Play The Edges

BlackSand Warrior Gauntlet

---

The air in the BlackSand Arena still smelled like him.

Sweat, blood, and smoke, cut with lavender. The last trace of the Purple Haze that had crowned his victory. It rose now in thinner coils, reluctant. The kind of scent a battlefield forgets too quickly.

Victor stood at the gate, helmet lowered. He didn’t move or stretch. Not like last time.

Romeo was quiet at his side. The jaguar’s gait had lost its perfection. Still sleek, still deadly, but limping now, favoring the rear left. There was no time for healing. Only memory.

Victor had watched all four of Tad Rogue’s matches. He had studied every movement. Tad wasn’t flashy like Antonia or Hurin. That was the danger. His shield did the dancing. He simply survived and won.

Victor didn’t hate that. But he hated what it reminded him of.

"Play the edges," he whispered, voice dry and low, scraped from stone. "Make him reach. Make him prove it."

He tapped the rim of his lavender shield. Not in salute, but to wake the rhythm. The double-blade across his back was already humming, its weight familiar and eager. Beneath the helmet, his scars tugged. None had faded. He wouldn’t let them.

The crowd roared overhead. It was different than last time. No longer hesitant, but divided. Two favorites now. Two legends stirring.

The gates rumbled open.

Victor stepped forward into the light.

He didn’t pause or wave. His cloak billowed once in the dry heat, then fell still. Romeo followed. Limp or not, the jaguar’s eyes were sharp, his mouth twitching in anticipation. They would die together, if needed. But they weren’t here to die. They were here to end someone else.

Across the sand, Tad already stood at center-stage. He looked loose and balanced, his cloak hanging like an old general’s flag. When it dropped, the familiar scars across his chest caught the sun.

Victor noted each one. A survivor’s map.

The rapier was unsheathed but held low, passive. The shield was already tilted forward.

The damn thing’s watching me.

Victor tightened his grip on his own shield. The horns of his helmet gleamed. Between them, the Rune of Mars pulsed faintly, like a war drum buried in bone.

Verus’s voice boomed from above.

"VICTOR. ELIMINATOR. OF THE RUNE RAIDERS... VERSUS... TAD ROGUE. OF THE ARENA."

There was no countdown. No horn. The crowd filled the silence with its own heartbeat, thunderous and breathless.

Victor stepped forward. Romeo flanked left. Tad circled right.

They watched each other like warships passing in a narrow bay.

Victor let his blade hang low, baiting the first move. Nothing. The shield didn’t twitch.

He feinted. Still nothing.

Then he struck.

A fast, lateral slash in a low arc, meant to draw the shield or expose the ribs.

Tad caught it. Not with effort, but with precision.

The shield tilted and absorbed the edge as if it had memorized the move years ago.

Victor danced back, spun, and attacked again from a higher angle, a vertical drop with more power.

Blocked again. Perfect timing. The shield didn’t react. It anticipated.

Victor growled. "Fine."

He dropped to one knee and swept the blade toward Tad’s shins. Too low for elegance, but that was the point.

Tad shifted. Sand sprayed. He half-hopped just in time.

Victor surged. The rhythm had begun.

Blade, shield, step, feint, circle, jab.

Every strike Victor threw found only surface—shield, sand, leather. He pressed relentlessly. Tad parried with the rapier only when forced, otherwise relying on the shield to shrug off impact.

Victor could feel the energy shifting.

Romeo growled again, this time with less confidence.

Victor didn’t turn. He couldn’t afford to.

He drove Tad back toward the wall, angled his horns forward in a bull’s feint, then reversed and spun for another slash at the legs.

The shield blocked it. Even before he swung.

That’s not just instinct. That’s cheating.

Victor stepped back and gasped once. Not from fear. From calculation.

Then he saw it.

A boulder, rough-hewn and about four feet tall, a leftover from some ceremonial altar or execution. Covered in scorch marks and purple dust from the last match.

Victor didn’t smile, but he angled his blade slightly toward it. Just enough.

Romeo leapt first. Claws out. Reckless. Beautiful. Tad turned too late.

The jaguar collided mid-leap, aiming for the shield.

It should have worked. But it didn’t.

The shield twisted mid-stride and caught Romeo full in the chest.

The crunch of breaking bone echoed across the arena. Romeo’s roar cut off mid-scream. Blood sprayed dark across the sand.

Victor surged behind him, blade raised. Let him think I’ll use it.

He struck high, then allowed himself to be driven back, retreating fast toward the boulder.

Tad followed. Slow. Purposeful.

Victor let him close.

Then leapt.

His boots slammed into the edge of the stone. His body twisted midair.

And from behind him, Romeo lunged. Not at Tad. At the shield.

The jaguar struck from Tad’s blindside. Claws extended. Jaws open.

It should have worked. But it didn’t.

The shield moved. A blur of metal and intent. It smashed into Romeo’s shoulder.

The sound was terrible. Not metal on bone, but bone yielding.

Romeo let out a guttural, shocked cry and collapsed into the sand in a heap of motionless muscle and twitching tail.

Victor’s breath caught. He landed awkwardly on the boulder. His blade nearly slipped.

He didn’t look at Romeo. He couldn’t. But something ruptured in his chest. A heat. A pulse.

The Rune of Mars flared with rage. Not battle rage. Loss.

Tad’s eyes flicked toward Romeo’s body. Just once. Then back to Victor. No glee. No sorrow. Only awareness.

Victor didn’t move.

Then he raised his blade again, slower this time, and jumped down.

The haze rose. Not celebratory. Confused. Purple smoke curled from the sand, unsure what it meant yet.

Victor didn’t know either.

His boots hit the sand with a crunch. The haze thickened. The true Purple Haze of his Rune, not for showmanship but mourning, curled from the seams of his armor like grief made visible.

It responded to pain. And Romeo’s death had torn a hole in him too wide to patch.

Tad advanced. He didn’t rush. He was present. Measured. A specter with a shield.

Victor stepped back. Then again. The haze coiled around his ankles, cloaking his movement.

Tad slowed as visibility faltered. That was all Victor needed.

He lunged through the haze, low and brutal. His blade struck with everything: grief, fury, silence.

Romeo had leapt into death so Victor wouldn’t have to. This blow would mean something.

Tad tried to parry. But he was caught mid-shift.

Victor’s blade rang off the rapier and sliced along Tad’s forearm. First blood. Real blood.

But the shield was already moving.

It struck Victor’s helm. Not with the edge. With a shove. A message. Back off.

Victor stumbled. Not far. But enough.

His boots skidded on blood-slick sand. The boulder loomed behind him. Too close. The kill zone.

Tad pressed forward. He didn’t smile or speak. He just jabbed. Precise. Unflinching.

One slash to the ribs. One flick toward the jawline. The shield tracked every motion.

Victor blocked. Once. Twice. He raised his shield in time to intercept a brutal jab. But the pressure was too much.

Tad was better. Not just practiced. He was evolved. An arena-born creature with no softness left in him.

The kind that didn’t mourn jaguars.

Victor roared and spun with a wide horizontal slash. He released one hand from the blade to increase torque.

It caught Tad’s thigh. Clean. Red.

The crowd howled. Purple haze burst around them.

Tad stepped back. The shield dipped slightly.

Was it hurt?

No. It was calculating.

Victor saw it. The pause. The shield wasn’t covering Tad’s side. Just for a moment.

He moved. A feint low. Then high. Then a twist toward the exposed shoulder.

He was in. He had him.

But the shield moved.

Not to block. To counter.

It struck Victor’s wrist mid-swing, knocking his blade off course.

Not out of his hand. But far enough.

Tad’s rapier darted in and pierced just beneath Victor’s collarbone.

Pain. Sharp. Real. The air thinned.

Victor staggered.

The crowd screamed louder. There were no sides now. Only hunger. They didn’t care who won. Only that someone bled beautifully.

Victor gripped his shield tight.

He couldn’t keep pace. Not like this. The shield was too smart. Tad too calm. And Romeo—

He didn’t let himself think about it.

Instead, he backed toward the boulder on the northwest side of the arena. Ancient. Cracked. Tall enough to matter.

Tad followed. But not too close. He saw the trap.

Victor ducked low, used the haze as cover, pivoted behind the boulder, and launched off it.

Verticality was the trick.

The crowd roared as Victor soared. Blade raised. Dropping with full gravity and fury.

The shield moved. Not to block. To bash. Midair.

It slammed into Victor’s ribs and knocked him sideways. He crashed into the boulder, shoulder-first.

Stone cracked. Something inside him cracked louder.

His shield slipped. Pain flared white-hot. His arm went numb.

He dropped to his knees.

Tad stood over him. Not gloating. Coiled. Precise.

The rapier was already angled for the strike.

Victor forced himself up. His shield dangled. His grip failed once. Then twice. He locked it back in place.

Romeo’s body lay twenty feet away. Still. Final. A dark splash of blood haloed him like a fallen banner.

The haze around him was soft now. Like mourning smoke.

Victor’s chest burned.

He swung again. Desperate. Sloppy.

Tad didn’t parry. He stepped aside and rapped the back of Victor’s knee with the shield.

Victor dropped again.

This time, he couldn’t rise fast enough.

The rapier’s tip slid under his chin and lifted the helmet slightly.

"Yield," Tad said.

It wasn’t mercy. It was ritual. His first word of the match.

Victor didn’t answer.

He reached back with his off-hand and drew the last blade. The dagger meant for moments like this.

Tad saw it. He didn’t move. The shield did.

It slammed into Victor’s hand and pinned it to the sand. The dagger spun free.

Victor’s eyes widened.

Tad exhaled. No words. No hesitation.

The rapier slid forward under the helmet. Clean into the throat.

Victor’s breath rattled once and stopped.

The Purple Haze rose. Slow and solemn. Curling upward like incense from a funeral pyre.

Tad withdrew the blade.

Victor’s body folded beside the boulder. Not torn. Not shattered. Just done.

Romeo had died saving him. Now Victor joined him.

The Purple Haze rose from both bodies. A single plume drifting toward the broken sky.

Entered by: 0xB9D1…4eA5