Page 145 of Planet Zero
“You will fight until one of you can fight no longer,” the High Counselor announced. “Until one falls and cannot get up. Or until one is dead. Whoever remains standing will be our chief. That’s all. There are no rules.”
Net’ok glanced at Zoark who showed no emotion.
Chemmusaayl shouted, “Align!”
The men walked up to each other, the cadence of Zoark’s limp graceful like a dancer’s moves. They turned back to back, bodies touching.
Vuskas banged a stick against an upended pot. The echoing toll resonated loudly, and the fight was on.
The men whirled around and squared up, fists raised, both fast as lightning and equally agile.
A pregnant pause hung over the makeshift arena, each opponent waiting for the other to strike first. Zoark went especially still, absolutely motionless, steady on flexed legs.
Finally, Net’ok swung, immediately going on the offensive. Zoark deflected, scooted back. Net’ok swung again, as if unsure as to why his first blow hadn’t landed. Zoark ducked and threw a punch of his own.
Net’ok deflected and attacked with the speed and power Addie had difficulties comprehending.
Immediately, Net’ok appeared to have a power advantage. He threw a lot of strikes, but only a few landed. Yet Net’ok confidently prevented Zoark from switching to an attack mode.
In a display of dominance, Net’ok let his knee fly, catching Zoark in the lower ribs. It connected but caused no major damage. Twirling, Net’ok followed up with a head kick, showing off his superb balance, speed, and flexibility.
Zoark staggered but didn’t fall, eyes sharp, lip bleeding. He was tracking Net’ok’s every move, not in fear, but like a predator, watching, waiting for the right moment to strike. Never had he looked more confident than at this moment, despite being heavily under the attack. He was fighting an opponent with superb stamina, speed, and control.So much control.
While Net’ok was deciding on his next move, Zoark, in a classical boxing move, landed a precise left-hand-to-the-chin. Net’ok’s head snapped back - so clean. A collective gasp sounded from the sidelines.
The jab didn’t disable Net’ok, but it enraged him. He erupted in a series of angry, offensive moves designed to overpower Zoark. But not bloody likely. Zoark, the whole scarred and busted-up package of him, had gone severely underrated.
Vircea crouched next to Addie and took her hand.
“He’s always been good at fighting,” she whispered with newfound pride. “So strong. Our father’s best warriors trained him. I thought he lost it all to his injuries! Addie, how had I not realized that he’s still strong?”
“He’s still the Zoark you knew,” Addie whispered.
Vircea squeezed her hand, absorbed by the fight. “Yes! But he’s so balanced, Addie, even with his knee. Where does it come from?”
Where from?From overcompensating. From his anger and a desperate desire to keep going when circumstances stacked up sky-high against him. From an internal fire that wouldn't let him quit when even his own mind suggested it was over.
After his injury, Zoark had done nothing but work on his balance. He had re-learned to walk and run and fight through and despite the terrible pain and crushing limitations of his newly torn body.
No, his balance hadn’t suffered; it had improved. Now he didn’t simply stay on his feet; he took it to an art form.
Meanwhile, Net’ok was trying to get behind Zoark to trap his arms, exactly what Addie imagined he needed to do to disable Zoark’s swinging. Net’ok thought Zoark would be easy to trip with his bad knee, and instead, here he was, working up a serious sweat to maneuver around the cripple.
A collectiveWhooh!reverberated from the sidelines after Net’ok finally managed to fell Zoark. He landed like a cat, balling up his body, ready to gain footing before he hit the ground. Net’ok pounced, pummeling him into submission. His grinding power was frightening, but Zoark wouldn’t stay down. He had this uncanny, almost supernatural ability to block, slide, roll, twist, and eventually, he got back up.
Someone cheered.
Zoark ignored it like he ignored everything else around him, his focus as precise as a laser scope on his opponent. If he had fear or fun in the ring, Addie couldn't see it. There was no emotion on display at all.
Net’ok charged. His foot shot out to deliver a blow to Zoark’s stomach. It connected, seemingly. Zoark doubled over.
Net’ok thought he had him, letting his guard slip just a tad - big mistake. Instead of toppling to the ground, Zoark lunged from his semi-crouched position like a tightly coiled spring suddenly released. Using his entire weight, he barreled into Net’ok’s midriff with his shoulder. Net’ok raised his massive arms to block a fraction too late. Crushing him in a bear hug, astonishingly strong for someone regarded so long as an inferior male, Zoark lifted him off the ground, took two staggering steps to gain momentum, and slammed him down onto his back. The slam stunned Net’ok. And just like that, the dynamic changed.
Zoark, now on top, pounded Net’ok’s face.
Realizing he was in trouble, Net’ok moved his legs, trying to push Zoark off. They rolled around, split. Jumped to their feet. But Zoark was a split second faster, with Net’ok’s focus wavering. Zoark bled from both nostrils, and the chief’s face began to puff up around his eyes.
No cheers, boos, or whistles emanated from the spectators. There were no curses and no gasps. It seems like the tribe was holding its collective breath. No one moved as all eyes were glued to the circle where the future of the people was playing out.
