His first fight had been won through submission.

Abel tried rubbing his hands against the rough stone walls, to get some grit to counteract the sweat building across his palms, but he had no such luck. The walls were clean, his hands coming back with nothing.

His second fight had been won through submission.

Around him, there were a number of eager faces. The room was less crowded now, after a number of losses, but the fewer there were, the closer they grew. Around fifteen of them remained, standing in a slack circle. As much as they wanted to sit, they knew any moment they could be out in the pit, expected to fight. The anticipation, the lack of order or bracketing, caused them the most stress.

His third fight had been won through submission.

Sword resting against his leg, rubbing his hands together, Abel tried to get rid of their clamminess, to better grasp his sword for when he might need it. He tried his hand against the thin wire ringlets which made up the hilt of his sabre, attempting a firm grip, finally finding satisfaction.

His fourth fight had been won through dual submission.

The panel appeared. Two combatants, two large men, stood in the pit. The crowd roared. They swung their weapons. One lost his footing, then his weapon, then quickly forfeit before he could lose his head.

“That guy’s dangerous,” someone beside him said. “I hope I don’t have to go against him. Might just give up.”

Abel watched as Bernard raised his glaive in victory, before vanishing from the pits. Their panels disappeared and the crowd roaring shook the stones around them.

“Man, what is with this,” a man cursed under his breath. “These breaks between fights. Why aren’t we allowed to watch? It sounds like there is a fight going on.”

“They mentioned the spectators were going to play games,” someone else chimed in, “Maybe they’re setting up their own games and competitions while we rest.”

The group listened to the cheers, felt their vibrations through the walls. They were all anxious, waiting.

A panel appeared before each of them again. A tag match, two versus two. Abel had taken part in one for his fourth contest, forcing both competitors to submit as they tried to gang up on him. His partner had been more than glad that he had been the first one they’d targeted

“Abel, can you tell me how to hold this thing again?” a man sighed, stepping towards him, getting quiet laughter from the group. His name was Brian.

He smiled, reaching out and adjusting the man’s grip lower on the hilt. “Remember, keep it close to you. Pretend it’s part of you. You wouldn’t throw your arm out so it could be sliced off. Same idea, keep the sword close so you don’t give your opponent the chance to knock it away.”

The tone grew sombre. Bad word choice, he thought to himself. A few rounds prior, a bastard sword had cleaved a man’s arm half off. It hadn’t been the first blood drawn, but it had been the most gruesome so far.

The man swung his sword once or twice, trying his best not to extend it far from his body. “How am I supposed to chop someone’s arm off like this? I’ll need to be breathing down their neck. What if they’re using something that’s longer? Like one of the pointy things or the axe things.”

“Spears? Polearms? Battle axes? Glaives? Halberds?” a man’s voice came in response from the circle.

“Sure,” Brian said. “One of those things.”

“You stay out of range until you see an opening,” Abel said.

“Then?”

He shrugged. “Get in close enough to breath down their neck. Like this girl in the red shirt.” They both looked towards their panels. He could see others in the room doing the same. There were only two competitors now, the other two having submitted. “She’s got a short sword, yet while the other person has a longsword, giving them the length advantage, she’s holding her own. Because she’s not swinging, she’s just reacting. Each swing is a vulnerability, throwing your arm out-”

“To be cut off,” Brian finished his sentence.

Abel nodded.

The two on the panel circled and jerked with feints until a heavy swing knocked the longsword out of the man’s hand and he raised his hands in surrender.

“Just like that,” Abel said.

“Just like that, he says.” The man said, shaking his head and letting out a sharp breath. “From the guy who has formal training and has been a closet sword nerd his whole life.”

He laughed. As a group, they had prodded him about his experience level, after seeing how easily he’d dispatched him competitors. Then he’d helped them, one by one, offering what he knew about each of their weapons. Most had picked a longsword, so it hadn’t taken long.

“Like I said, it has been years since-”

And then he was in the arena again. The sun bore down on him, turning his black hair hot, his forehead to sweat anew.

Across from him, he could see no one. And then, as if ripped from another dimension, before his very eyes, a tiger was hacked together, head to toe. Abel’s eyes widened.

The crowd grew more hushed than it had since the man’s arm had been gorged. A number of women let out sounds of sorrow, not wanting to watch or acknowledge the fight before them.

Spawned from the void, the creature stood, unmoving, eyes staring straight ahead as though it hadn’t seen him yet, despite how he laid directly in it’s vision.

Competitor, ready yourself!

You’ve got to be kidding me. Abel shook his head. “No,” he said aloud, raising his voice so it would echo through the pit. He wanted to be sure more than just the crowds heard him. “I can’t kill an animal. I’m not going to kill this thing just to win this tournament.”

He dropped his arms to his side, sword limp in his hand. The thing was still unmoving. Its eyes were blank, tail rigid. It looked almost as though it were a taxidermy tiger.

As though in response to his words, the voice returned, and the tiger began to move, eyes taking it its surroundings, tail lifting, swinging back and forth, teeth baring at Abel.

No animals will be harmed during the festival.

The statement was clear. It wasn’t a real tiger.

Like hell it’s not a real tiger. He watched as it circled the pit, keeping him it its peripherals. Spittle dripped from its open mouth. It licked across its pointed canines. It moved in an effortless glide across the sands, no wasted motion in its gait. He began to realize in its circling, it was growing closer to him. He could smell the rancid breath as it panted its way around him.

Abel lifted his sword.

Giving up was a strong possibility. He wanted to. But he’d been watching the other matches, he knew how he stacked up against the competition. He knew why he was being put in this match. The system was trying to even itself out. It had been stacking up competitors with equal skill levels, and Abel was one of the few who had any experience using a weapon.

His confidence had been growing as the day went on. Winning had become a clear prospect, one which he had let himself hope for.

But a tiger.

He kept his right heel planted, using his left leg to spin and follow the creature as it continued forward. Panic tore apart his mind. He wondered how long it would take for the surrender Command to take place. The times had varied in different matches. He wondered how loud it had to be spoken, if a broken, dying whisper would work as well as a terrified scream.

It jumped at him with a guttural sound, vibrating through the air. It was so fast, he didn’t have time to act, only managing to lift his sword a few inches and push it forward, with enough force that it caught the beast between the eyes, across the nose. It’s claw, which he had ignored, stretched up his leg, claws ripping at his hamstrings.

Yet it fell to the sands, getting up a moment later and kicking itself away with its back paws, away towards the exterior of the pit with a growl. Blood was dripping down its face.

Congratulations, competitor!

Abel found himself standing in the semi-circle of the dark room, his acquaintances staring at him. He dropped to a knee. The tiger hadn’t been the only one left bleeding.

“Abel!” several of the other competitors walked towards him, some dropping their weapons as they looked at his leg which had been clawed apart.

His mind had tuned out the crowd, but he could hear now they were roaring praise, even as his panel appeared and the next fight round of fighting started.

He allowed himself to be helped to a sitting position against one of the walls, groaning as he felt the wound on his leg stretching.

“A tiger,” Brian was saying repeating to the others, “He just beat a goddamn tiger.”