The pit had made him.

  It had taken the boy who did not know how to fight, the boy who only knew how to survive, and it had shaped him into something else.

  Something harder.

  Something sharper.

  The Red Blade.

  He had been called many things before—a mongrel, a savage, a northern cur thrown to the wolves. But now, the gamblers did not whisper insults.

  They placed bets.

  Not on whether he would win.

  Only how long his opponents would last.

  And yet, for all his victories, for all the blood left drying on the sand, for all the men who had fallen beneath his blade, the pit was not finished with him.

  Not yet.

  Tonight, they had one last fight for him.

  A fight meant to break him.

  Or crown him.

  Marion watched from above, hands folded in his lap, rings gleaming in the low torchlight. Loric sat beside him, arms crossed, his mouth a grim line.

  They had seen this before.

  This was not just another fight.

  It was the moment a man became more than just another killer in the pit.

  The moment he became a legend.

  The crowd was restless.

  They knew what was coming.

  The pit had been whispering of it for weeks, the gamblers had hiked their bets, and the house lords watching from their balconies had taken special interest.

  The Red Blade had cut through every opponent thrown his way.

  But now, he faced something different.

  Not one man.

  Not two.

  Three.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The Iron Fangs.

  They were not mere pit fighters.

  They were a company of killers, warriors who had served in the slave-legions of the Southern Lords, men trained not just to fight, but to win.

  Each had been given a chance at freedom—all they had to do was break the Red Blade.

  And so, when they stepped onto the sand, there was no hesitation in their movements.

  No fear.

  Only certainty.

  Tonight, they would kill a legend before it could be born.

  The bell rang.

  And the fight began.

  The first came fast.

  A spearman, trained for war, his movements precise.

  Korrak sidestepped the thrust, grabbed the shaft of the spear, and wrenched it sideways.

  The man stumbled—Korrak did not let him recover.

  He drove his knee into his gut, ripping the weapon from his hands, spun it once, and buried it through his throat.

  The first was down before the crowd had finished gasping.

  But the others were already on him.

  The second was a swordfighter, light on his feet, his blade darting in quick, controlled slashes.

  The third was a brute, wielding a war pick, swinging with bone-crushing force.

  Korrak had fought men like them before.

  But never together.

  They came at him in unison, their styles meant to break him down. The swordsman kept him moving, his blade forcing Korrak to stay on defense.

  The brute kept him from finding an opening, his swings forcing Korrak to retreat, each missed strike tearing through the sand like a hammer against glass.

  They were good.

  Better than anyone else he had faced.

  But Korrak had stopped fighting just to survive.

  He fought to kill.

  He let the swordsman push him back, let him think he was dictating the fight.

  Then, at the last second—he twisted.

  The brute had already committed to a heavy downward swing.

  By the time he realized his mistake, it was too late.

  His war pick slammed into his own ally’s shoulder, the blade biting deep into flesh and bone.

  The swordsman cried out, stumbled back, clutching his arm.

  It was all the opening Korrak needed.

  He moved fast.

  He stepped into the brute’s reach, grabbed his wrist, and wrenched the weapon free.

  The war pick was still slick with blood when Korrak slammed it into the brute’s chest.

  Once.

  Twice.

  A third time, for good measure.

  The big man fell like a felled ox.

  And then—only one remained.

  The swordsman was wounded but still alive.

  He knew it was over.

  But he still raised his blade.

  He still faced Korrak with defiance.

  And for that, Korrak gave him a clean death.

  One stroke.

  A single cut.

  The swordsman crumpled, his blood steaming in the sand.

  And the pit—

  Erupted.

  It was not a roar of joy.

  Not a chant of celebration.

  It was something else.

  Something deeper, louder, heavier.

  A recognition.

  A shift in the air.

  Korrak stood, chest heaving, his hands dripping red.

  His blade dripping red.

  And for the first time, the crowd spoke his true name.

  Not the name the gamblers had given him.

  Not the name Marion had whispered to himself, waiting for this moment.

  His real name.

  The pit had seen fighters rise before.

  It had seen monsters, legends, kings of the sand.

  But now—

  It had seen Korrak.

  And the world would never forget it.

  Korrak sees your admiration.

  And he hates it.

  He is not a hero. Not a legend. Not some specter that walks between myth and reality, meant to be whispered about in awe. He does not care for the songs, the stories, the drunken retellings of his deeds that twist and swell with each passing tongue.

  If you had stood before him, clutching your reverence like a fool clutching a dull blade, he would have only stared. And then he would have walked past you.

  Because to Korrak, it was never about glory.

  It was about the hunt.

  And if he still lives, it is only because there is always another chase.