a common saying where you come from?”

Jude hesitated for a fraction of a second, realizing his words had slipped out unbidden. He covered it with a casual nod. “More or less.”

“Where do you come from? I know you’re not local. I can smell it on you.”

Jude stiffened slightly but masked it with a sip of his drink. That obvious, huh?

“Look, I’m not trading my secrets for free.”

“Why not? You gave away all the best moves you knew.”

“Oh, that? That’s barely the tip of the iceberg. No training in the world would have saved you from the kinds of guys like Sugar Ray Robinson or Muhammad Ali.”

“Moo-ha-who?”

“The one who came up with the ‘sting like a bee’ saying.”

Silas nodded slowly, still chewing on the strange names. “I’m betting three coins that if I ever meet this Ali guy, I’m knocking him out cold.”

“You’d waste your coins.”

“I don’t have any, anyway.” He gestured at the half-empty plate. “But this? This was money well spent.”

For a moment, Jude allowed himself to relax. The food and the company dulled the edges of his exhaustion.

Silas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back with a satisfied sigh.

“That hit the spot,” Silas said, smirking. “Might be the first time in a while I’ve eaten like that without someone trying to take it off me.”

“You’d think a guy swinging around a mace wouldn’t have that problem,” Jude said.

Silas chuckled, swirling the dregs of his own beer. “You’d be surprised. Desperation makes people stupid. And mean.”

Jude didn’t respond, letting the quiet hang between them. Silas tapped his fingers on the table, his gaze shifting to Jude.

“You ever think about training someone?” Silas asked, breaking the silence.

Jude stiffened, his fingers tightening around his mug. “What do you mean?”

“I mean me,” Silas said, leaning forward. “You clearly know what you’re doing. I thought I had you tonight, but you picked me apart like it was nothing. You’re not just some upstart brawler, Jude. You’ve got real skill.”

Jude shook his head, his voice cold. “I fight to get by. That’s it.”

“But you could teach,” Silas pressed. “Help me get better. I mean, I’ve got raw power, yeah, but you saw what happened. I swing big, I miss, I get punished. You could help me fix that.”

Jude’s chest tightened. He saw Ty’s bloodied face before him.

He pushed the image away, his jaw tightening.

“No. Sorry. I’m not a coach.”

Silas frowned, clearly caught off guard by the sharpness of Jude’s tone. “Why not?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jude said, standing up. “You’ve got your instincts. You’ll figure it out.”

Silas looked like he wanted to argue, but Jude’s expression stopped him. Instead, he slumped back in his chair.

The night dragged on, and Silas drank more than he probably should have. By the time the tavern was nearly empty, he was leaning heavily on the table, his words slurring together as he rambled about everything from his first fight to his favorite type of bread.

Jude listened quietly, only half paying attention. His mind kept circling back to Silas’s earlier question.

Training him. The idea sat uneasily in his chest, dredging up memories he’d worked hard to bury.

But something about Silas’s determination—his raw, reckless energy—nagged at him. The kid reminded him of Tyler, in some ways. The same fire, the same willingness to push past limits.

And maybe that was why it scared him.

“I’m serious, Jude,” Silas mumbled, his head lolling to the side. “You could teach me. Show me how to... to move like you do. Not just fight. Like... think.”

Jude sighed, running a hand through his perfectly white hair. “I already said no, Silas.”

“I’m not g-gonna stop (hic) asking,” Silas said, grinning despite his drunken state. “Y-you’ll cave eventually.”

Jude stared at him and then closed his eyes with a deep sigh.

“All right,” he said finally. “We’ll train together. Once. I’ll see what you’ve got, and then we’ll go from there.”

Silas blinked, his grin widening into something boyish and triumphant. “Ha! Knew you’d come around.” He waved for the bartender to come closer. “Hey, give me your (hic) best ale! I’ve got a toast (hic) t-to make!”

* * * * *

The night air was cool as Jude half-dragged, half-carried Silas through the quiet streets of the Warrens. The younger fighter mumbled incoherently, his head bobbing against Jude’s shoulder.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar scenario. Jude had carried plenty of drunken teammates out of bars back in his old life. Still, something about it felt different this time.

Maybe it was the fact that, for the first time since waking up in this strange world, he didn’t feel completely alone.

He shifted Silas’s weight, glancing down at the younger man’s slack face. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Silas snorted in his sleep, muttering something about stew and uppercuts.

I’ve been here for well over a month and only just made my first friend, Jude thought.

Is there an achievement for that?