Leaning back, I lifted my foot and pushed against his chest, forcing his lifeless corpse off my blade. As he dropped to the floor, the crowd cheered. I towered over the dead male, breathing faster but barely having even broken a sweat.
Then the crowd grew silent. I turned to face Master’s seat. The moment I looked up at him in the stands, I could see the rage simmering in his eyes. Of course, his always perfect public persona remained firmly in place. But I knew better. Inside, Master was erupting at my blatant disrespect of his orders.
Then, as Master stood to address me, my eyes moved to the female sitting on the floor at his feet. I swallowed hard. It was the High Mona.
The most beautiful female I had ever seen.
“901,” Master’s firm voice suddenly called out, snapping me from staring at the mona dressed in blue, whose eyes were focused on the floor. “Another victory,” Master complimented. But I caught the venom in his words. I fought back a satisfied smirk.
As Master was about to speak again, a male sitting a few seats to his left stated coldly, “You told me this match would be a good fight. Your animal just slaughtered mine in ten seconds flat.” The male stared Master right in the eye. He continued, “You had seen my fighter; therefore, you knew his skill level.” The male then looked to me and curled his lips. “This fighter far exceeded him in skill, which leads me to question your honor, Arziani.”
At that, the crowd began talking in hushed whispers. Arziani’s cheek twitched, betraying his rage at being questioned in his own house. No one questioned Arziani in this arena. So whoever this male was, he must have been important enough for Master not to order his immediate execution.
Master’s anger didn’t show; instead a wide smile spread on his lips and he assured, “I promise you this was an even match. But I take your point, 901 is a highly exceptional fighter.” He paused, then his livid gaze fell on me. “Perhaps even the best fighter my empire boasts.” His head tipped to the side. The anger that lay in his eyes gradually faded.
His hand dropped to his side. As my eyes followed the action, he ran his hands through the High Mona’s dark hair. The mona stiffened as he did so, and I had to work hard to restrain a sudden urge to rip his arm off.
I felt my teeth grind together of their own accord. Before I showed my anger toward Master, I masked my expression. But as I refocused on him, I caught him watching me closely, very closely. My stomach sank as his lips hooked into a brief smirk. Then, as if nothing had transpired between us, he held out his hands to the crowd and announced, “To show that my pit isn’t rigged, I shall stage a death-match tournament, the likes of which you have never seen before. It will be the greatest of challenges, pitting together my empire’s skilled and most ruthless killers. No rules, no restrictions—any weapon of choice, but no guns, of course.” The crowd cheered Master’s turn of phrase. “Any man can fight.” Master nodded in excitement and looked directly at me. He continued, “Then we shall truly see who is the best death-match warrior of all. We shall call on the champions from each of the gulags”—he turned to the male who had complained and added—“and my associates, that would be you, are free to enter whomever they wish.”
The male whose fighter I had just slain didn’t react, save to curtly nod his head. “Deal,” he replied, then flicked his wrist for his entourage to follow him out of the stands surrounding the pit.
Master reached down and took hold of the mona’s arm. He pulled her to her feet, and without dismissing me as protocol demanded, he moved in for a kiss. The mona submitted, as did they all. But as I watched Master’s eyes open and stare at me without breaking from her mouth, scalding fire traveled through my already twitching muscles.
When he pulled back, he dragged the mona away from the stands, flicking his wrist my way, my signal to leave the pit. Turning on my heel, I jogged to the tunnel and ran all the way to my cell. Just as I was about to reach the door, Master walked through a side door to meet me. Alone. He stopped directly in front of me.
He glared. I could see his intense hatred of me in every tense muscle under his suit. I stood fully upright, glaring right back at him, very obviously standing my ground. His jaw clenched. “You disobeyed a direct order,” he hissed coldly.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t react. I didn’t do shit.
He stepped closer. “You have fucked me over for the very last time, 901. I have needed you these past few years, and you’ve known it. You wouldn’t dare act this way if you didn’t know. You are unrivaled here in the Blood Pit, that’s beyond question. And now you have forced my hand with this fucking Ultimate Death Match.” Then he smiled, his head tipping to the side. “But now that I’ve calmed down, the more I think about it, the more it feels … right.” He paused, then shrugged. “Think of all the gulag champions, brought to Georgia, fighting in my Blood Pit. Think of the money that will be made from them ripping one another apart.”
His eyes flared and he inched closer. His warm breath washed over me, then he added, “Among the gulag champions, or my business associate’s own fighters, there may be one that can defeat you.” His cheek twitched. “Imagine that? Imagine finding a diamond in the rough, one that is stronger than you, quicker than you, more skilled.” He stepped even closer. “One that is obedient, bends to my will. Not one that is ungrateful and rebellious.” My anger boiled. Ungrateful.
As if reading my mind, he held out his arms and said, “I’ve made you into what you are: a fighter no one can match. I’ve given you this life, a warrior for the modern age. In this place, to the spectators I bring in, you are a champion.” He paused, then added, “You are a god.” He dropped his arms, his face switching back to a livid expression. “I gave you it. And this is how you repay me?”
I bit my tongue, forcing myself not to snarl that I bore no gratitude whatsoever to my master for condemning me to this hellish life. That I bore no gratitude for being drugged and forced to fight as a kid. That I bore no fucking gratitude to the male who had bestowed on me a life of solitude, where having feelings toward someone else made you weak.
No gratitude, only red-hot hatred.
So I welcomed this tournament. Maybe Master would bring me a fighter to finally end this life for me, save me from being Master’s pet. But I wouldn’t go easily, and that was his problem. My honor was all I had left, the only thing he could take away. I had fought and killed hundreds upon hundreds of opponents—so many I had lost count. But not once had any of them come close to ending me.