Chapter Eight: The Trump Card Unleashed

The last warrior stood alone. His red hair was dull at first, like old firewood before the spark. He had not moved, not even when his brothers fell. He had not spoken a single word since the sun rose. In the beginning, many thought him useless, weak, nothing more than a lucky child among giants. Even as the warriors around him displayed their powers, the crowd never called his name. Only the Master, the Second Master, and he himself knew the reason for his silence. They carried a secret so heavy it pressed their backs down whenever they stood near him.

The Master, still standing on the edge of the stage, raised his stick higher than before. His eyes were burning with something desperate, something that tasted like fear mixed with pride. For the first time, I felt the weight of his stare settle on me, cold and sharp. He shouted, “Aha!” but there was something broken in his voice.

At first, the red-haired warrior only glanced up, still quiet, but he answered, soft as a whisper, “Aha.”
A shiver ran through the crowd. Some drew back, clutching their children closer, and even the fallen warriors turned, sensing that something had changed.

The red-haired warrior raised his head slowly, the glow from his hair deepening with every breath, strands burning bright against the gloom. The stage seemed to shrink around us. Even the shadows tried to flee the edge of his light. I caught the first hint of a twisted grin spreading on his lips, thin and sharp.

He stepped off the edge of his calm, so quietly at first you almost missed it. His feet barely touched the ground, yet the boards creaked and bent beneath him, warped by something more than just his weight. I felt the world tighten. The crowd, still and breathless, pressed forward, the children clinging to mothers, even the fallen warriors refusing to take their eyes from the stage.

He came at me. Not with a wild charge, but with a step—one, two, three, and then he was there. His left fist snapped forward, fast and silent, a jab at my jaw. I twisted, his knuckles grazing my skin, and I threw a quick elbow to his ribs, but he melted away before I could land it.

His right leg shot up, heel aimed at my side. I caught it with my forearm, the shock jarring all the way up to my shoulder, forcing me to take a step back. His hair flared brighter, and I saw the red fire in his eyes. He smiled, a real smile, like someone who’d just found something precious to break.

He circled, feet barely whispering on the wood. He faked a left, then his right hand lashed out, knuckles cracking against my collarbone. The pain sent a chill through my body. I grunted, sliding to my right, and as I moved, I caught a flash behind his eyes—something unclean, hungry.

He closed the gap, crouched low, and drove his shoulder into my stomach. The breath rushed out of me. My feet left the ground for a moment, the stage spinning, and I hit the boards hard, rolling away as his heel stomped down where my chest had just been.

I got up on one knee, breathing hard, but the redhead was already on me, a knee slamming into my face, blood spilling from my nose. I wiped it away, the crowd gasping, some screaming, the silence broken only by the sound of panic.

Behind the beerhall, I heard the howl of a dying animal. Birds fell from the sky, striking the earth with soft, heavy thuds, their wings still. The air darkened and grew thick, every breath sour. In the far field, someone wailed as maize wilted before their eyes, leaves curling and blackening.

On the stage, he swung a right hook—faster than anything before. I blocked with both arms, my bones ringing with the force. He threw a jab, a feint, then spun and caught me in the ribs with the back of his fist, each movement a blur of red and darkness. I staggered sideways, every nerve alive with pain.

He didn’t let up. He slipped behind me, arms snaking around my waist, lifted me and threw me over his shoulder. I hit the stage, wood cracking under my back, the breath knocked out of me. He was on me before I could rise, driving his fist into my jaw, his knee digging into my thigh. I rolled, just in time for his fist to bury itself in the planks where my head had been.

Now his power came with a smell, a sickening, sharp stink, and the world outside the stage grew wild—wind snatched at the thatch roofs, lightning flashed without a sound, the crowd huddled closer, eyes wide with terror. An old woman in the front row collapsed, her family screaming her name.

The redhead pulled me up by my shirt, his other hand crackling with dark red fire. He slammed his palm into my chest, sending me sliding across the stage, splinters biting into my back. I coughed and spat blood, the taste metallic and thick, my smile gone now, face tight with pain and focus.

He stalked after me, each step leaving blackened marks on the boards. His hands twisted in the air, and the wind roared up, whirling around us, choking the stage in a dust storm. He punched through the dust—one, two, three strikes, his fists everywhere at once, his elbows sharp and cold. I blocked one, ducked another, but the third caught me on the temple, making the world swim in red.

Somewhere in the crowd, a man fell to his knees, clutching his chest, the children behind him sobbing in fear. The disasters grew—the ground cracked, the trees on the edge of the ground curled in on themselves, their bark peeling back.

Still I stood, chest heaving, blood running down my cheek. He came again, swinging low. I dropped my weight, caught his arm, twisted, and for the first time drove my fist into his ribs, feeling the shock run through him. His eyes widened, for a second the red light inside them flickered.

But he only grinned, spit and blood mixing at the corner of his mouth, and the air shivered again. He swept my legs with a kick, brought his elbow down toward my face. I rolled, dodged, came up behind him. He spun, and for a moment we locked eyes—both of us battered, both of us burning with something that could not be stopped.

He leapt at me, both hands wreathed in shadow, claws forming at his fingertips. I dodged left, hammered his kidney with an open palm. The crowd roared and recoiled as he shrieked—not in pain, but in hunger, in the thrill of destruction.

All around us, the world was ending in small ways. Chickens dropped lifeless in the dust. A crack ran through the beerhall wall. Even the air seemed to ache, the sky dark and low.

I stepped forward, chest out, fists raised, and for the first time I showed my own anger, my own power. We circled, both breathing hard, and the world held its breath to see which of us would fall first.