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Book Two Chapter 42: Vicious Bastard
🕑 Added 2025-07-10 04:07:00 +0000 UTCThe top sixteen.
This was where the blood started to count.
The rules hadn’t changed, single elimination, win or vanish, but the pit had. The illusion of detachment was gone. No more silent stone. No more private executions. The walls were now transparent, the ceiling removed, the roar of the Citadel's elite crashing down like a storm.
They could see the crowd now. And worse: the crowd could see them.
High above, suspended in the void like a halo of hunger, floated the Skyboxes. Nobles, officers, and corporate leeches packed every level, their eyes sharp, their appetites sharper. The pit wasn’t just a test anymore.
It was a broadcast.
Ruby had been waiting for this moment. The real moment.
The one that would sell.
Her voice, when it came, wasn’t just sound, it was theater, smoke, and fire in equal measure. The pit lights flared to match her tone, casting exaggerated shadows across the stone.
“Welcome… to the final sixteen!”
The crowd screamed. Everyone knew what they were watching, violence polished into man, but Ruby would make it a show. Her drones whirled around her like loyal hounds, catching every angle, every smile, turning brutality into spectacle with every word.
“This is where the mask comes off. Where names are made. Where monsters are minted in chrome and flame. These are the cadets who didn’t just survive, they performed.”
This wasn’t live. Not exactly. But it would be. The footage would be scrubbed, cut, polished, and spread across every screen in the Green. A carefully crafted highlight reel of controlled chaos.
Legion propaganda in high definition.
The blood wasn’t for honor. It was for credits.
Win here, and you didn’t just advance. You sold yourself. You became the face on a billboard, a training sim, a recruitment holo. You became useful.
And if you lost?
Well, no one watched the credits roll for the losers
No one came for mercy. They hadn’t come for fairness.
They came to see the next generation rise. They came for blood.
Each of the top sixteen was already on the path to greatness. Not because of luck. Not even skill. Because they’d earned it, on the backs of broken opponents, shattered bodies, and clean kills.
They weren’t here by accident.
These were the future. The Legion’s next poster children. The Nine’s next investments. Every move they made now would echo across battlefields and boardrooms alike.
The cadets knew it too.
It was their debut.
From this point on, every strike was a résumé. Every drop of blood was proof of value.
The combatants could see the crowd. Thousands of faces. Roaring. Chanting. Hungry. The energy hit like a wave.
And Ruby was here.
No longer sitting up in the skybox, she now stood front and center in a floating observation ring. Drones circled her like satellites. Her dress sparkled with kinetic shimmer, light-reactive sequins forming a shifting red-gold mosaic of the Legions crest.
"Welcome, darlings... to the moment that matters!" Ruby's voice rang through the pit. "The top sixteen! Where talent meets terror! Where legends take their first step! And stepping in first... the one who sings the end of his enemies, the Siren’s Song... VAELIYAN VERDANCE!"
But Bastard heard none of it.
He’d heard it all before. Names. Titles. Words for the tall folk.
None of them mattered when your ribs ached and your legs were still bruised from the last time you saved a cub who thought he was clever.
He crouched low beside Warren, yes, Warren, not Vaeliyan, never that pompous name. Bastard knew who he was. Not merciful. Not soft. A killer with rhythm in his bones. Bastard loved him for it. But that didn’t change what Bastard was, his protector. Always had been. He’d taken a wound once, clean through the ribs, one he knew should’ve ended him. He did it without thinking. Because Warren was worth dying for. And then that beautiful angel, the one who slept like she had fighting tigers in her lungs, had saved him. Pulled him back from the edge when even he thought it was over. And Bastard had followed them ever since.
Styll was pacing in tight arcs, nose twitching. Good. She was learning to circle before lunging. She still thought in shapes and echoes.
But Bastard… Bastard knew war. He didn’t need orders.
The opponent was fast. Pretty. Moved like a dancer without flaws. Maybe Leron. Maybe Vexa. Didn’t matter. Mirror-body and perfect posture meant nothing to a street fighter. He’d seen twins like that before, back in the alleys, two-bodies-one-voice, high-born killers who thought polish made them untouchable.
They weren’t.
The bell hit.
Warren moved first, hand lance sweeping wide, suppressive fire in clean arcs. Not to hit. Just to herd. To shape the field.
That was Bastard’s cue.
He launched.
No growl. No warning. Just four limbs of pressure and motion. His claws scraped stone. He darted between flashes of light and confusion. The girl, Vexa, probably, adjusted, but too slow. She pivoted toward Warren, and Bastard used her own momentum to leap up her back and rake twin lines across her shoulderblades.
Styll followed. Mistlike. She didn’t need to hit. Just distract. Distract and fade.
Vexa tried to reset. Smart. Too late.
A kick caught Bastard in the ribs. Hard. Not a strike meant to displace, meant to end. She wanted him gone. Just a mangy annoyance. Something beneath notice. She hit him like she meant to break him. He rolled, grunted. Old pain. Real pain. But worse, dismissal.
He was tired of it.
Tired of being too soft. Too small. Tired of having to save Warren every time he held back. Tired of getting kicked and cut and slammed into the dirt.
He was so gods damned tired.
Tired in his bones, where cold settled too fast these days. Tired in his joints, worn from years of jumping into fights meant for others. His breath felt shallow, his limbs too slow. He’d fought his whole life without real fangs, without armor, without anything but grit and rage and a refusal to die when death came calling.
And still they dismissed him.
He didn’t want to be soft anymore. He didn’t want to be small.
So his body listened.
He felt his jaw shift first. Teeth, real ones. Fangs. For biting back.
Still too soft. The world was hard, and he needed to be harder.
His skin obeyed. Scales bloomed beneath fur, curling over ribs and spine, sheathing muscle in something that didn’t bleed when kicked.
He needed to be bigger. To fit the size of the will inside him. So he grew. Not tall. Not monstrous. But enough.
His mind had always been better than the rest, he knew that, but now even that sharpened. He saw more. Understood more.
Because survival was never enough.
He needed to win.
And for once… they’d remember his name
He saw the name, not in language, but in his heart, in his soul. A scaled bampher.
That’s what he was now.
Everything stopped.
Even the crowd, thousands strong, seemed to fall into stunned silence. The match hadn’t paused. No whistle had blown. But something had shifted.
Bonds didn’t do this.
Not at all, they gained abilities but never became something else.
That girl, Vexa, maybe Leron, hesitated for the first time. Not because of Warren. But because of him.
And above it all, Ruby's voice cut through the quiet, delighted and sharp:
"Oh! What’s this? It looks like the mangy street cat had a shapeshifting ability hidden in his claws! Another secret weapon from the Siren’s Song! What other tricks is he hiding, darlings? What else don’t we know?"
The crowd roared back to life.
Bastard darted again, faster. Lower. Quieter.
The second strike was no scratch. It tore. He caught the gap in her stance, forced it wider. Warren didn’t need to finish the fight.
Styll crashed low and hard, sweeping her feet.
Bastard landed on her chest.
Claws pressed in.
Vexa fell.
Bastard roared. A roar so powerful it would have made a lion proud. He didn’t look to Warren.
He just exhaled through his nose like an old man with too much wisdom and not enough patience.
And maybe next time, the boy would stop pretending he didn’t want to kill.
Bastard stood in the center of the pit, licking his new scales, his claws sunk into the cracked stone.
He was proud. Not loud. Not gloating. Just proud.
Proud of becoming more than a sick, gasping weakling scraping for scraps. Proud of rising from a half-dead alley cat into something real. Into what he was always meant to be.
The pit faded.
Then the bond woke.
Warren floated still in the pod, suspended in that glowing gel. But he was smiling. He felt it. Bastard didn’t feel like a different creature. He felt like himself. Finally.
Styll surged forward across the link vibrating with joy.
“You did its! You did its! Sharper now, faster, stronger, Bigger ways bigger, I knew you had claws in there! Stylls knew it, Bastards!”
Bastard’s thoughts followed. Gravelly. Slow. Proud. Not words spoken, but they carried so much shape and certainty they may as well have been. Like a father finally seeing his cubs grow teeth.
“It was just time I stopped being so weak.”
He turned toward Styll in his mind, warm but stern.
“You are mist and shadow and fangs. Never forget that.”
Then to Vaeliyan.
“And you, Warren... you’re a good cub. But now I can protect you like I always should have.”
Vaeliyan’s voice came back soft, aching with emotion.
“Bastard... I should be the one protecting you.”
“No, cub.”
Bastard’s reply was final. Gentle, but unshakable.
“I have chosen my role. You are the leader of the pack. And I will be your guardian.”
Josaphine leaned forward in the skybox, her eyes locked on the pit as Vaeliyan danced around Vexa.
Yes, it was Vexa, confirmed by Ruby's high-pitched announcement. The twins were too similar, too synchronized. If not for the commentary, she wouldn’t have known which was which.
She saw the ferret disappear into smoke, into mist, the way only that bond could. And then Vexa kicked the cat, cruelly. Not without reason, though. That cat had always been a vicious little bastard.
What she didn’t expect was for the cat to shift. Mid-fight.
Some bonds had combat forms, sure, but it was rare. She had never seen one shift like that. So suddenly. So completely. It was like something massive had been stuffed inside that small body, and finally, it broke loose.
The transformation wasn’t gradual. It was violent, immediate. But somehow, it felt... right. Like the mangy alley cat had only been a costume. An image hiding the real shape underneath.
What emerged was sleek. Hard. A scaled cheetah-like thing not enormous, but no house cat. Something fast, armored, lethal. And it didn’t wait. It tore Vexa apart in seconds. Fast. Brutal. Unapologetic.
Josaphine looked to Isol.
She needed to talk to him.
Whatever was happening with Vaeliyan, it was getting harder to ignore. First it was the quiet admission that he’d be beyond Teon, and that alone had shaken her. Teon. The Worldbreaker. The second-ranked High Imperator.
Jurpat looked the part. His howl alone had made her hair stand on end. But Vaeliyan? Nothing he’d done seemed to justify that kind of talk.
Yes, he was the fastest avatar load anyone had seen, but they’d reduced that advantage with the spawn cages. Imujin was still laughing about the match. Even teasing that “His damn house cat’s stronger than half the class.”
But Isol... he was watching that cat now like he hadn’t expected it either.
He’d told her vaeliyan's bonds were unique.
She needed to speak to him. In private. Somewhere the others wouldn’t overhear.
But there was no privacy here. Not in the skybox. Not on the grounds. And she couldn’t afford to leave, not with the fights rolling forward.
She tapped her fingers restlessly, deciding.
She would wait.
The tournament would be over by the end of the day.
And the next match was starting: Chime versus the other twin Leron.
Ruby’s voice cuts in, bright and electric, overlaying a rapid series of drone-cut highlights, the kind meant to stir blood and sell glory.
“Welcome, darlings, to the most savage Top 8 we’ve seen in years! The Red Citadel always bleeds brightest, but this class... oh, this class roars. And I cannot wait to rub it in the sparkling little faces of my dear, over-polished sisters, Emerald, Onyx, Opal, Sapphire... whoever’s pretending to be first this cycle.”
The feed jumps.
Vaeliyan Verdance vs Vexa Drevin Quick-cut: Vexa spinning midair, Styll vanishing into smoke, a blur of claws. Then the cat, the cat, shifting into something impossible. Ruby’s voice practically purrs: “The Siren’s Song brought backup, and darling, his monsters have claws.”
Chime vs Leron Drevin A wide shot. Leron moves beautifully, until she stops moving at all. Chime never lifts her hand. “Fear. Real fear. Not the kind you fake for cameras. And the girl who sings silence delivered it in full.”
Jurpat vs Roan Vess The pit glows orange, fire screaming up into the sky. Jurpat walks through it like it’s fog, eyes full of murder and loyalty. “The wolf didn’t burn. He endured. And then he bit.”
Elian vs Torman Vell No music. Just silence and slow zoom on Elian’s face as Torman collapses without warning. “No strike. No wound. Just presence. The crown does not beg. It commands.”
Sylen Verdance vs Ramis Coil Screaming. Not from Ramis, from the crowd. Sylen breaks something, someone, and she smiles. “Rage in a Verdance? Dears, we might be seeing a revival. Of blood. Of madness.”
Lessa Dune vs Rokhan Vaskor The screen glitches, intentional. Lessa doesn’t have arms. She doesn’t need them. Rokhan’s frame collapses, spine-first. “Who needs machines when you have purpose?”
Wesley vs Varnai Myre No noise. Just a clean cut, a fall, a small nod. “Surgical. Controlled. If he’s behind you... well, let’s just hope he’s not.”
Fenn vs Xera Art vs efficiency. Flash vs function. The last frame is Fenn bowing, even after defeat. “Even the fallen shine. But Xera? She’s diamond-hard.”
The footage cuts out with Ruby’s signature laugh: high, venomous, delighted.
“This is the Red Citadel, loves. And these are our children. So what do your darlings look like, Emerald? Still playing dress-up? Onyx, still brooding in silence? Sapphire, still weeping behind that glass pride of yours? Topaz, sweetie, are you even still funded?”
“Because down in the south... we breed monsters.”
The stone shifted beneath his feet like something alive. Vaeliyan stepped into the pit with Bastard prowling low beside him, and Styll, tail twitching, creeping along in his shadow. Across from them, the crowd roared, not for him, but for the girl.
Lessa Dune. Armless. Upright. Her body looked carved from pressure itself. A thousand simulations had built her, remade her, until she was no longer a girl but a force. At her side, towering, plated in pale bone and raw presence, Momo, a massive Kolanit bear, exhaled like a furnace and shook its bulk loose.
Ruby’s voice sang above the crowd like a whip crack: “The Siren’s Song meets the Wave Cutter, will he break her tempo, or will she make him dance?”
Then the pit moved.
Vaeliyan didn’t wait. His boots whispered across stone, a blur of motion, cutting wide as his hand lance snapped out sharp, suppressive fire toward Lessa’s feet to drive her off balance. She didn’t flinch. Her bare heels skidded, then held as her body dropped low and countered with a ripple through the air.
A wave of pressure slammed into him.
His spine screamed.
His stance broke.
Bastard snarled and twisted under the wave, claws digging for grip. Styll shimmered and slid wide into the smoke-line, vanishing from eye.
She wasn’t gone. She was circling. Watching. Not the bear, Lessa. Styll had seen it too. The way she moved, the pressure resets, the constant recalibration. Her neck was the key. And the chip… the chip would be right there. Styll was hunting it. Like prey. Like a single point of truth in a storm of noise.
Lessa didn’t chase.
She dropped again, another pulse.
Vaeliyan rolled. Stone scraped beneath him. He fired from the ground, blasts tightening, pressure focused into piercing spikes. She absorbed it with a shimmer of air and drove a bare heel down. Momo lunged forward, shoulder-first, a wrecking train of bone and fur.
It wasn’t clean. Nothing about it was clean.
Vaeliyan flanked. Bastard flanked. Momo took a spike to the ribs and kept going. Lessa slammed into Vaeliyan with brutal weight. She cracked him in the side with her head. His blacksteel plating caught the worst of it. Still, his ribs whined.
They grappled. Not artfully. They stumbled. Bit. Slammed. Her knee into his stomach. His elbow across her face. Momo roared and backhanded Bastard into the stone.
The fight devolved....
grabbed hair....
slid on blood....
pressure clashed with pressure...
and always, always the bear returned.
Vaeliyan used his field like a blade. He shot pressure at her hip. She hissed in pain. She drove her forehead into him again.
Then...
Nothing. Not silence. Absence.
A crunch behind her neck.
Lessa’s eyes widened.
Styll had climbed her spine like a whisper. The bite came down where her chip would’ve been if this were real.
It ended.
A single bite and the match was over.
Lessa crumpled forward, not from pain, but the system registering a kill. Momo screamed then vanished.
Bastard limped into view, fur half-burnt. Styll leapt down, already shifting back into smoke.
Ruby’s voice purred across the pit: “Another secret weapon from the Siren’s Song. I hope the rest of you brought more than a roar.”
Ruby’s wrap-up feed opened not with words, but a roar of color. Holo-drones swirled in red ribbons, painting the sky with light before collapsing into the ruby crest of the Southern Citadel. Her voice followed, smooth and bright, riding that same storm of spectacle.
"Four matches. Four monsters. Four reasons Emerald is going to weep into her stupid crystal wine."
The feed cut to fight one.
The Wavecutter vs. The Siren's Song
Lessa Dune vs. Vaeliyan Verdance
"She fought without arms. He fought with a chorus in his chest. You already know the ending, but not the middle. Not the blur of her pressure waves slamming into his body hard enough to crater stone, or the way she stood her ground even when his Soul Skill folded space around her lungs. Her bear, yes, that’s right, she brought a bear, charged like a tank with bone plating. Took six flechettes before it even slowed down. But Verdance wasn’t trying to win clean. His lance barked, but it was his bonds who moved the needle. That silver mist you thought was part of the terrain? That wasn’t weather. That was Styll, the sabertoothed ferret, climbing the bear’s back and going straight for the nape of Lessa’s neck. A bite. A blink. A win. The Siren’s Song didn’t sing, but the pit echoed anyway."
Cut.
The Silent Belle vs. The Support
Chime vs. Wesley
"Wesley came in soft. Light on his feet, tools up his sleeves. Everyone thought he’d stall, adapt, find the edge. But Chime didn’t give him time. The air warped around her. Wesley flinched, staggered, bled from the nose before he even moved. His counter, some kind of dispersal lattice, bought him seconds, maybe. He used it well. Three projectiles. One concussive trap. Two microblades and a net. All dodged without a twitch. Chime drifted. Her aura broke his focus and by the end, Wesley was on one knee, whispering a lullaby just to keep his nerves aligned. The last thing he saw? A beautiful girl who didn’t speak, just shattered the air and left him twitching."
Cut.
The Spider's Fangs vs. The Iron Wolf
Xera vs. Jurpat
"She moved like poetry. He moved like a storm. Xera never blinked. Jurpat never backed up. They clashed like old gods with blood on their teeth. Her twin blades carved lines of perfect control. His claws tore those lines apart. Every strike of hers was a calculation. Every howl of his a declaration. And still, it wasn’t enough. Xera drove a knife into his ribs. He bit into her forearm. She tore free. He slammed her through a wall. The pit had to reset the terrain twice. In the end, it was a howl, low, guttural, not just sound but force, that knocked her back long enough for Jurpat to lunge and pin her with his entire weight. The Iron Wolf had earned his name."
Cut.
The King’s Will vs. The Crimson Executioner
Elian vs. Sylen Verdance
"Oh, you thought this one would be subtle. No. Elian didn’t speak, but Sylen did. She raged. She screamed. She tore up the pit like she wanted to bring the whole damn simulation down around them. But Elian never flinched. He walked toward her with a presence that bent the light. Her pressure fields cracked stone. His just made you want to kneel. Even when she burned the ground, set it glowing with rage and color and flame, he stepped through like it was nothing. Then he looked at her, and she fell. Not because of a strike. Because her body didn’t trust itself anymore. Because he is the King’s Will, and that means when he commands, your instincts obey. We don’t even know what his Soul Skill does. But whatever it is... Sylen Verdance didn’t even make it ten minutes."
Final shot: all four finalists’ stills, hovering in air.
The Top Four
Vaeliyan Verdance – The Siren’s Song
Jurpat – The Iron Wolf
Chime – The Silent Belle
Elian – The King’s Will
Ruby’s face returned, smug and radiant.
"So. To my darling older sister up in the Emerald box. I saw your cadets. I watched their holos. Pretty. Precise. Predictable. And this year? You lose. This year the South brought monsters. The kind that make gods lean forward in their seats."
She leaned closer to her drone.
"This year, I’ll be the one watching your cadets...from the winner’s circle."
The feed ended in ruby static.
