Chapter 10

  Thomas looks down.

  So it’s six versus one—and all of them are at least as good as Matthew. The swordsman is fast, for sure. The Jamaican looks like O’Briola. And is that an android? No—an android boxer, so it’s being controlled. The axeman also looks tough; he might be stronger than the swordsman with those two mini-axes. Hmm—I can’t see the other two anymore, but those twins were short, looked like ninjas.

  So all in all, if I fuck this fight, I’m a dead man. I might be compressing my wounds, but that’s not healing. Worst-case scenario, they’ll tire me out and I’ll just bleed to death.

  Thomas smiles—just a hint.

  I haven’t danced with death in so long… I might get nostalgic.

  Thomas jumps.

  The four scatter, but it’s too late for one. Thomas already chose him as his landing board.

  The Jamaican looks up—but unfortunately, does so with a knee aimed at his face. Too slow to dodge, he puts his guard up, protecting his face, but at a cost.

  Crack.

  One of his arms breaks, and the force drops him to his knees.

  Even with one arm broken, the Jamaican tries for a counter—a hook to the ribs. Thomas dashes back to reduce the impact, but still—

  Cough.

  Cough.

  Blood oozes from his mouth.

  Without giving the man a second to breathe, both the ax-wielder and the swordsman charge. Two axes aim for his chest, and the sword swings low for the leg.

  Thomas moves—grabs both axes—and jumps to dodge the blade.

  With no movement wasted, he kicks the swordsman in the face, pushing him back. Now the ax-wielder is forced into a tug-of-war for his confiscated weapons.

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  Thomas decides to sweep the legs, but the man jumps, dodging—and takes the chance to counter.

  Mid air.

  Bang.

  A headbutt.

  Thomas lets go of the axes as he staggers back.

  Hmmm… did that ax-boy just copy my counter? The one I used on the swordsman?

  Thomas is distracted by the thought.

  Bam.

  Crack.

  A punch to the face connects from the android. Pure steel to pure face. The monster is pushed back toward the swordsman, who swings for the neck.

  Thomas, senses knocked back, still notices. He dodges low and drives a fist into the stomach. The swordsman steps back to reduce the damage, but still—the hit costs him at least a rib.

  Thomas turns and runs full speed toward the ax-wielder, fully determined. Feeling the bloodlust, the man swings both axes straight at his face—but Thomas jumps over the attack and continues running past him.

  Straight to the android.

  He steps right into the murder machine’s range.

  Boom.

  Hit to the face.

  Boom.

  Hit to the torso.

  Bang.

  Hit to the face again.

  In less than three seconds, Thomas hits the bot with blows so loud they could be mistaken for gunfire. With the machine damaged, he cripples it by the head, swinging it into the ax-wielder charging from behind.

  As the steel body flies, the swordsman can’t help but notice the robotic head still in Thomas’s hand, while the rest of the body collapses onto the ax-wielder.

  “Okay, fuck—we’re down a man!” the swordsman yells. “If we don’t get serious soon, this monster will be collecting our heads next. I hope you guys understand that.”

  The battlefield goes quiet.

  The three killers look at each other, silently confirming that rushing him together is the only option.

  The Jamaican runs in first, going blow-for-blow—but he’s outclassed. Each punch hits only air, and Thomas returns an ugly punch to the liver for his effort.

  His eyes go blank.

  As the punch lands, the swordsman dashes in again, still aiming for the neck.

  Thomas sees it—but—

  Too slow.

  Slash.

  Splitter.

  A clean cut to the collarbone. Blood scatters. Thomas freezes from shock and pain, eyes wide, teeth clenched tight.

  The once silver-shining blade is now dim, even in the moonlight. Deep red drips along the edge, drowning it of light.

  Thomas thinks: Is the swordsman getting faster?

  He compresses the wound quickly, but that second spent stabilizing costs him.

  The axeman throws an axe.

  Boom.

  Bone cracks.

  It lands right in Thomas’s ribcage.

  He drops to one knee. Lungs desperate for air, gaping as he drags in deep breaths.

  This is a problem. I can’t compress bone.

  Thomas scans the scene.

  Each fighter is struggling to breathe—ragged, uneven breaths everywhere. Even the swordsman looks close to collapse after his last attack.

  The situation looks bad on all sides.

  Just as Thomas thinks things are finally even, the three straighten—a second wind, fueled by the sight of his wounds.

  From then on, the slaughter begins.

  The three engage slowly, using hit-and-run tactics, gradually butchering the beast. The swordsman can’t land a vital hit, but carves shallow cuts across the body, each one peeling more flesh from Thomas.

  Every fighter takes pieces—slowly dismantling the giant. All of them barely hold on, each dodging blows that would kill outright.