9. Kuana

The Prize Pool was a place of mixed emotions, a microcosm of prison society.

Each step towards the entrance felt like I was handing over the most precious part of me to an uncertain fate.

When Violet and I reached the threshold, I cupped her face gently and leaned in to kiss her.

Her lips, soft and yielding, were the sweetest reminder of what I was fighting for.

"Stay safe," she murmured against my mouth, her blue eyes filled with a mix of worry and admiration.

"I will," I promised, feeling the weight of those words.

She didn't know I intended on entering the pits today, and if she had, they would have resonated even more.

Releasing her with a lingering touch, I watched as she disappeared into the Prize Pool, her silhouette gradually merging with the dim lights.

A tidal wave of protectiveness rushed over me.

I couldn't stand the idea of her waiting, alone, at the mercy of whoever Claimed the Prizes today.

With renewed determination, I turned on my heel and made my way to the pits.

The corridors echoed with the muted sounds of the prison's daily life, but to me, everything was drowned out by the steady drumbeat of my own heart.

The pits were abuzz with activity.

Fighters, draped in their distinctive tribal colors and insignia, were warming up, practicing moves, or deep in meditation, prepping mentally for the fights ahead.

Bookmakers shouted odds while hopeful gamblers placed their bets.

The electric atmosphere was palpable, charged with anticipation.

I approached the sign-up desk, today manned by Brevik, a wiry, middle-aged Plujeer with a sharp eye for fighters' strengths and weaknesses.

His scrutiny was legendary, and many believed that his judgment often influenced the betting odds.

"Kuana," he said, eyeing me with a mixture of surprise and intrigue. "Been a while since you stepped into the ring. What brings you back?"

I took a deep breath. "Personal reasons."

Brevik smirked. "Ah, love," he chuckled, scratching down my name on the roster. "Makes us do the craziest things."

I didn't respond, just nodded, my focus already shifting to the challenges ahead.

"Considering you've been out of the game for a while, I'd expect you'd want a warm-up bout?" Brevik suggested, motioning towards a roster of inexperienced fighters.

My gaze was steely. "Put me in for the main event."

Brevik raised twin eyebrows — he had a pair of them above each eye — but didn't question my resolve further.

With a flourish, he added my name to the list of seasoned fighters for the day's highlight battle.

As I glanced at the roster, realization hit like a sledgehammer.

I was at the very bottom, with the lowest odds of winning.

Every other name above mine was that of a renowned warrior, some of whom had gone undefeated for cycles.

Walking away from the desk, the gravity of my decision began to weigh on me.

Had I bitten off more than I could chew?

The cacophony around me suddenly felt overwhelming.

I needed to center myself.

Finding a quiet corner, I sank into a meditative posture, focusing on my breath and visualizing the fights ahead.

The lessons from my past bouts flashed through my mind, guiding me in anticipating moves, counters, and strategies.

I felt a strange sense of serenity.

The anxiety and doubts were replaced with clarity and purpose.

I was fighting for Violet.

For us.

And that was worth any risk.

I snatched up a sword and shield, opting for minimal armor.

As the countdown to the fight began, I rose to my feet, limbered up, and approached the pit entrance.

Other fighters eyed me with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

Whispers circulated, some recalling my previous prowess in the ring, while others doubting my chances after such a long hiatus.

Ignoring the chatter, I took one last deep breath and mentally prepared myself.

Win or lose, I was going to give this everything I had.

Violet was the beacon guiding me, the light at the end of this tumultuous tunnel.

As I stepped onto the gritty floor of the pit, the roar of the crowd enveloped me.

Glancing up at the massive screen displaying the day's odds, my name sat at the bottom.

The underdog.

But sometimes, the underdog has the most to fight for.

* * *

The momentI stepped onto the gritty floor of the pit, the crowd's fervor reached fever pitch.

The atmosphere was thick with anticipation, like a charged storm cloud, ready to unleash its fury.

Opposite me stood Jark, a beast of a man, or rather, creature.

He was a Gomlian, a species known for their brute strength and very short tempers.

Towering over me, Jark was a menacing sight, muscles rippling beneath his greenish-brown skin, and sharp tusks protruding from his lower jaw.

"Well, look who it is. The ‘legend' returns," Jark sneered, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Hope you kissed your loved ones goodbye. I'm gonna tear you apart."

I took a steadying breath, focusing on the rhythms of my own heartbeat.

As a seasoned fighter, I was no stranger to the pre-fight banter, the attempts to unnerve and provoke.

But Jark was an artisan of annoyance.

"Oh, Kuana," he cooed, pacing around me in a slow circle, "I've heard tales of your prowess. It's a shame, really. To come out of retirement just to get pulverized by me."

Every word was a needle, trying to prick at my patience, to find the gap in my armor.

But today wasn't like the other days.

Today, my purpose was clear.

"I wonder," he mused, a wicked grin splitting his face, "what sound will your little human make when I show her your broken body?"

That hit close to home.

The image of Violet, scared and horrified, flashed before my eyes.

But I quickly pushed it away, refusing to give Jark the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.

I steadied myself.

He's just trying to rile you.

Don't fall for his tricks.

As the match was about to start, Jark leaned in, his foul breath hot against my ear. "Ready to get dismantled, legend?"

And with that, the klaxxon sounded.

Jark lunged, aiming to take advantage of his superior weight and bulk.

But I was faster, ducking under his massive arm and pivoting to the side.

His predictable moves were easy to anticipate, yet his taunting never ceased.

"Too slow, Kuana! You've lost your touch!"

His laughter echoed in the pit, but I remained calm, centered.

Every training session, every previous fight, every moment of meditation — it was all leading to this.

I had to be the calm in the storm, the stillness amidst chaos.

Another charge, another miss.

I could feel Jark's frustration growing.

But more than that, I could feel something else welling up within me.

Every provocation, every jibe, every insult — it was all accumulating, feeding a reservoir of pent-up anger and frustration.

Not just from this fight, but from all the injustices, all the years of incarceration, and the desperate need to protect Violet.

Jark, sensing his tactics weren't working, tried to switch his approach.

He feigned left, aiming to strike right.

But I saw through it.

And as he lunged, I saw my opening.

All the pent-up emotion, the anger, the frustration, the longing, the love — I channeled it all into one move.

With precision and force, I struck him right at the junction of his neck and shoulder, a weak point I knew Gomlians had.

It was a single, swift blow.

But it carried the weight of a thousand emotions.

Jark crumpled, his massive form hitting the ground with a resounding thud.

The crowd was silent, shocked at the unexpected turn of events.

The sudden expected turn of events.

Then, once my name lit up on the leader board and Jark's was extinguished, the crowd leapt to their feet and roared.

Without a backward glance at Jark's fallen form, I made my way to the exit of the pit.

The weight of what I had done, and the path I had chosen, settled heavily on my shoulders.

But there was no regret.

Only determination.

Looking up at the Prize Pool, a singular thought consumed me:

I'm coming, Violet. I'm coming.

* * *

The atmosphere wasthick with tension as the final match was announced. The deafening cheers of the audience filled the pits, a cacophonous backdrop to the scene that was about to unfold.

Across the arena stood Drakon, a colossal figure from a species known for its might and raw power, the Torgunians.

With a hulking frame covered in scales that glittered like obsidian, Drakon was a mountain of muscle.

This was the final hurdle, the last barrier between me and the assurance of Violet's safety.

"Kuana," Drakon rumbled, his voice echoing through the arena, "I've heard of your feats. But today, this old legend meets an unstoppable force."

I took a deep breath.

Unlike Jark, Drakon wasn't a creature of words.

He was all action.

The ground shuddered as he stomped forward, and for a moment, the weight of years away from the pits weighed heavily on me.

I was older, slower.

But I had something that brute strength could never match — a reason, a purpose.

The match began with a deafening gong.

Drakon charged, his speed deceptive for someone of his size.

Our first clash was a shockwave of power, both of us grappling, testing each other's strength.

The audience roared in approval.

As the fight progressed, it became clear that my absence from the pits had taken a toll.

My reactions were a fraction of a second slower, my movements not as sharp.

Drakon capitalized on this, landing a series of blows that sent me staggering back.

Each hit was a jarring reminder of the power disparity.

However, every time he advanced, every time he seemed to gain the upper hand, a surge of emotion welled up inside me.

It wasn't just anger.

It was fear, desperation, love.

Everything that Violet and I had shared, every moment, every touch, every whispered promise — it all rushed to the forefront of my mind.

My eyes began to burn, a telltale sign of the power I had hidden for so long, a power I swore never to use.

The audience, sensing something extraordinary, fell silent, their gazes fixed on the unfolding drama.

But I couldn't.

I wouldn't.

Not here, not now.

For Violet, for us, I had to win this without resorting to that darkness.

I closed my eyes for a moment, centering myself, channeling the lessons of my meditation, calling upon every ounce of discipline I had.

When I opened them again, the world seemed clearer, more in focus.

I could see Drakon's minute twitches, the slight shift in his weight, the subtle tells that betrayed his next move.

And then, with a speed that surprised even me, I dodged his next attack, sliding under his outstretched arm and landing a solid blow to his midsection.

Drakon grunted in surprise, his balance off-kilter.

Seizing the opportunity, I unleashed a flurry of strikes, each precisely aimed, each finding its mark.

Drakon, for all his might, was unprepared for this sudden shift in momentum.

He retaliated, but his moves were now more desperate, less calculated.

We were a whirlwind of motion, a dance of power and precision.

And then, with one final, resounding blow, I managed to knock the giant to his knees.

The crowd erupted, the roar deafening.

I stood there, panting, sweat and blood mingling, staring down at my fallen opponent.

Necks arched up at the leader board once more and, a fraction of a second later, my name glowed while Drakon's turned ash grey.

As the crowd continued to cheer, my thoughts were elsewhere.

Winning the match meant more than just personal triumph.

It was a step closer to securing a future with Violet.

And even more importantly, it was a victory over my own inner demons.

Drakon, to his credit, rose slowly, offering a nod of respect. "You still have it, legend," he rumbled.

I returned the nod. "It was an honor."

The weight of the victory, the toll of the fight, and the rollercoaster of emotions left me drained.

But there was no time to rest.

I had to ensure Violet's safety.