The second swipe, I manage to duck in time.
“Not fast enough,” I taunt.
“I’m going to kill you!”
“You’ll have to try harder,” I spit back. “Or move faster.”
I let my fist fly and land a blow to his chest. Blood blooms where the blade nicked him. It’s small enough for people to assume it was my nail. He stumbles back, and his eyes widen in surprise.
I take advantage of his confusion and grab his wrist, twisting hard, forcing him off balance.
“You’re stronger than you look,” he admits, between teeth gritted.
Sweat beads on my forehead, my palms slick with perspiration.
“You’re damn right I am,” I say.
I spin hard, breaking his wrist in the process. Rigel howls in pain, and I smile.
I duck his retaliating swing and drive my knee into his midsection. He doubles over.
When he recovers, he is more cautious. His smile is gone, and his strikes are less impulsive.
“You’re good,” Rigel says. The words are a low growl. “But don’t think you can win, Common.”
“Try me.”
Sweat blurs my vision, and my lungs burn. But I don’t hesitate. Every opening is a potential advantage.
I feint left and drive my fist into his sternum. More cuts line his flesh. He’s bleeding more with every swipe.
He stumbles back, and I follow, closing the distance between us. His chest heaves, moisture and blood slicking his skin. It drips down his torso in a watery pink line, darkening the fabric of his sweat-resistant shirt.
“You’re annoying,” he says. “And what the hell is in your gloves?”
“You mean this?” I hold up my middle finger.
He growls and lunges for me. I grab his arm, twist it behind him, and force him to the ground. My knee digs into his throat, holding him in place.
Three seconds are left. We each have five minutes to win. I just have to hold this position until the alarm sounds.
Rigel thrashes wildly, and I push harder, prepared to damage his larynx if he doesn’t quit it.
The timer screams. The fight is officially over.
I step back, chest heaving.
Rigel glares up at me.
“Good fight,” I say.
He ignores me and storms off.
The other circles are littered with the remnants of the ongoing fights. Everyone looks in bad shape. Even the victors.
Flint approaches me, wiping blood from his knuckles.
“You kicked ass.”
