Page 34 of Brutal Union (Ruthless Mafia Kings #8)

No one’s done it clean in years. The last man to walk out spotless was Bhon himself—two years ago. Didn’t take a single hit. Left forty-nine bodies cooling on the floor. All assassin-trained. All dead.

All because he got in a fight with Aoi and Aoi said that was the only way for him to say fucking sorry. He was still in the dog house for six months after that.

Bhon walks to the weapons rack along the back wall and grabs a sword from the bottom. It’s shorter than standard, the grip worn down, leather peeling at the edges. The blade is dull, chipped near the hilt, and rusted along one side. He tosses it to me without warning.

I raise an eyebrow. “Awe…giving me a lucky charm?”

“No, smart ass. For your know-it-all attitude,” Bhon says, crossing his arms, “you’ll fight with that.”

I hold it up, examining the uneven edge. “If you want me dead there are easier, quicker, less time consuming ways to do so.”

“I want you humbled,” he replies flatly. “If you can win with that, you’ve earned something. If not… you weren’t ready anyway.”

I twirl the blade in my palm, letting its weight settle, flipping it between both hands like a gambler rolling dice.

Steel sings in the air as I swing it low, then high, getting a feel for its rhythm.

It's lighter than what I trained with under Bhon’s brutal regime, but that’s a blessing.

I’ll need speed. The men I’m about to face will likely be swinging three-foot swords, mistaking size for skill.

My best chance? Get in close. Carve them up before they can get their feet set.

I tear two long strips from the hem of my pants and wrap them around my knuckles, tight and steady. If I’m going to survive multiple rounds, I can’t afford to have my fists falling apart on me. Bone and flesh are easier to repair than pride. Bhon taught me that the hard way.

Once the pit is cleared, just barely, I step into the center. The dirt underfoot is still wet with blood, and the crowd simmers with anticipation.

“Round 1” Aoi yells.

My eyes lock on the first challenger: tall, ripped like a statue, long black hair tied back tight, and a blade twice the length of mine gleaming under the arena lights. He looks like he walked out of a martial arts folktale. I steady my breath.

This isn’t the first time I’ve danced with death.

Bhon once forced a cocktail of poisons into my bloodstream to build up resistance.

For a month, I hallucinated demons in daylight and begged gods I didn’t believe in for silence.

I fought a Shaolin monk turned sadist who beat me senseless and left me hanging from the side of a literal cliff.

Then there was Bhon’s idea of a "final exam": a bathhouse ambush, three assassins, and no weapons.

So yeah, when Bhon rings the bell, Aoi gives the signal, and the first opponent lunges. I smirk.

Compared to my past, this is foreplay.

He opens with a textbook jogeburi—a two-handed, vertical Kendo strike meant to cleave straight through me. Powerful. Precise. Clean. But far too rehearsed. I see it coming the moment his stance shifts.

With a quick sidestep to the right, I slip just out of range, swift and silent.

Before his momentum can recover, I close the distance and drive my blade into his side—controlled, deliberate.

His body tenses. His eyes go wide with shock as the strike lands.

For a heartbeat, he simply stands there, frozen, like his mind hasn’t quite caught up with what’s happened.

Then he drops.

The crowd inhales as one, stunned into a single, suspended breath. And then, as the body is swiftly carried out of the arena, the silence cracks open into wild, electric applause.

“Round two!” Aoi sings, her voice bright with amusement. I glance up and catch her watching me with that fox-smile of hers, the one that says she already knows what comes next—and she can’t wait to see it .

The next challenger steps into the pit with a kind of reckless energy that speaks louder than words.

He’s shorter than the last, lean but tightly coiled, all wiry muscle and old scars—trophies from fights I imagine he barely survived.

Twin sabers flash in his hands, and his eyes—wild, sharp—burn with something between desperation and mania.

He wastes no time.

The instant he’s within striking range, he lunges, blades slicing through the air with chaotic speed. There’s no rhythm, no discipline. Just raw, unrelenting aggression. The sabers whirl past me in jagged arcs, so close I can feel the wind of their passage kiss my skin.

I move with purpose—each step measured, each breath calm.

I study him, watching his shoulders, his hips, the flicker in his wrists before he commits to a strike.

He’s not a trained fighter. He’s not refined.

He’s a creature shaped by desperation and grit, a product of underground fights and instinct-driven survival.

Raw. Dangerous. But ultimately… predictable.

A quiet breath of laughter slips from me before I can stop it.

He hears it. The sound snags his attention just enough—his eyes flicker, his momentum stutters.

It’s not much. But it’s enough. I pivot and step inside his guard, closing the distance fast. My fist slams into his face—centered, controlled.

His head snaps back and he stumbles, off-balance, caught between fury and confusion. But to his credit, he doesn’t go down.

He recovers quickly, still swinging, but now it’s messier. Emotion has taken over. He’s more erratic, less precise.

As he commits to another reckless strike, I shift left, just out of reach. My body moves low and tight, legs sweeping his out from under him. His own momentum turns against him, and he crashes to the ground, arms flailing, the fall jarring the fight from his lungs.

He lands hard.

For a moment, he just lies there. Our eyes meet. Whatever fire was in them before has dimmed, replaced by the sudden, painful clarity that the fight is over.

I don’t give him a second chance. My blade is already moving.

When the match is called, the pit booms in excitement and anticipation, but this time I catch it, the flicker of amusement in Bhon’s eyes. The sharp edge of something cruel behind Aoi’s smile.

“It’s getting too easy for dear, old Sho,” Aoi purrs. “Let’s spice it up. Lucky Number Round Three: Three versus one!”

Bastards.

Three men step into the pit, one at my ten, another at my two, the last behind me at six.

They circle like wolves, waiting. Tallest one’s got twin sai.

The one behind me is strapped with combat claws.

The shortest, most compact of the three, spins a pair of kama, traditional Japanese sickle , bound together by a chain, like a dancer with death in his hands.

“This is all you’ve got?” I call out, arms wide, blade loose in one hand.

Bhon chuckles low. Aoi just grins.

Then instinct screams—and I duck just as claws swipe from behind.

I swing low and clip the clawed fighter’s thigh, enough to make him flinch, to throw off his momentum, but not enough to take him out.

He snarls and retaliates immediately, wild and unrelenting.

I twist to the right, avoiding the brunt of his counter, but a sudden flash of silver glints from my peripheral.

Pain flashes through my side like lightning, quick, hot, and sobering.

A sai.

The tip nearly sinks into my ribs, grazing flesh before I wrench my body away. The sting sharpens my senses. I spin on instinct and my elbow crashes into the tallest man's jaw with a meaty crack . He falls back, clearly shaken by what he thought would be a finishing blow.

But I have no time to follow through.

From behind, I feel it, the whisper of air, then the bite of steel.

The kama-wielding bastard swings from below like he’s trying to unspool my spine.

I jerk my torso forward just in time, the curved blade leaving a burning kiss up my back.

It’s shallow, but enough to remind me: these men didn’t come to test me. They came to end me.

My foot lashes out behind me, heel-first, and cracks into his sternum. He grunts, air rushing from his lungs in a strangled wheeze, and stumbles back, arms flailing as he regains his balance.

Finally some space.

I backpedal three quick steps and lower my stance.

My breath comes in short bursts, adrenaline surging through me like a well-oiled engine, ready to push further.

Blood trickles slowly from my side, warm and steady, but it doesn’t matter.

Pain sharpens me. Refines me. I was raised to endure worse. Hell, I was built for worse .

I glance between them, the three jackals trying to close back in. The tallest is dazed, jaw slack and bleeding. The clawed one limps slightly, favoring his left leg. The kama boy recovers, rage burning behind his eyes now that he’s lost the element of surprise.

They’re coordinated, I’ll give them that. But they aren’t synchronized. No true cohesion. No unified rhythm. They’re not a pack, they’re individuals who think numbers will save them.

That’s their mistake, because I don’t see three enemies.

I see three weapons. Three styles. Three weaknesses.

And I plan to use each one to kill the other.

They’re circling again.

Desperate to reclaim momentum, to convince themselves they still have the upper hand.

But I can see it, etched into their stances, the twitch of uncertainty in their shoulders, the falter in their timing.

They thought this would be an easy kill.

That three against one meant inevitability.

But inevitability doesn’t exist in my world.

Only outcomes. And outcomes are crafted by those who refuse to die.