"Woah woah woah, wait a minute, chill!" John's voice went high pitched. "Let's talk about this! We can negotiate! I'll take back the finger thing! I was just—"
Two beast folk stepped into the courtyard space. Both wolves. Both effective males based on the size. Both armed. One carried a thick wooden club, the other had clawed gauntlets that gleamed in the fading afternoon light.
John's mouth went dry. This was it. Death by combat against trained fighters while his hands were locked in a wooden box. No powers. No cheat skills. No protagonist energy. Just him versus two predators designed by nature to kill.
But if he was going to die, at least it would be in an anime style battle. That was something, right? Better than getting executed quietly. Better than fading away in a cage.
If he could just kill one of them first, he could die with some dignity.
The wolf with the club moved first. Stepped forward, raising the weapon overhead. A simple overhead smash aimed at John's skull. Brutal. Effective. Would turn his head into paste if it connected.
John threw himself backward.
Not a dodge. Just pure panic driven falling. His feet slipped and he hit the ground hard on his back, the wooden restraint jarring his wrists.
The club whistled through the air where his head had been a second before and cracked into stone, sending chips flying.
The wolf loomed over him, raising the club again. John stared up at death approaching, his mind racing. He couldn't use his hands. Couldn't block. Couldn't grab anything. But the wolf was standing right over him and that meant...
The crotch was in headbutting distance.
John sat up as fast as his battered core muscles allowed and drove his forehead into the wolf's groin with everything he had.
The wolf made a sound somewhere between a yelp and a wheeze. The club dropped from nerveless fingers. The beast staggered backward, hands clutching itself.
John didn't hesitate. Scrambled to his feet and stomped. Once. Twice. Three times. Driving his heel into the fallen wolf's crotch with methodical viciousness. The wolf tried to curl up, tried to protect itself, but John kept stomping.
The crowd's cheering turned to uncomfortable murmuring.
Four stomps. Five. Six.
Then he heard it. A wet crack. Something giving way under his heel.
The wolf stopped moving. Passed out from pain, or dead from catastrophic testicular trauma. John didn't know and didn't care.
One down.
He turned to find the second wolf.
Too late. The beast was already moving. Massive hands grabbed John by the head, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him face first into the gravel courtyard.
Stars exploded across John's vision. His nose crunched. Blood poured into his mouth. The world tilted sideways and refused to straighten.
Concussion. Definitely a concussion. Maybe a severe one.
The second wolf grabbed him again, hauling him upright. John's vision swam. Everything had doubles. The beast folk in the crowd looked like they were underwater.
But this wolf looked dumb. Big, strong, but the eyes held that particular vacancy that suggested more muscle than brain.
John could work with dumb.
"OOO LOOK A BUTTERFLY!" John shouted, pointing with his boxed hands toward a random corner of the courtyard. His voice was slurred from the head trauma but audible.
The wolf's head turned. Actually turned. Actually looked for the butterfly that definitely didn't exist.
John did what he did best.
Kick to the balls. Full power. His foot connected with a meaty thunk.
The wolf doubled over. John didn't stop. Second kick while the beast was bent forward. The wolf staggered.
Then John pushed. Both boxed hands against the wolf's chest. The beast was off balance from pain and stupidity. It stumbled backward, tripped over its own feet, and went down hard.
Two down.
John stood in the center of the courtyard, breathing hard, blood streaming from his broken nose. His vision was still doubled but he could function. He turned toward where Lui and Selio were being held by guards.
Both of them were staring. Lui's mouth hung open. Selio was making excited chirping sounds.
John struck a pose. One foot forward, boxed hands on his hips despite the awkwardness, chin up. The classic hero pose. Blood and all.
Then he gave them a thumbs up. Or tried to. The wooden box made it more of a fist thrust but the sentiment was there.
The crowd's reaction was mixed. . Some looked disturbed. The chief's face was purple with rage.
John didn't notice Gregor moving until it was too late.
The massive effective male crossed the courtyard in a blur. His claws extended, glowing faintly with some kind of enhancement. Combat abilities, probably. The real deal, not just base beast folk strength.
The claws raked across John's back.
Pain unlike anything he'd felt before erupted along his spine. The claws dug deep, opening five parallel gashes from shoulder to hip. Blood poured. John screamed and stumbled forward, his legs giving out.
Gregor grabbed him by the back of the neck and threw him.
John's body crashed through a section of crumbling wall, stone exploding around him. He hit the ground on the other side in a heap of rubble and agony.
"YOU SEE THIS, APE?!" Gregor's voice carried across the courtyard, theatrical and proud. "THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A BEAST! REAL POWER! REAL STRENGTH! YOU'RE NOTHING! LESS THAN NOTHING!"
John lay in the rubble, his back screaming, his vision fading in and out. His hands were still trapped in the wooden restraint. Except...
Except the wood felt different. Looser. The impact with the wall had done something.
He flexed his wrists experimentally. The wood creaked. Shifted. One of the binding pegs had cracked from the impact.
John pushed. Hard. Ignoring the pain in his back. Ignoring everything except the resistance of the wood.
CRACK.
The restraint split. Not cleanly. Not all the way. But enough that he could pull his hands free, leaving chunks of wood still attached to leather straps around his wrists.
His hands. He had his hands back.
John dragged himself to his feet, blood streaming down his back, his vision still doubled from the concussion. He looked at Gregor standing proud in the courtyard, basking in the crowd's approval.
And John laughed.
Broken, bloody, concussed laughter that made everyone stop and stare.
"NO, DIPTARD!" John yelled back, holding up his freed hands. "THIS IS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A DIPSHIT! THAT IMPACT BROKE MY CUFFS!"
He spread his arms wide, displaying his freedom.
"YOUR STUPID THROW JUST GAVE ME MY HANDS BACK!"
The crowd went silent.
Gregor's expression shifted from triumph to confusion to rage.
And John, despite everything, despite the pain and blood and imminent death, couldn't stop grinning.