Leonhardt stepped into the ring, adjusting the bandages on his arms. His ribs still ached from yesterday's blows, but he forced himself to stand tall. The morning light glinted off the arena sand as he faced his new opponent. The man was long and lithe, with quick eyes and a faint, cocky smile. Leonhardt recognized the look of a fighter who'd never known defeat.
As the horn sounded, Leonhardt feinted low and grabbed the man's arm in a tight hold. He pressed his thumb into the brawler's side, below a floating rib. The brawler's face twisted with pain, and he went rigid for a heartbeat. The crowd gasped as the man's knees buckled and he collapsed to one knee, frozen.
Leonhardt took a step back, arms raised in triumph. He twirled his dagger and shouted, "Mercy is for the weak!" The crowd roared in approval. He could almost taste victory.
But before Leonhardt could strike, the paralysis suddenly lifted. The brawler's eyes flashed with confusion—then deadly focus. In a blur of motion, the brawler lunged. A powerful fist snapped into Leonhardt's side, stealing his breath.
Leonhardt's eyes went wide. The fighter drew an old sabre with frightening speed. The blade lashed out in a brutal upward arc and caught Leonhardt under the chin. Pain exploded in his skull; his legs turned to jelly. With a groan, he fell backward into the sand, darkness claiming him before he hit the ground.
The crowd's laughter and cheers boomed as medics rushed into the ring. A gauntleted guard knelt beside the fallen man and checked for a pulse. Leonhardt's crew in the stands wore anxious, grim faces. The earlier jokes and brash smiles were gone. In this bloody tournament, they all knew nothing could be taken for granted—not until the Phoenix was crowned.