Chương 140: Arc 3 - Chapter 12

They followed Nic out of the Nightshark's 'throne' room. Bert strode solidly, while Fritz held himself stoically, despite the hollow weight in his chest that was a remnant of the harrowing meeting.

"You lied to me," Nic said as he led them through a different set of tunnels, one that didn't lead them through the harem, much to Bert's disappointment.

"We got you good," Bert agreed. Nic grimaced.

"You killed Kev," he stated. Fritz was about to speak when the thug interrupted him.

"Don't bother denying it. I can tell piss from rain."

"I won't then. I killed him, strangled him with my leather laces," Fritz said, keeping his voice cold.

"Do you seek vengeance?"

"Vengeance? For that prick? Nah. But he was in a brown coat. As you two will be soon. And one of the rules is not to murder your fellows. Now that you're one of us, and you know better, the punishment won't be a slice down the cheek. No, it'll be a slice over the throat. Or worse." Jagged Nic ran his thumb over his neck, scowling as he spoke.

"You're surprisingly forgiving," Fritz hedged.

"What? You callin' me soft? Not me. I'm as spiteful as they come. It just has to be worth it," Nic said.

"I mean, Kev was your second wasn't he?" Fritz asked.

"Wouldn't that be 'worth it'?" Nic glanced over his shoulder at Fritz with a perplexed scowl.

"Do you want me to hold a grudge against you?" He growled.

"Well, no," Fritz said swiftly.

"I just thought it was odd that you'd be so... ambivalent about the whole affair." Nic shrugged.

"He was a dumb arsehole who pissed me off plenty. I go through a bunch of those kind of thugs. I get bored sick of their pointless cruelty. Honestly, you did me a favour, seeings as I didn't have to do it myself.

""If you didn't like him what stopped you?" Fritz asked.

"Kev only lasted as long as he did cause me sister was fond of her only son," Nic said.

"Can't see why," Bert said.

"Aye, but you know how mothers can be," Nic said.

"Not really," Bert said.

"Right, well, they can be mighty blind. Vengeful too, so don't go shouting about murdering the bastard," he warned. Fritz and Bert nodded.

"Wait, 'you go through a bunch of those thugs all the time?'" Fritz repeated.

"Didn't you say not to kill your fellows?"

"Those are rules you have to follow. I just enforce them," Nic said.

"Can't very well punish myself. Would be unthinkable it would."

"Is there a list of these rules somewhere?" Fritz asked.

"It's not written down, but we'll get to it later," Nic said.

"Or rather, Craig Cutter, will. When you get to learnin' what you can from the sneaky prick." Fritz nodded, noting the man's name. It was one he had heard before, though not as much as Larry's or Nic's, and it brought with it a bloody reputation, as most did in the gutters. The few tales he had heard of the man were those of quiet executions, throats slit in beds or quick stabbings in alleys. Though the latter could really have been anyone.

"Right, Bert, this way to the ring," Nic said, leading them out into the dark streets of the bluestone district. The rain came down heavily, the wind blew hard and the clouds threatened a storm.

"Can't wait," Bert said.

"But will there be any fighters who can match me?"

"Just you wait, we got all sorts down here. Including some foreign folk looking to test their mettle and make some triads."

"Is it only fists? Or are there duels too?" Fritz asked somewhat intrigued and considering trying his own hand.

"Mostly fists," Nic said.

"We don't have the same Treasures or skilled healers as the duelling ring in the Upper Ring. So a bad wound from a weapon or Ability is more likely to be deadly."

"Not for me," Bert boasted.

"Aye. I'm thinkin' you'll do well," Nic agreed.

"What are the prizes like?"

"Mostly gold and glory," Nic explained.

"I can do with the gold, but I can't spend glory," Bert said.

"You can. But maybe glory is the wrong word for it, it's more like uh." Nic paused, searching for a word.

"Notoriety?" Fritz provided.

"That's right. Notoriety. People will fear you before you have to threaten them. Always makes our job easier if they've already seen you beat a man into a paste. Wastes time havin' to show them that you can break them to bits without hassle." Over his conversation with the man, he was finding the thug to be more cunning and collected than he had previously assumed any of the Nightshark's bosses were.

Though it made some sense, Nic wouldn't have survived as long if he was simply a mean brute like Fritz's previous gang boss, Kind Ron, was. They strode through the rain to a large building with a heavy, iron-banded door. Nic knocked, and a slot set in the wood opened, revealing hard eyes. The man on the other side recognised Nic and let them all through without question. The smell of rust was heavy in the air, or perhaps it was dried blood. They made their way down some stairs, into a great domed cavern.

Terraced, stone benches rose around a circular walled field of dirt, and held at least enough sitting room for a thousand people. In the ring, no less than three fistfights were happening at once. The cheers and jeers of the audience rose and fell with the intensity of the action below.

"Where did all these places come from?" Fritz wondered, thinking the smooth underground domes too similar to be anything naturally forming. Nic shrugged.

"It was before my time, but I hear that The Nightshark hired a stone shifter to carve them out."

"Huh. Must have been expensive," Bert said.

"Never asked," Nic said.

"Right, let's get you on the list, Bert." Bert nodded. The thug trudged away and began to talk to a man in a thick coat and a tall hat. The man listened to Nic, nodding along. Bert turned to Fritz.

"You gonna join up too?" He asked. Fritz was tempted for a moment and gripped Quicksilver's pommel. While he was considering the notion, he heard a sharp crack, then the roar of the crowd. He saw a man wavering on his feet, his jaw broken. It hung loosely as the fighter tried to stay standing, only for a punch to send him to the bloody dirt with a thud, accompanied by more cheers and boos. Fritz grimaced at the sight. The overwhelming noise was beginning to give him a headache.

"I think not. I like my skull intact and my jaw unbroken, thank you," Fritz stated.

"Suit yourself softy-squid. I'm gonna get in there and show them what I got," Bert said.

"Watch my first bout won't you?"

"Of course, it's your debut!" Fritz agreed easily.

"I'll be there with a beer once it's over." Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"You better make it a whisky," Nic said, having returned.

"You'll want to celebrate."

"Why's that?" Fritz asked.

"We have a bit of a tradition down here," Nic said, nearly smirking.

"But you'll see soon enough. They're finding your opponent, might take almost an hour, depending on where he is."

"It's someone specific then?" Fritz asked.

"Don't you worry about it. Come, let's watch some fights while we wait," Nic said.

Bert was excited. After watching a few fights and having more than a few drinks, he had been led into a small room and been told to change into clothes that 'weren't so fancy.' He did so, setting aside his Mer Spire clothes, pulling on some rough trousers and tying them tight with a belt of rope. Humming tunelessly, he wrapped his hands and wrists with some strips of cloth as was outlined in The Arte Pugilist. Bert forwent a shirt, as most did, knowing it was just more to grab onto.

Looking down on his bare chest, he noticed the dark new mark and worried. That black fang was meant to kill him if he spilled any secrets. He wasn't at much risk of that, he feared more for Fritz. That idiot really couldn't keep his mouth shut. With a small effort Bert shook the worry off his shoulders, it wasn't like him to care about such things. So he wouldn't, he'd leave all that to Fritz. The crowd outside cheered and it called to him.

The sound was just like that of his Sanctum's arena, and soon they would be screaming his praises, which he deserved. He'd give them a show and a half.

"Ready?" The man in the tall hat asked.

"How's your neck? It healed up?" Bert ran a hand over his throat. It had mostly recovered. Those four shallow cuts were now glossy pink lines, having been aided along by some Ability the ring's healer had used.

"Yep, all better," Bert replied eagerly, letting his passion show.

"Who am I fighting?"

"You'll know 'em when you see 'em," the man said.

"Know the rules?"

"Mostly," Bert replied.

"Well for this bout: No Active Abilities or Traits. It'll just be your passives and personal fighting skill, got it?"

"Got it!"

"Go on then, you get the whole ring for yourself on your first fight, make it count!" Bert rushed past the man and jogged out into the hall, then into the ring and onto the dry dirt. He raised his arms to some scattered applause and a couple of cheers from some of the drunker members of the crowd and set himself in the middle of the arena. He spotted Fritz's handsome face in the audience, his fine features set surely, as if he had perfect confidence in his blood brother.

Bert knew that some of it was an act, but it still settled his own nerve. He waited for his opponent to appear. A large, lumbering man with a gut like a boulder, strode out. Jeers, yells and a few high whistles sounded as the man made his way to stand before Bert. He was close-shaven and scarred, a common style for the thugs in the gutters. The man smiled crookedly, in a way that almost looked compassionate. Bert grinned back in grim recognition. He clenched his fists, holding back a flurry of punches.

The eager desire to fight, shouting in his centre intensified threefold.

"Albert," the man grumbled out.

"Made it out did you?"

"I survived and I'm stronger than ever," Bert answered.

"This the tradition then? Beat the guts out of your old boss?"

"If you can," Kind Ron spat.

"But in my long experience, it's more to show you who's still in charge. And who's stronger. And unless you done some serious Climbing you're gonna come out of this hurt. Very hurt if I can help it."

"Hah, you think you can? I ain't a kid a ninth your weight anymore. You may be out of practice fighting someone your own size for once. And from where I stand you are looking... small." He said the words casually, in an annoying manner Fritz might have affected, and the man's smile fell away, revealing the brute below. Kind Ron loomed over him, almost a foot taller than Bert himself and definitely broader, thick like a tavern's door.

"I'm going to break every bone in your body, right in front of your 'friend'," Kind Ron promised.

"You think he'll shed some tears for you?"

"He would, but he won't have to," Bert said simply. He relished the idea of crushing this man, smashing him to pieces for all the torment he'd put him and his crew through over the years. For all those punishments; black eyes for 'not meeting quota; bruises for 'talkin' smart'; broken bones for 'fightin' back' and a dozen other cruelties. Bert was never one for revenge, he found that it was a lot of effort for little satisfaction. But in this case, he would be happy to mete out some punishment of his own.

No, he would mete out a lot of punishment and leave this man a broken thing. He grinned and he knew it looked mad, but he couldn't help it, he needed to hurt this man. It would help set things right. And if it didn't, it would feel good all the same. Bert took a moment to feel the power coursing through his veins, the beating of his powerful heart and pulsing Vitality. It felt like someone was pushing on him, like he was a dam holding back the flood. Yet, he had no idea what to do with all the water.

A bell rang, signalling the start of the fight. Kind Ron didn't move, he stood there smiling crookedly, thinking Bert's vicious grin some bluff. First thing first: wipe the smile off that ugly face. Bert pulled his arm back, then threw himself forward with all the coiled strength in his limbs. He swung his fist in a hook and it connected solidly with Kind Ron's jaw. With a meaty thwack, the thug stumbled sideways and almost fell straight into the dirt.

He caught himself, stopping his collapse by stiffening and setting himself in a solid stance. With a hateful glare, he struck out with an uppercut that Bert narrowly avoided. Ron spat blood. Although Bert's hand ached like he had punched a stone, he grinned. Bert pulled himself inward, raising his arms to shield his body, crouching ever so slightly and beginning to sway slightly. In response, Ron lifted his own fists and stepped forward, throwing punch after punch in a steady, unshakeable rhythm.

Bert dodged and weaved, each of the blows sailing past his shoulders or over his head. He repaid the thug's attacks with counters of his own, landing punches to the ribs and gut that would cause a normal man to stagger or tumble. It only caused Ron to wince and redouble his efforts. The thug's swings grew wider, air wooshed past Bert's ears as he nimbly avoided another punch. Though the strikes were clumsy they weren't at all slow, and it was getting harder to move through the barrage of powerful blows.

Another wild punch went wide and Bert went for another counter, slamming a fist into the man's ribs, again, and feeling the pain of striking something akin to a statue. The man's flesh was at least as tough as Rosie's, and without any of the scales or smoothness. Bert decided to risk another attack, sweeping out a kick straight into the thug's knee. Unfortunately, this seemed to be what the thug was waiting for. As Bert reeled from the aching impact, Ron seized his leg and pinned it to his side.

Caught, Bert suffered the man's next punch full on his face. Something broke, his cheekbone shattered. But it reset and reformed almost instantly, his Inscribed Bones drawing on the pounding power that dwelt within his heart. Another hammer blow sent Bert to the ground, this one only dislocating his jaw before it snapped back into its proper pace. He lay there for a moment, letting his brain recover from its rattling.

He suffered a kick to the back as he lay there, it shook his body, but thankfully didn't break any further bones. Ron raised his arms in triumph, to the roar of the crowd, stealing the cheers that should have been Bert's. Anger, deep and hot. A storm, roused from slumber began to scream. His ears rumbled with the thunder and he could no longer hear the crowd or the cheers. Bert stood, then he charged.

He let the Arte Pugilist guide his movements, but also added in his own brutal bent as he rained punches on the surprised thug. The thug struck back, rocking Bert backward. In his rage, Bert continued his assault, only putting up the most marginal of defences and instead dedicating all his focus to beating the thug into a paste. They traded blows, Bert receiving the worse of it. His skin wasn't as tough, he had no Durability to rely on.

And just now he noticed that glittering between the thug's fingers, wedged securely in leather-wrapped hands, were shards of jagged glass. Once clear, now ruby, edges gleamed as they sliced bleeding lines into flesh. Bert roared with laughter, embraced the beating storm in his heart and leapt forward again and again. He pushed the pounding power into his aching limbs, felt his muscles swell with strength and became a surge of striking fists.

Blood, Bert's blood, splattered the dirt, ran down his countless cuts, spilling everywhere. But it wasn't he who looked afraid, it wasn't him who now stepped back after each blow. No, it was Ron who gasped for breath, who staggered back. Each strike they exchanged drained the thug, hurt the thug, and finally, with one brutally compact blow, broke the thug. First, it was the man's ribs that snapped, then it was his arm, then his nose and jaw. Ron fell, Bert didn't stop.

His knuckles were on fire, his fingers throbbed. Every punch shattered something in his hand, but also ruined Ron wherever he struck. Bert laughed again, the pain fading, the thunder retreating. The roar of the crowd was back, they'd gone as mad as he had. Eventually, something stopped him from thrashing the groaning thug. Bert looked down at the crumpled, cowering man. He was... weak.

This tyrant had been his and Fritz's bane for years and now he was grovelling in the dirt, splattered in blood, covered with rising bruises, his skin studded with the protruding bumps of broken bones. Bert spat on him, raised his blood-soaked arms to the crowd. And they cheered. Elation sang in his chest, a rising, ringing tone that felt like the sunrise. He revelled in the feeling, both the song and the crowd's calls. He yelled out his victory. Proclaimed his dominance. And they loved him for it.

It had been a good fight. One of the best.

The fight had been a gruesome affair. Although Fritz never countenanced the idea that Bert might lose, he was worried for but a moment when he first fell from one of Kind Ron's punches. He'd been caught off guard by the thug's greater experience brawling and suffered for it. Kind Ron's dominance only lasted for mere moments, Bert was on the man with those blisteringly fast punches and brutalising blows the Arte Pugilist had taught him.

When the two had begun to trade punch for punch kick for kick, Fritz knew the fight was over. Or would be, eventually. Bert could outlast anyone. The cuts and blood, while terrible to look at, didn't slow his brother's onslaught for a moment.

"Hah," Nic chuckled, grasping Fritz's shoulder and shaking him roughly.

"That boy's a born brawler, true as the rain!" Fritz watched on, his grim enjoyment of the beating his former boss was receiving started to sour his gut by the end, but he didn't take his eyes away from the blood and broken bones. No, he had to witness this, if not for himself then for Bert. He found himself standing applauding and calling out the name the arena had bestowed his brother.

"Bloody Bert! Bloody Bert! Bloody Bert!" Soon the ringmaster appeared, pulling Bert away while two other men carried the mess that was Kind Ron away. Fritz hoped the healing went wrong.

"Come on, let's get our winnings," Nic said, rubbing his calloused hands together. Fritz finished his mug of beer and followed the man to the bookie. Fritz had bet one gold triad on Bert's victory, the maximum for a first bout, and received ten in return. It was the easiest gold he made in his life. He could get used to it, though the odds would likely never be this high again now that they'd seen 'Bloody Bert' fight.

His brother didn't fight again that night, he said he was 'feelin' a little woozy', even after some more healing. They had cleaned him a little, but he was still scored all over and covered in blood, they let him keep the pants and Fritz carried his clean clothes for him. After roughly congratulating Bert on the great fight, Nic let him go, waving them both away and grinning as he hefted a bulging sack of coin. Then they were out into the heavy rain.

It washed away all the blood covering Bert's upper body, the red streams flowed into the gutters, as all things did. Fritz got an arm under his brother and listened to him complain about how Kind Ron had cheated.

"Had spikes of glass hidden in his wraps," he grumbled.

"Bastard."

"What a prick," Fritz agreed.

"Still, I got him back alright," Bert said proudly.

"You did. A mighty fine job," Fritz agreed, dragging Bert along.

"And I won some gold betting on it."

"How much?" Bert asked.

"Where's my cut, I did all the work."

"Ten triads," Fritz said, handing the man his half without complaining.

"Good odds," Bert said.

"Wonder why they were so high?"

"Apparently the bastard was around level twelve, was a skilled brawler, and had a bunch of Durability and Strength increasing Traits and Passives," Fritz espoused, having found this out by listening to the crowd.

"Against a comparative nobody, whose level was high but with unknown Powers they set the odds against you. Nic also probably had something to do with it." Bert nodded and they trudged through the rain, heading back home.

"Do you like your new name?" Fritz asked.

"Bloody Bert?" He grinned.

"I love it." Fritz smiled back.

"We'll have to get you one soon. Wonder what they'll call you," Bert mused.

"Flighty Fritz?"

"Fritz Fearsome," he rebutted. Bert laughed at that.

"No chance!" There was a flash of light in the sky and a rumbling of thunder. Fritz felt a disturbance in the strong wind and stopped in his tracks.

"What's wrong?" Bert asked. Fritz pulsed his Awareness and after a moment of searching, feeling no danger or ill-intent, he continued walking.

"Nothing," Fritz said.

"Just the wind." They were through the gates, then on the road home when the rain took a turn for the worse, cold drops the size of grapes pelting down in their heads. Fritz shivered and set himself to walking faster. They arrived home, Fritz opened the front door and they stepped into the hall. They dried themselves as best they could, and strode into the lounge where they joined a waiting, worried team.

"How did it go?" George asked stoically, his eyes glued to Bert's pale features and bleary smile. Obviously, the man was trying not to stare at the bruised bare chest and bloody cuts.

"As well as could be expected," Fritz said and he and Bert trudged to the gently burning fireplace. They warmed themselves and Fritz gave a small account of their doings, careful to mind his tongue lest the cursed mark activate. The team had questions, and Fritz did his best to answer, but soon he and Bert retired to their rooms, stating that the day had been rough and the night even more so. Fritz lay on his mattress, his sheets still crumpled from the night before. The window rattled, as the rain battered it.

Flashes of lightning briefly lit the room and thunder shook his bed. He sighed heavily, grappling with his survival and what his servitude to The Nightshark might mean. If it was anything like the fighting rings he might be in some trouble, the deadly kind. But what else could he truly expect? He was almost fading into sleep when he heard something. A tapping on glass and a voice. He had initially thought it merely the rain and wind, or a pleasant dream.

But when he turned to look there was a figure, hooded and cloaked, standing outside his bedroom window. His heart skipped a beat.