The final clash in the pit echoed like a funeral bell. Stonejaw Krall, the hulking bruiser who'd never known defeat, charged Qiang Ming with all the fury of a cornered bear. His iron gauntlet swung in a vicious arc, but Qiang Ming—leaned down by countless fights—slipped beneath the blow. He rose in a single fluid motion, hammer fist driving down into Krall's temple. The sickening crack of bone on bone silenced the arena. Krall collapsed, his massive form crumpling to the sand in a crimson blossom.
For a heartbeat, every soul in Slaughter Barony held its breath. Then the crowd erupted, a savage chorus of cheers, hoots, and coins raining into the pit. Above, the three Bloody Barons rose from their pavilion in unison: Baron Draghorn's gauntlet gleamed; Baron Silverclaw's dead eyes shimmered with approval; Baron Ironfist's heavy fist came down twice on the armrest in final judgment. A rusty cage lowered into the arena. Inside, on a velvet cushion, lay the Arena Champion amulet—an iron band scored with the Barony's tri‐dagger sigil.
Qiang Ming retrieved the amulet, its weight cool and unforgiving in his palm. He knelt, the sand grainy beneath his knees, then slid the ring over his head and let it rest against his chest. A new chapter began: no longer shackled to the pit, he was "more trouble than he was worth." The Barons' silent decree had granted him freedom.
Later, Qiang Ming made his way back to the Black Column. The tavern was half‐empty, patrons nursed their wounds in dark corners. Xi Wo stood behind the bar, wiping down a battered mug with a rag that had seen more blood than ale. He looked up, eyebrows raised at the amulet around Qiang Ming's throat.
"You earned it," Xi Wo said, sliding a fresh pitcher toward him. "Don't drink unless you want to wake up back in a pit."
Qiang Ming set the pitcher down untouched and leaned forward. "Keep it," he replied quietly. "I owe you more than ale."
Xi Wo's lips quirked in a rare grin. "You're tipping me in coin tonight, then?" He nodded toward the pouch at Qiang Ming's belt.
Qiang Ming nodded and counted out the pints he'd won—ten in all. He slid the coins across the bar. "For the ale, the warding charms, and all the clean‐ups."
Xi Wo caught the pouch with one hand and wiped sweat from his brow with the other. "Don't spend it all at once," he teased, but his eyes glimmered with genuine warmth. "And hey—don't forget your shirt."
Qiang Ming stood and retrieved the simple cotton shirt folded on a stool. He tugged it over his head, savoring the cool fabric against his battle‐scarred skin—a sensation he hadn't felt in months. He squared his shoulders, squared his back. The boy who arrived in the Barony barefoot and shirtless was gone, replaced by someone tempered in violence and fire.
As Qiang Ming turned to leave, Xi Wo set aside the cloth rag, his expression uncharacteristically earnest. Qiang Ming paused in the doorway, and Xi Wo approached. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around Qiang Ming in a solid bro hug—firm, grounding, a rare display of genuine camaraderie in this pitiless place. Qiang Ming returned the embrace, feeling the tavern's smoke and sorrow settle behind him.
"Take care of yourself," Xi Wo whispered. "Out there beyond the walls, it's a different kind of fight."
Qiang Ming nodded. "I will," he said softly, then slipped from the tavern into the chill night.
At the edge of the crumbling Barony, a battered bus waited, its engine ticking as it cooled. The driver, a weathered woman with a soul‐scarred face, gave Qiang Ming a half‐smile as he climbed aboard. He found a seat by the window, the Arena Champion amulet cold against his chest.
As the bus rolled away from the towering walls and torchlit alleys, Qiang Ming watched Slaughter Barony recede into darkness. He felt the amulet's weight—not just metal on flesh, but the burden of every life he'd broken, every promise to himself sharpened in blood. Ahead lay East Sea City, the familiar scent of the sea waiting on the sea breeze, the promise of new trials under kinder suns.
He closed his eyes and breathed deep, the creak of the bus and the hum of the engine lulling him. The path behind had forged him into something stronger—and now, at last, he was going the fuck away.