Page 78 of Brutal Union
From behind, I feel it, the whisper of air, then the bite of steel. The kama-wielding bastard swings from below like he’s trying to unspool my spine. I jerk my torso forward just in time, the curved blade leaving a burning kiss up my back. It’s shallow, but enough to remind me: these men didn’t come to test me. They came to end me.
My foot lashes out behind me, heel-first, andcracksinto his sternum. He grunts, air rushing from his lungs in a strangled wheeze, and stumbles back, arms flailing as he regains his balance.
Finally some space.
I backpedal three quick steps and lower my stance. My breath comes in short bursts, adrenaline surging through me like a well-oiled engine, ready to push further. Blood trickles slowly from my side, warm and steady, but it doesn’t matter. Pain sharpens me. Refines me. I was raised to endure worse. Hell, I wasbuiltfor worse.
I glance between them, the three jackals trying to close back in. The tallest is dazed, jaw slack and bleeding. The clawed one limps slightly, favoring his left leg. The kama boy recovers, rage burning behind his eyes now that he’s lost the element of surprise.
They’re coordinated, I’ll give them that. But they aren’t synchronized. No true cohesion. No unified rhythm. They’re not a pack, they’re individuals whothinknumbers will save them.
That’s their mistake, because I don’t see three enemies.
I see three weapons. Three styles. Three weaknesses.
And I plan to use each one to kill the other.
They’re circling again.
Desperate to reclaim momentum, to convince themselves they still have the upper hand. But I can see it, etched into their stances, the twitch of uncertainty in their shoulders, the falter in their timing. Theythoughtthis would be an easy kill. That three against one meant inevitability. But inevitability doesn’t exist in my world. Only outcomes. And outcomes are crafted by those who refuse to die.
My eyes narrow on the sai user, tall, lean, trying to re-center himself. That’s the technician. Precision fighter. He’s the kind of guy who thinks one perfect stab will end a fight. He's probablytrained in kata, drilled clean forms a thousand times in front of a mirror, never once bled for it. He’s dangerous only if you give him space.
The clawed one, he’s the brawler. Fast, aggressive, but wild. The limp in his left leg will get worse the more he moves. His strikes are fueled by pain now, not discipline. That makes him predictable. And exploitable.
Then there’s kama boy.Japanese sickle.The hungriest of the trio. He moves like he wants to prove something, fast, sharp, almost too fast. He overcommits. He doesn’t know how to wait. That’s going to get him killed.
I tighten my grip on the blade, fingers flexing against the makeshift cloth wraps now slick with sweat and blood. Bhon always said the first rule of survival wasn’t strength—it wascomposure. And I’ve made a career out of staying composed while everything around me dies screaming.
I breathe in deep through my nose. The scent of rust, dirt, and blood thick in the air. The metallic sting of my own wound hums under my ribs like a warning bell.
Focus, Sho.
You’ve been poisoned, hunted, drowned, starved, tortured, betrayed. What’s three amateurs with pointy toys?
I roll my neck, cracking it to the side. Let them think they still have a chance.
The clawed one lunges first, just as I expect. He leads with desperation, not strategy—pain has made him reckless. I let my posture falter just slightly, just enough to bait him in. He takes the opening. His right claw slices through the space where mythroat had been a half-second earlier, but I’ve already slipped to the side. His momentum carries him past me, off-balance, and I redirect it, stepping behind him and striking the back of his head with the hilt of my blade. He stumbles to a knee, dazed and unsteady. I don’t stop moving. My foot hooks behind his ankle and I twist, sending him to the ground in one smooth motion. He falls with a thud as the next opponent closes in—twin sai flashing like sharpened intentions.
I meet his strikes with the flat of my blade, our weapons clashing in quick, precise bursts. He’s fast and measured, clearly trained. But he holds back, just slightly, as though this were still a sparring match instead of survival. He moves like a man waiting for applause.
There’s no audience here. No ceremony. Only consequence.
I shift my stance, lead with my shoulder, and break the rhythm. A quick snap forward and my forehead collides with his face—not enough to maim, but enough to disorient. He recoils instinctively, hands rising to his nose. I seize the opening and sweep his legs with a low, spinning kick. He crashes down beside the first, breath knocked out and stunned.
Two are down. Not defeated, but dulled. I don’t give them time to recover.
Movement slices the air behind me. A whisper of danger. The third is already airborne. I turn sharply on the balls of my feet, just in time to see the arc of a kama aiming for my neck. The blade passes close—close enough to stir the hair at my temple. I allow the illusion to hang for a breath, let him believe he almost had me.
Then I move. My blade cuts across his thigh—not deeply, but precisely—enough to rattle his landing. He stumbles as his knee gives, hitting the ground unevenly. His second strike comes wide and clumsy, and I raise my arm, meeting the wooden handle with my wrapped forearm. The force stings, but the cloth absorbs just enough to keep it manageable.
I press forward, driving a knee into his center, not for damage, but to collapse his stance. He exhales sharply and folds, and I let him drop, already scanning for the others.
The sai user is back on his feet now. His breathing is sharper, his movements less certain. Blood trickles down his face, but it’s not the injury that matters—it’s the fear flickering just behind his eyes. He’s beginning to understand. This isn’t a contest. It’s not a challenge. It’s a reckoning. And I’m the one delivering it.
I step toward him without hesitation. He swings—wide, angry—but it lacks the sharpness of his earlier strikes. I deflect it and move inside his guard, planting my elbow into his side. He stumbles again.
That’s the difference between us.
