He picked up more wins as the day wore on.

  He beat one of the twins, the brother, in a match that turned into a staff versus bare hands puzzle. The young man moved well, but he over relied on thrusts and wide sweeps. Algraves used his odd timing and scrap trained instincts to slip inside the guard, grab the staff, and turn the boy’s own momentum against him. The final shove sent the twin stumbling over the rope.

  The sister was worse.

  She had watched his earlier fight far too closely. Where her brother had committed, she tested. Where he swept wide, she cut short. Her staff flowed around him in tight arcs, tapping at his forearms, shoulders, and knees, each touch a reminder that if she had wanted to, she could have hit much harder.

  He tried to repeat the same trick, to grab and turn, but this time when he reached for the staff she twisted, letting it slide through his fingers and snapping the butt toward his ribs.

  He caught it on his forearm. It still hurt.

  They circled, breath coming faster.

  For a moment, the rhythm clicked.

  His mismatched footwork and her controlled pivots tangled in a way he had not expected. She stepped in for another probing strike. He shifted just a fraction more than she anticipated, hand closing on the staff a heartbeat before her weight fully settled.

  Instead of trying to rip it away, he stepped with her, turning his hips and shoulder, guiding her own motion in a tight arc toward the rope.

  She tried to brace.

  The staff bit into the sand. Her foot slipped half an inch. It was enough.

  He took one more step, shoulder to her chest, and used the leverage of the staff to roll her weight over that unstable foot.

  She stumbled.

  Her heel touched the rope and then the ground beyond it.

  The judge’s hand went up.

  “Ring out. Winner, Algraves.”

  For a moment she stared at the sand, then let out a breath and laughed.

  “Ugly,” she said, reclaiming her staff with a nod. “But you learn.”

  “I am highly motivated,” he said, trying not to wheeze.

  He managed a ring out against the orc blooded brawler by letting the larger man chase him in wide circles until the edge of the ring loomed behind him, then dropping low at the last second. The brawler’s own charge carried him one foot past the rope before he could catch himself.

  “Out of bounds. Winner, Algraves.”

  The orc blooded man barked a laugh instead of getting angry.

  “Tricksy,” he said. “I like it. Next time we trade punches like honest fools.”

  “Next time I am going to stand in a different county,” Algraves muttered once he was out of earshot.

  He dreaded the match with the ogre blooded Rasha when it came up on the rotation.

  She had walked through most of her earlier opponents the way a landslide walks through small fences. Even when she lost ground, it was by inches, and usually only because she had decided to trade luck for information.

  He tried to be clever.

  He used his footwork. His shifting. His feints. His spinning back kick.

  She still caught his leg between her arm and ribs, lifted him half off the ground like he was a misbehaving dog, and set him down with a controlled thump that rattled his teeth.

  “You fight with heart,” she said in a surprisingly soft voice as he tried to breathe again. “But you do not know your weight yet.”

  Then she stepped back and let him scramble to his feet.

  The judges allowed the fight to continue.

  This time, he did not try to meet her strength. He did not have any to spare.

  He gave ground. He let her herd him. Each heavy step of hers shook the sand. Each swing of the axe haft came within inches of his guard. He blocked only when he had no choice. Mostly, he dodged and lived on the edge of panic.

  The rope pressed against his heel.

  Rasha grinned and came in for what was clearly meant to be the finishing shove.

  At the last possible heartbeat, he let his knee buckle.

  He dropped, not backward but sideways, one hand slapping into the sand. Rasha’s momentum carried her forward, past the space where his chest had been. As she tried to arrest the motion, her foot slid on the disturbed sand he had just kicked loose.

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  Her heel clipped the rope.

  Her weight went the wrong way.

  She managed to twist and land on her feet, but when she did, both boots were cleanly outside the boundary.

  The judge did not hesitate.

  “Ring out. Winner, Algraves.”

  The crowd made a noise that was half cheer and half groan.

  Rasha blinked, looked down at the rope, then threw her head back and laughed.

  “Well,” she said, as he hauled himself upright, shaking. “You still do not know your weight. But you know mine a little better.”

  “I know I do not want to be under it,” he said.

  She clapped him once, very carefully, on the shoulder before stepping out of the ring.

  The boy who had been knocked out in ten seconds earlier did not last much longer in the round robin. He managed to take one opponent to the ground with a wild tackle before being eliminated himself.

  The callused knuckle woman bruised Algraves ribs again, but he managed to turn one of her committed punches into a throw, using the kind of ugly, practical grappling he had learned in a much less mystical gym back on Earth. She hit the sand hard and laughed as she did.

  “Good. I was starting to think you were all dancing out here.”

  Not all of his bouts went that well.

  Somewhere in the middle of the rotation he dropped a match to one of the quieter fighters, a stocky man whose name he never quite caught. The man’s guard was solid, his strikes unflashy, his patience absolute. Every time Algraves tried something creative, he found a block waiting for him. In the end, a simple low kick he did not see coming took his legs out and dumped him on his back inside the ring.

  “Loss,” the judge said.

  Algraves lay there for a breath, staring up at the sky again, and thought, At least I am getting a consistent view.

  The scarred man he had beaten earlier picked up enough other victories to stay in contention for a while but eventually fell behind.

  Lin, the green eyed cultivator, lost only once. To Idrin.

  Their fight was quiet and almost eerily clean. Little motion. Little noise. Two people intersecting and withdrawing like brush strokes painted over each other.

  When it ended, both stood inside the ring. Lin with one knee bent, one hand pressed lightly against Idrin’s chest. Idrin with two fingers resting on the side of her neck.

  A judge stepped in.

  “Draw?” he asked.

  Idrin tilted his head.

  “If this were outside the ring, I would be dying slowly, and she would be dying quickly,” he said. “I will call that my victory by a very small margin.”

  Lin nodded once.

  “I accept that math,” she said.

  The judges did too.

  By late afternoon, the sun had started its slow descent, turning the dust in the arena to a soft haze of gold and brown. The crowd was tired, hoarse, and louder than ever.

  Algraves last match was against the scarred man again, thanks to the rotation pattern. They traded fewer words this time and more blows. The fight ended in Algraves favor, barely, when both of them tried the same sweep at the same time and his heel landed half a heartbeat sooner.

  Hall called everyone back to the center of the arena.

  The ten fighters stood in a rough line. Some were steady on their feet. Some leaned a little. A few were holding ribs, arms, or pride together.

  An elder from the Steppe clan stepped forward with a slate where all the judges’ markings had been tallied.

  He spoke quietly to Hall. Hall nodded and stepped up.

  “These are the results of the third round,” he said, voice carrying effortlessly despite the fatigue hanging over the field.

  “First, Idrin of the Saffron Dunes. Ten matches. Ten wins.”

  The crowd roared. Idrin bowed with unhurried grace.

  “Second, Lin of the Still Water Hall. Nine wins, one loss.”

  More cheers. A few gasps from those who had not been keeping close count.

  “Third, Algraves of no named sect,” Hall continued. “Seven wins. Three losses.”

  The cheers there were mixed with laughter and a few approving shouts of “Ugly fist!” and “Cook fighter!” He pretended not to hear them and bowed anyway.

  “Fourth, Jianyu of the Willow Staff.” Hall nodded toward the younger of the twins, who looked both exhausted and proud. “Six wins. Four losses.”

  “Fifth place is decided by tiebreak,” Hall said. “Rasha of High Pasture, and Gruk of the Broken Horn, step forward.”

  The ogre blooded woman and the orc blooded brawler did so.

  “You are tied for record. Your final placement will be determined by one last match, now. Winner advances. Loser ends their journey here.”

  They both grinned.

  The fight that followed was less graceful than most of the day’s matches and more honest.

  There was no footwork puzzle, no subtle mapping of timing. It was simply two large, stubborn people throwing each other around inside a ring that suddenly felt too small for both of them.

  Algraves watched from the side, a jug of water in his hands, as fist met flesh, as the axe haft cracked against a forearm, as shoulders collided like rams.

  The crowd loved it.

  In the end, both fighters crashed to the ground at almost the same moment, each with a limb hooked around the other.

  They lay there, breathing hard.

  Then, slowly, Rasha planted a hand on the sand and pushed herself up to her knees.

  Gruk tried to follow. His arm shook once, twice, then failed him. He flopped back on his rear and wheezed a laugh.

  “Enjoy tomorrow,” he said. “You earned it.”

  The judge raised Rasha’s arm.

  “Winner, Rasha of High Pasture. Fifth place.”

  The elders conferred one last time, then Hall raised his voice.

  “These five advance to the final round. The remainder of you have our respect and the gratitude of the Steppe clan for your courage. There will be food and drink at the outer pavilion. You are invited to share in it.”

  The crowd erupted into cheers, whistles, and the rhythmic stomp of feet against the stands.

  Algraves let the noise wash over him.

  His body ached. His knuckles were scraped. His ribs were going to look like someone had used them to practice calligraphy by morning.

  But he was still standing.

  Hall gave the five of them one last look.

  “Rest,” he said simply. “Tomorrow will not be any kinder than today.”

  They were dismissed to the shaded areas set aside for the finalists.

  Algraves found his way to a mat near the back, away from most of the noise. He sank down with a groan that he tried to keep internal and failed.

  He set the water jug beside him. Closed his eyes. Let his breathing slow. Tried to feel where his body had moved well and where it had stuttered.

  Maybe he was overthinking. Maybe he was only just beginning to think correctly. Hard to tell.

  A light shadow fell over him.

  He opened his eyes.

  Cai Yue stood there, holding another small tray. This time the bowl held a thick porridge studded with bits of meat and herbs. A covered cup of tea rested beside it.

  She set the tray down within reach, inclining her head slightly. Her face was as calm as ever.

  “You will fight again tomorrow,” she said. “It is better not to do that on an empty stomach.”

  Then she turned and walked away.

  No explanation. No lingering. Just the simple fact of her presence and then her absence.

  He stared after her for a long moment, then looked down at the food.

  His stomach answered for him.

  He picked up the bowl and spooned a mouthful in.

  “Yeah,” he said quietly to himself between bites. “Long day.”

  Outside, Salt Peak hummed with celebration, gossip, and speculation about tomorrow’s finals.

  Inside the quiet patch of shade, Algraves ate, breathed, and tried to let go of just enough control that, next time, his body would know what to do one heartbeat before his mind got in the way.