Chapter 8 - A different Dog

“Next match! Level 3 bracket. Weapon match! Non-lethal clause waived. You know the rules.”

No penalty for killing.

“In the west corner, returning from a rough climb, the Silver Hunter!”

A scattered cheer rose from the stands.

“And in the east corner, undefeated in his last four matches, the one-man meat grinder, Haaaaagler the Breaker!”

That one got real noise.

Hagler stomped into the arena like a bull let loose. He had thick arms, a muscular stature, and two gleaming iron hatchets resting easily in his hands. His nose had been broken more than once, and he wore no armor save for a leather vest streaked with old blood.

Alden gripped his axe tightly, studying his opponent. Their eyes locked, and the pressure mounted.

“Ready to die, kid?”

Alden didn’t answer. He rolled his shoulders once, and hopped lightly on his feet. This wasn’t Silver Hunter’s first weapon match. After two years in the arena, he had been through his fair share of fights. And Alden was glad that he got to inherit those memories.

The signal horn blared. And the Hagler charged.

He opened the show with pure aggression. The first hatchet came in low. Alden slipped past it, pivoting off his back foot and landing a sharp kick into Hagler’s thigh. The man grunted, but didn’t slow.

He kept attacking, letting loose a second swing, arced high. Alden ducked under the swing, and then parried the next attack with his axe.

He stepped back, letting out a breath, trying to assess his opponent. But the Hagler was already pushing, trying to overwhelm him.

Another exchange followed. Alden used his axe to deflect a downward chop. Then turned the deflection into a twist, trying to hook Hagler’s wrist, but the man yanked free and elbowed him hard across the jaw.

Alden staggered, the world briefly tilting.

Focus!

Alden circled, forcing Hagler to pivot, and feinted low. When the man bit, Alden darted to the side and slammed the blunt end of his axe into the man’s ribs. He felt something crack.

Hagler howled in pain, and began swinging wildly. Alden ducked one, blocked the next, then lashed out with a sharp strike to the man’s exposed knee. The brutish fighter dropped slightly, failing to keep his balance.

Seeing it, Alden pressed the advantage. He unleashed three hits in quick succession: one to the gut, one across the shoulder, and one grazing the temple. But it still was not enough to drop the man.

Hagler backed up, his face twisted into an expression of rage.

“You wanna bleed?” he growled. “Fine!”

He came in faster than before, despite his injuries. He unleashed a sweeping combo: left hatchet low, right high, crisscrossing like a butcher at work. Alden dodged, but still got clipped. The sharp edge of the bottom hatchet tore a shallow gash across his side. He hissed, stumbled in panic, and Hagler moved in for the kill.

But Alden unexpectedly regained his composure. And instead of retreating, he stepped forward. He was now too close for the Hagler’s hatchets.

Alden’s forehead cracked into the Hagler’s nose. The man reeled, snarling, and Alden used the moment to drive his axe’s handle straight into the man’s throat.

His opponent gagged in response. And Alden didn’t hesitate. He twisted, dropping low, and swept the man’s legs out from under him.

Alden then pounced, his knee pining the man down, while he pressed his axe to his neck. A staredown followed. The Hagler’s brown pupils met his eyes. The man’s anger slowly slipped away, replaced by a growing fear.

The crowd started chanting, edging Alden on. They were screaming at him, telling him to finish the job. His grip around the axe tightened, but he made no further movement.

The match was already over, there was no need for him to go further.

Finally, perhaps seeing that Alden wasn’t budging, the announcer declared his victory.

The crowd screamed, some in outrage, some in triumph. Coins flew. Bets changed hands. Above the pit, the spectators buzzed with post-fight energy. The match hadn’t been flashy, not like some of the team duels or blood-drenched death brackets. But it had grit.

“Did you see that reversal?” one man muttered, leaning forward from the stone bench, still gripping his betting slip. “The kid baited Hagler into that overcommit. I’m telling you, he knew it was coming!”

“I kinda like his style,” another said, adjusting the dagger on his belt. “He’s got some nerves. I like the look in his eyes”

“Silver Hunter, right? I remember he fought in a rank-up fight not long ago.” A woman with cropped hair and a stitched coat clicked her tongue. “He failed miserably. I thought he’d be another debt corpse. Guess not.”

Similar conversations were unfolding in the tribunes. Little by little, Alden was gaining attention. They didn’t shout his name. Not yet.

But they remembered it.

Down in the lockers, Alden sat on the bench, sweat still drying on his skin, axe leaning against the wall beside him. He stared down at his trembling hands. The adrenaline from the previous match was still running high.

He felt sharp.

During the fight, every move he executed had come quicker than expected. Every reaction felt one beat ahead. When Hagler had swung wide, Alden’s body had already begun shifting, like it was finally responding correctly to his commands.

That wasn’t just the mere muscle memory anymore. Alden remembered how the old Silver had fought. He was tough, determined, and quick on his feet. But his body had never moved so naturally.

This had been different.

His footwork. His flow. Even the way his core shifted weight and torque through the axe, it was clean. It was the result of the Silver Hunter’s experience, coupled with whatever was juicing up his body lately. This was a step up.

“This is actually cool.” Alden muttered under his breath. The adrenaline, the high from the fight, the feeling of fighting, not just his opponent, but his fears. It had a unique feel to it, something new that he hadn’t experienced in his previous life.

“I could get used to this”.

*********************************

Jarek was not happy.

Standing along the throng of spectators, his bald head gleamed under the sun. His eyes were locked into the arena, eyeing the sandy pit like it held some secrets he was not privy to.

The kid had pulled another win.

Somehow, he clinched victory from the jaws of a much more experienced fighter.

Jarek could smell it, there was something fishy going on. He noticed the way the kid moved, the way he walked, and even the way he talked.

The Silver he knew didn’t talk, he listened. He was a total pushover that was supposed to win him money.

But now? He was talking back. Fighting harder. And from what Jarek observed, he wasn’t just surviving. He was planning something. That wasn’t like Silver. That wasn’t like the beaten mutt Jarek had kept on a short leash for nearly two years.

Something had changed.

Jarek knew the Hagler, and he knew the man didn’t lose to lucky swings. He didn’t get baited into overcommits unless the other guy had skills. And Silver? He never had those before.

Not like that.

Jarek’s fingers drummed against the iron railing, metal clinking in an uneven rhythm.

“Healing too fast… fighting too smart… even growing a spine,” he muttered under his breath, mind running.

Varo stood a few steps behind, silent as always.

“You feel it too?” Jarek asked without turning. “That itch down your back when something stops adding up?”

Varo didn’t respond. And Jarek didn’t insist. Sometimes, he never could guess what was happening within the mind of his partner.

A long pause stretched between them.

Finally, Jarek sighed. “That’s not the same dog I used to kick. We have to investigate before we make our move. If someone else is helping him, I would rather not get caught unprepared.”

Jarek turned slightly, voice lower now. “Keep your ear to the ground, Varo. Discreetly. If he’s getting help, we need to find out from where. If something’s changed, we need to know what, and how.”

Varo met his eyes, and for a beat, the usual pretense between them slipped. No boss. No muscle. Just two men who’d survived the arena’s filth in different ways.

“I’ll look into it.” Varo simply said.

Jarek gave a single nod.

“Let the brat run his little victory lap.” He murmured, turning back toward the hallway. “But if he’s aiming higher than he should… we clip his wings before he learns to fly.”

Varo remained behind, silent as stone. But his eyes betrayed a sharpness that didn’t fit his usual character.

************************************

Billy set the small stack of coins down on the desk with a clink.

“There you go,” he said, voice casual. “I added a little bonus. Consider it a thank-you for a good show.”

Alden’s eyes flicked to the money: eight bronze, nothing more. Yet he scooped it up like it was prize silver, tucking it away before even looking at Billy.

That alone told Billy plenty.

“You watched my fight?” the kid asked, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Billy shook his head. “Didn’t need to. The roars of the crowd said enough.”

The boy nodded like that was explanation enough and turned to leave. Billy watched him go with a raised eyebrow, then spoke up before he got to the door.

“Aren’t you going to arrange your next match?” He eyed the kid’s posture: no limp, no guarded ribs, and an energetic gait. “You seem to have walked out of that last one without a scratch.”

The boy paused, then nodded, shrugging off Billy’s inquiry. He asked if Billy had a proposition. They talked for a few minutes, discussing about his possible opponents, and settled on another rank 3 weapon match. When Alden finally left, the latch clicked shut behind him and the office fell quiet again.

Billy leaned back in his chair, sighing softly. His fingers tapped absently against the wooden desk.

Silver Hunter.

Back then, they gave the boy that name to spite him. He was just another pit rat with debt on his back and nothing but grit to keep him standing. Billy had seen hundreds like him. Some ended up rotting in the sand, others living just long enough to lose some limbs, and end up crippled.

And yet…

Billy sighed, thinking about the boy’s latest match.

Hagler hadn’t been a soft test. He chewed up men and spat out bones. Most who faced him needed a mop and a prayer by the end, if they lasted at all. But this kid? He hadn’t just survived. He had somehow won with all his limbs intact.

Billy liked that.

He pulled open the bottom drawer and took out a folded roster sheet. The kid’s name was already there, circled. Billy underlined it once. Then twice.

Eight bronze… scrap money. But the way the kid pocketed it, like it was worth something, told him the boy wasn’t dead inside yet. He almost seemed naive. For someone who had survived in the arena for as long as he did, it did not make much sense.

It brought a smirk up Billy’s face. The kid was cooking up something, putting on an act to fool them.

Why? Billy didn’t care. But he was curious, curious about the boy who suddenly decided to change after rotting in the arena for 2 years.

He reached for another sheet, personal notes written in a shorthand no one else could read, and jotted two names under Alden’s: Cutter and Denna. Cutter was raw fear in human form. Denna was spite wrapped in silk. Both were designed to strip a fighter bare.

He wouldn’t throw them at the kid yet. No, some couple more matches first. He had to push him, see how far his skills extended.

Rolling the parchment closed, Billy slid it back into the drawer and smirked to himself.