Author’s note

I first wrote this story on November 25th, 2019. It's a very short, simple story, but I want to catalogue some of my earlier works in order to show my progression as a writer.

Story

The blood-red lightning flashed in the distance, illuminating the metallic, rusty floor of the gigantic arena. Seconds later, booming thunder rolled across the gray hills, making the naked, frail trees sway and shiver from the sheer impact of the noise, and the two competitors pulled their cloaks closer around them as they waited for the Hite to fall. The Hite was the common name for it, a gigantic, luminous pair of orbs that overlapped and hovered in the middle of the arena.

It sat there, inching slowly lower, the larger of the two orbs that were meshed together pulling the entity toward the ground as the small orb resisted the effort, pulling back toward the sky. All the while, a voice echoed from the larger orb, commenting over the arena.

“Ho ho ho!” it sounded, a confident and cocky voice that echoed throughout the large arena and over the hills. “Looks like these ones aren’t very liked, are they?” It snickered, the large orb illuminating as it grew larger, and the smaller orb began to dim.

“Just shut up and let’s get this over. It’s not like I’d vote otherwise, so let’s just fight already. With this match, we know the results.” Rolling his shoulders and massaging his chin with his hand, the taller of the cloaked competitors spoke. His cloak, blue and of fine silk, swayed in the gentle wind. “No offense to you, of course.” He gestured to his companion, who wore a tattered red cloak and torn, thin leather armor.

The tall man’s companion, however, did not answer. He stared at his enemy, taking in his appearance.

Muscular, well-built. Probably a martial artist. Which? The way he stands is confident. Maybe Taekwondo.

He readied his stance, hefting the cleaver he used as a weapon into his bandage-wrapped hand. The man across from him stood with his arms crossed, a lopsided grin on his face.

“Really, a cleaver? I know they say ‘our vicious, but that’s something else.” The blue-cloaked man scoffed. “Oh, and I suppose you’ll want to know the name of the guy who killed you. Name’s Roth.” And finally, the other spoke. His words were soft, but they burned with the empty intensity of a desperate man.

“And you already know my name. That’s why you’re so eager to fight me, isn’t it? You want to prove yourself.”

Click. With that single sound, both men sprang into action. The heavy orb had hit the floor, and the disembodied voice began to speak once more. “Fight! An’ we’re off, friends and enemies! It’s a battle for blood, as was decided by our viewers at home! And look at them go!”

The moment the orb had hit the floor, Roth had revealed his plan. He reached behind his head, and his cloak was sliced finely in half as he pulled a tin, poker-shaped object from beneath his garment. Lunging forward, he thrust at his opponent, the sword which he used extended to full length from the jab.

Lifting his cleaver, the man in red managed to narrowly block the attack, deflecting it to one side. Carried by his own momentum, Roth had stumbled forward a few steps. Shhp. Nobody but a swordsman would recognize the sound of air being sliced in that unique, chilling way, but Roth did. He flung himself backward, bending his torso to narrowly avoid the cleaver, which hacked at his middle section. Roth cursed to himself.

He knew he had to be careful. The man he was against was a master of the blade. Regaining his balance, Roth slung his blade in an upward arc toward his opponent, his feet dancing forward with the slice. The man in red retreated, dodging the majority of flurried attacks and blocking the others.

“Too slow, Roth? You have the advantage, you know?” the man in red taunted as he retreated, his hardened eyes fixed on Roth’s face instead of his blade. “I can read you, Roth. You’re too simple a man for this.”

Breathing heavily now, Roth lunged at his opponent, attempting to grab the cleaver with his hand. This was what the other had been waiting for, however. With a single, quick movement, the man in red used his cleaver to deflect Roth’s sword while at the same time grabbing his outstretched hand. Using his boot, he kicked the poker away from the battle, disarming Roth. In one clean motion, he swung his cleaver through Roth’s arm, cleanly severing it. Snip. The hand fell to the ground, writing, as Roth screamed in agony.

The man in red did not relent, however, and grabbed Roth’s throat, forcing him onto his knees. “Beg.”

Roth, still whimpering in agony, began to beg.

“P-please, man. I didn’t mean to. Just let me go. LET ME GO FOR GOD’S SAKE!”

The man, however, increased his grip on his throat as Roth began to froth at the mouth. Staring down at Roth with his cold, empty eyes, he scoffed.

“Those aren’t the rules.”

The cleaver sliced through warm flesh as Roth doubled over, his head falling to the side as the cleaver tasted blood again. And the Hite rose to the sky, illuminating. Its voice, which had been commenting on the battle, began to roar over the landscape.

“We have a winner! By elimination, without competition, the winner was Yoonic! Congratulations, valiant fighter! You live another day!”

The man walked off stage, holding his bloody cleaver in one hand. As he walked, he stooped down and grabbed the head off the ground, holding it by its hair.

Another one was dead, and the world was the same. What did it matter, really, if he stopped fighting right now?

But he knew he would never do that. He was never going to stop fighting, because the rules of the world didn’t allow that. And eventually, he would change the rules. They would bow to his will, and he would eliminate them. Just like everything that got in his way.