Worthy of Their Roar
BlackSand Warrior Gauntlet
They were chanting his name before he even stepped into the sand.
“HUR-IN. HUR-IN. HUR-IN.”
The sound was a drumbeat. Insistent, primal, laced with prophecy. The tunnel walls echoed with it, carrying the rhythm straight into his chest like a second heartbeat.
He smirked and rolled his shoulders, the leather cloak rustling against his bare back. Sleek, worn, and more for drama than protection. He liked it that way. Protection was for people who planned to lose.
And he didn’t plan to lose.
The golden sports band on his bicep caught the torchlight as he stepped into view, raising a hand to greet the crowd like a king accepting tribute. A roar followed. One of the women in the front row screamed his name with a voice full of worship. Others followed, a chorus rising behind her.
He blew a kiss and made a mental note to visit her after. They’d paid to see a show, and he was going to give them one worth remembering.
The sand crunched beneath his feet, soft and warm, broken only by the weight of his own legend. He could feel it stretching behind him. The wins, the perfect strikes, the humiliations he’d handed out like gifts. This wasn’t just another match. This was a coronation.
His eyes found Verus at the edge of the arena. The old man sat still, sword across his lap like scripture, watching without expression. That was fine. Hurin didn’t need his blessing. The crowd had already made their choice.
Across the pit stood his opponent.
Victor.
Victor, Eliminator of the Rune Raiders.
The name carried weight. Earned weight. And the man? He had presence. Lavender cloth. Scars in all the right places. A big, moody cat at his side. Bold branding, Hurin had to admit. But all that color? That polish? It looked better on stage than it ever would in a real fight.
He studied him carefully. The double-blade. The broad shield. That horned helmet. Dramatic, sure, but helmets were for people hiding something. And Hurin didn’t wear one.
He let the crowd see his smirk, his wink, every exaggerated shrug of confidence like a lover drawing back the sheets. He stepped into the center of the pit and spun his bo staff in a lazy, one-handed arc, just enough to make the wind sing.
Victor didn’t move. The jaguar at his side circled low and silent. All muscle and menace, like a second set of eyes with claws.
Hurin grinned.
“Cute pet,” he called, just loud enough for the front rows to hear. “Hope he’s got a healer on standby.”
A few laughs. One gasp. A ripple of attention.
Perfect.
He tilted his head and sized up the space. Not too wide, but enough to dance. Then Verus spoke. A single word, sharp as a blade:
“BEGIN.”
Hurin exhaled slowly. Let the crowd vanish. Let the noise fade. Let the heat settle into his bones. It was time.
He didn’t charge. Didn’t posture. He eased into a low, balanced stance, eyes sharp, every muscle humming with anticipation. The staff angled across his chest like a second spine.
Let the purple prince make the first move. That’s how gladiators lost. Not by being slow, but by needing too badly to be seen.
Victor wasn’t playing for the crowd. No flourishes. No flashy footwork. No shouted threats. He just stood there, steady and unreadable, the jaguar crouched like a heartbeat made of teeth and silence. All lavender and menace.
Hurin took a slow breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. He wasn’t nervous. Not yet. But he still adjusted his grip on the staff. Just in case.
The wood was warm from the sun, smooth and familiar. Like an old friend that didn’t ask questions, only broke faces.
The crowd had gone quieter. Not silent, but waiting. It was the hush that always came before the blood. Somewhere in the stands, a woman screamed his name again. He grinned. Didn’t look her way. Let them ache for it.
He took a step forward. Light. Calculated.
Victor didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. His stance was fused to the shield like the man had grown into it. The kind of patience that couldn’t be taught, only earned.
Hurin respected that. But respect didn’t win fights. Reading habits did.
He flicked the staff in a low, testing arc toward Victor’s ankle. A simple feint to feel out range.
Victor didn’t block.
He jumped. Pivoted mid-air. Came down with a blade-arc so wide and brutal, it was meant to end something.
Fast. Too fast.
But Hurin wasn’t there. He slipped sideways. Spine curved like a bow, and felt the breeze of the blade slice past his ribs. He turned with it. Let the spin carry the staff behind his back in a slow, lazy flourish, then stepped out of range like they were dancing.
“Feisty,” he muttered under his breath.
Romeo was watching him now. Eyes sharp. Tense. That cat had murder in his bones. Too well-trained to pounce early, but waiting.
Good. Let the cat commit first.
Hurin tapped the staff against the sand, a subtle beat, then struck again, a tighter flick aimed at Victor’s side. This time, he made contact. A shallow smack against the shield. Loud enough to echo like an insult.
Victor surged forward.
Hurin smiled wider. The man didn’t just hit hard, he hit with purpose. A high feint, then a low sweep. Execution moves.
If Hurin hadn’t been watching his feet, he might’ve bought it. But he was watching. He parried with a snap that vibrated up his wrists.
The shield came next. A full-body bash meant to break through his line.
Hurin ducked low, rolled under, and rose on the other side with the staff already at the ready.
He wasn’t just reacting. He was controlling the tempo now.
And the crowd could feel it. He heard it in the cheers, in the subtle shift of their noise, rising in pitch like they knew he had it in hand.
He could see it in Victor’s posture. The Rune Raider was starting to shift his weight more. Not attacking, just recalibrating. Trying to read him.
Hurin gave him a gift. He opened his stance slightly. Just enough to suggest an opening. A mistake. A temptation.
It was bait.
Victor didn’t bite. He stayed coiled, anchored in that same unreadable stillness. Smart. But patience came with a cost.
It meant Romeo would have to make the next move.
Hurin’s eyes flicked to the cat, who was beginning to circle wide, just like he’d hoped. One well-timed back-kick would land like a war drum.
And Victor? He’d have to choose... protect the cat, or protect himself.
Either way, the crack was coming. And Hurin was already winding up the hammer.
Romeo lunged. Not a pounce, a maneuver. The jaguar moved fast, low to the ground, slicing across Hurin’s periphery like a whisper wrapped in muscle.
Hurin didn’t flinch. Didn’t overcorrect. He rotated on his heel and let the momentum guide a snapping backward kick, heel-first, straight into the cat’s ribs.
A solid thud followed. The crowd gasped as Romeo tumbled, not broken, but staggered. It was the kind of blow that played well with an audience. Flashy, clean, dominant.
Hurin could feel the cheers building again, rising beneath his feet like a second wind.
“Sorry, kitty,” he muttered. “This is the grown-up’s table.”
He didn’t glance at Victor. That would’ve spoiled the effect. Instead, he exhaled once to reset, already calculating the next three moves.
Victor would check on the cat. That’s what pride does. And pride always opens the door.
But Victor didn’t turn, not fully. Just a flicker of attention.
A mistake, yes. But a small one.
Hurin stepped in.
His staff lashed forward. Diagonal, precise, meant for the temple. Victor dropped faster than expected. The shield came up and took the hit, but the impact still echoed. Hurin felt it rattle through his shoulder.
Victor staggered, just slightly off balance.
That’s when Hurin pressed.
He whirled the staff overhead in a wide arc, a blur of wood and wind, and brought it down like a hammer. Not to kill. Not yet. Just to shake confidence.
Victor blocked it again, but the shield dipped. Hurin flicked once more. Then a shoulder bash.
Victor reeled.
The crowd roared.
Hurin grinned, letting the rhythm ride through him like music made of sweat and sand. He spun his staff lazily now, the crowd loved that. From the side stands, he heard his girls scream his name. He winked. Blew a kiss.
And that was the mistake.
Not theirs. His.
He’d turned just enough. Left the door open.
Victor moved. Too fast for someone who’d just taken a hit. He came in low, fluid, coiled, focused.
The lavender blade sliced not for the chest, but the gut.
Hurin twisted and took the blow across the leather of his side. It hurt. Not deep, but sharp and real. His grin flickered.
Victor had been playing the same game all along. Reading, waiting. And now, he was done waiting.
Hurin stepped back, regaining his footing as his eyes narrowed.
The crowd was still with him, but he could feel the shift. They smelled blood. His blood.
Romeo was back on his feet, flanking again. Slower now. Limping, but not out.
Hurin adjusted his grip and shortened his reach on the staff. Time to make it ugly. No more flourishes. No more showboating.
Victor wasn’t a dance partner. He was a mirror.
And Hurin didn’t like what he saw in the reflection.
The pain in his side spread faster than expected. A dull heat, slow but constant. He’d trained for this. Pain wasn’t a wall; it was a rhythm. A second beat to dance to. Something you moved with, not against.
He rotated the staff once more, feeling Victor’s rhythm shift again. This wasn’t the same clunky fighter from the opening exchange. The showman was gone. So was the crowd.
Victor moved now like someone who’d stopped caring about being watched.
That was dangerous.
Hurin pivoted sharply, dropped low, and swept for the knees, a textbook takedown. Fast. Precise. But the blade met him halfway.
Victor’s shield slammed down, not to block but to trap. Steel pinned wood. The staff jolted in his grip. Stuck. Just long enough.
Victor surged forward.
Hurin tried to backpedal, but Romeo was there. Not attacking, just present. Close enough to force his footing wide.
And wide was wrong.
It opened the lane. Broke his balance.
The lavender blade snapped in, sharp and surgical, and sliced clean across his thigh.
He cursed.
It wasn’t fatal. But it would slow him.
And worse, it came with the crowd’s turn.
He could feel them shift. Like wind changing direction. The same people who’d screamed his name began to hesitate.
Victor wasn’t just winning the fight.
He was winning the story.
Hurin lunged forward. Slammed his shoulder into Victor’s chest. Solid impact. But it didn’t drive him back.
Victor absorbed it. Grounded like stone.
Then came the counter. A brutal shove, no flourish, just force.
Hurin stumbled.
Regained balance.
But the world tilted slightly. Just enough.
Victor’s shield was battered now. One horn of his helm smeared dark with blood. Romeo circled tighter. Limp mostly gone. And behind those lavender blades, Victor’s eyes were focused. Merciless.
Hurin tried to grin. Only half of it landed.
He spun his staff again. Habit more than strategy.
The wind had shifted.
So had the fight.
He feinted left. Victor didn’t bite.
He lunged high. Victor blocked low.
He knows me.
Not by name. Not by history.
By rhythm.
And that was supposed to be Hurin’s edge.
He was always the reader. The one who understood his opponent before the third breath. But Victor?
Victor had stopped being readable.
All that remained was resolve.
And it was coming for him.
He knew the sound a crowd made when it started to lose faith. It wasn’t silence. It was something smaller. Tighter.
The held breath of a thousand people, waiting for someone else to cheer first.
Hurin had heard it once before.
In the desert, when a monk with more scars than brains took a knee in a match he should’ve won.
Back then, Hurin hadn’t pitied him.
He’d studied the silence. Understood its weight.
He never expected to hear it now.
Not wrapped around his own name.
Victor advanced. Blood on his cheek, but he didn’t care. He looked right. Brutal, grounded, inevitable.
The shield came in low.
Hurin tried to pivot. Too slow.
It clipped his ribs.
The staff left his hands.
Spun across the sand.
Stopped just far enough to matter.
He stumbled, caught his footing, dropped into a hand-to-hand stance. He’d trained for this.
He was still dangerous.
But as Victor stepped in, Hurin saw it. The next move wasn’t about speed or style. It wasn’t a fake.
It was final.
Victor feinted left. But his shoulders told the truth.
The shield wasn’t raised for defense.
It was a battering ram.
It hit square in Hurin’s chest.
He crashed into the wall of the arena with a brutal, bone-splitting sound.
The air left his lungs.
He collapsed.
He heard Romeo growl nearby. Heard the crowd cheering, not for him.
He reached for the staff. Just enough to make a moment out of it.
But Victor’s boot landed on it.
Firm. Still.
Then came the blade.
Lavender. Sharp. Resting against his throat.
Not pressing. Not cutting.
Just there.
The moment.
That pause where a lesser man might smirk. Might drag it out.
Victor didn’t.
He studied him like a puzzle already solved.
Then pressed.
The blade went in. Clean, deep, fast.
Too quick for drama. Too final for showmanship.
No scream.
No last line.
Just one breath.
And then none.
Hurin Crumbler of the Rock collapsed like a statue struck at the knees.
Victor stood over him, breath heavy behind the mask, as the lavender haze began to rise. Curling like fog around a fallen monument.
Romeo padded forward, slow, silent.
Still watching.
The crowd exploded.
Not in sorrow.
In bloodlust.
“THE WINNER: VICTOR, ELIMINATOR OF THE RUNE RAIDERS!”
Verus’s voice cracked the sky.
Victor didn’t bow. Didn’t celebrate.
He turned toward the tunnel, walked into the dark, and let the haze follow him like memory.
Behind him, the sand settled.
And Hurin lay still.
Mouth frozen half-open.
As if still searching for the line that might’ve saved him.
But the crowd had already moved on.
And his name had vanished beneath the next chant.
Entered by: 0xB9D1…4eA5
