Mikos smiled, wide and sharp, the expression never quite reaching his eyes. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his tunic and drew out a small gem the color of fresh blood. He closed his fingers around it, squeezed hard. A low crack sounded, like ice breaking underfoot. Light flared between his knuckles, bright and brief. When he opened his hand again, the gem had vanished. In its place rested a slender sword, blade narrow and gleaming, the hilt encrusted with the same crimson stone now pulsing faintly. He lifted the weapon, turned it once in his grip, then looked at Gerik. The playful mockery drained from his face. His brown eyes turned cold, flat as river stones.

  Gerik glanced down at the copper bracelet on his left wrist. The cloudy quartz bead sat dull and inert against his skin. He flexed his fingers once, testing. Nothing happened. He looked back up.

  One spectator leaned forward in the stands, voice carrying over the sudden hush.

  "Oh man, is he going to unleash the Thirteen Steps of Death?"

  A second spectator beside him sucked in a breath.

  "I get to see it live?"

  Mikos excelled in movement magic. His signature technique, the Thirteen Steps of Death, relied on successive bursts of speed. Each step amplified the last. By the thirteenth dash his velocity reached a level most eyes could not track. Enemies who survived long enough to speak of it described the final moments as though Mikos had simply vanished, reappearing only to deliver the killing blow. The technique demanded precise timing and an iron will to chain the accelerations without faltering. Few could match it. Fewer still lived through it.

  Mikos moved.

  He crossed the arena floor in a blur. His first step carried him ten paces in an instant. The sword flashed. Gerik twisted aside, but the flat of the blade caught his shoulder and sent him staggering backward. Before he could recover, Mikos was gone again. A kick slammed into Gerik's midsection. Air exploded from his lungs. He hit the dirt rolling, dust clouding around him. Pain bloomed sharp across his ribs.

  Gerik pushed to his feet. He cracked his neck from side to side. Blood flecked his lips when he spat. In his mind the thought came clear and bitter: he had never figured out how to activate the damned copper luck bracelet. He was pissed.

  "He is very fast," Gerik thought.

  The audience roared. The chant started low, then swelled.

  "Fourth step! Fourth step!"

  Fourth step? Gerik filed the words away. It did not matter yet. He just needed to find a pattern.

  Mikos laughed, the sound carrying over the noise.

  "Give it up, you worm. I am just getting warmed up."

  He zoomed forward again. His fist collided with Gerik's ribs on the left side. Bone gave with an audible snap. Gerik flew sideways, skidding across the packed earth. Pain lanced white-hot through his side.

  The crowd surged.

  "Fifth step! Fifth step!"

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  Some voices shouted, "Kill him!"

  Others cried, "It's over for that clown!"

  Gerik regained his footing slowly. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He tasted copper.

  "One rib is broken," he noted silently. "Alright. He always seems to wait a few seconds before he generates the next movement. I'll..."

  A punch hammered into his chest. The force lifted him off his feet and drove him backward into the arena wall. Wood splintered behind his shoulders. He slid down, leaving a smear of blood on the timber.

  The crowd went wild.

  Gerik stood. Blood gushed from his mouth in a thick stream. Anger rose in him, hot and steady. Veins stood out visibly on his forehead and along his neck. He released both weapons from his belt, short sword in his right hand, dagger in his left. He ran toward Mikos.

  Mikos grinned wider.

  "Finally lost your mind, ha! Entertain me! Then when I have had my fill I will crush you!"

  Mikos began running circles around Gerik. The speed blurred his form into a pale streak. Gerik's initial charge halted as he tried to track the movement. Mikos darted in, tapped Gerik's shoulder with a mocking slap, then vanished again. Another tap, this time to the back. Gerik spun, but Mikos was already elsewhere.

  Gerik's hand tapped the bracelet absentmindedly while he thought. "Just one time is enough."

  A drop of his blood, shaken loose from his split lip, landed on the quartz bead. The bead began to glow, a dull bronze color that spread slowly along the copper band.

  Mikos zoomed in again. Five rapid punches landed in succession: ribs, jaw, stomach, shoulder, temple. Gerik staggered with each one, vision blurring at the edges.

  The audience believed he was finished.

  "Finish it! Finish it!"

  Mikos lined up for the next straight-line dash. As he accelerated toward Gerik, his boot caught on a discarded pouch from one of the previous battles. The leather bag, half-buried in the dirt, tripped him. His ankle twisted. He stumbled forward, arms windmilling for balance.

  Gerik saw the opening.

  "Now!"

  He rushed the surprised Mikos. A kick sent sand and dust into Mikos's eyes. The blonde man hissed, blinking furiously. Gerik grabbed him by the collar with his left hand, yanked him close, and slammed the crown of his head forward into Mikos's nose. Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed.

  "Not the face, you mongrel!" Mikos yelled, hands flying up to guard his features.

  Gerik let out a low grunt. He began punching. Right fist to the ribs, left to the jaw, right again to the temple. Mikos's arms broke under the repeated impacts, bones snapping with wet cracks. He could no longer guard his face. Blood streamed from his nose and mouth. His speed was his only asset in battle. In a contest of attrition and pure strength, Gerik outclassed him. And now, thanks to the luck bracelet, Mikos found himself in a dire situation he could not escape.

  The arena fell silent. Spectators watched in horror as a nobody pummeled their beloved. Roses lay trampled underfoot. Chants died on lips.

  Gerik continued striking. Mikos's pride refused to let him surrender. His eyes rolled back. His body went limp. He fainted.

  Gerik paused. He released the collar. Mikos slumped to the dirt. Gerik let out another grunt, wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, and began walking away.

  The announcer's voice cracked, then steadied.

  "T-the winner of this bout is Gerik Grimholt!"

  The audience exploded. Cheers mixed with stunned shouts. Some stood in disbelief. Others roared approval at the upset.

  Gerik walked into the waiting area beneath the stands. He lowered himself onto a rough bench, every breath pulling fire through his broken rib. Bruises bloomed across his torso and face. Blood crusted his lips and chin. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, and stared at the ground.

  This pain was nothing compared to the ache when he lost Remia.

  While he sat there, two heavy boots stopped in front of him. Gerik looked up slowly.

  Prometheus stood over him, arms crossed, grey ponytail swaying slightly. The giant's green eyes regarded Gerik with something close to respect.

  "Ha, ha! You fight like a warrior who has nothing to lose."

  Gerik said nothing.

  Prometheus nodded once, as though the silence answered him.

  “Well, if you make it far, you would be worth fighting."

  He turned and walked toward the fighting ground. The audience caught sight of him and went crazy, the roar shaking the timbers overhead.

  Gerik remained seated. He flexed his left hand. The bracelet's bronze glow had faded back to dull quartz. He stared at it for a lon

  g moment, then looked toward the tunnel where the next fighters would emerge.

  "One step closer." He thought.