The third round ended faster than the first two.
Arin remembered it in fragments. A man with sharp elbows and quicker hands. A blow that caught his temple, sending the world sideways. The crowd's roar. His own feet finding the floor again, moving before his mind caught up. A palm strike that glanced off his ribs. A grapple that lasted seconds before the man stepped back, breathing hard, looking at Arin with something close to respect.
Arin's ears rang. His ribs ached. But he was still standing. The man's foot touched the line. The round was over.
The fourth round was a blur. He remembered the lights, the heat, the shape of a man who moved like smoke. He remembered giving ground, letting the man exhaust himself, stepping around him at the last moment. He remembered the crowd's gasp when the man stumbled across the line.
He did not remember the fifth round beginning.
The man who stood across from him now was different.
He was older, his hair grey, his face lined. He wore no tape on his hands, no shoes on his feet. He stood still, his arms loose, his eyes fixed on Arin with the patience of someone who had done this a hundred times before.
The crowd was quiet.
The man at the edge of the pit raised his hand. "Fifth round. Last round. Same rules."
Arin's chest rose and fell. His arms were heavy. His legs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. The hum in his chest was quiet. Waiting.
The older man took a step forward.
He moved slowly. Not the slowness of exhaustion. The slowness of precision. His hand came up, palm open, and Arin blocked it. The impact was solid, controlled. He stepped back, reset.
The man came again. A palm to the chest, a sweep of the leg, a knee that Arin barely turned aside. Each move was connected to the next, flowing, unhurried.
Arin retreated. The man followed.
He landed a blow to Arin's shoulder. Pain shot down his arm. He ignored it, kept moving, kept his eyes on the man's center.
The man smiled. "You're holding back."
Arin didn't answer.
The man pressed. A strike to the ribs, a kick to the thigh, a palm that Arin caught at the last moment. The man's strength was greater than it looked. Arin's arms shook with the effort of holding him back.
"Why?" The man's voice was low. "What are you waiting for?"
Arin didn't know. Or he did. The hum was there, patient, waiting for him to reach for it. He kept his hands at his sides.
The man's eyes narrowed. He pulled back, then came forward with a strike that Arin saw too late.
It hit his chest. Just below the heart.
The air left him. The world tilted. He fell.
The crowd was a roar in his ears. He heard Maya's voice, Hana's, felt the floor against his back. The lights were too bright. The hum was louder now, pressing against his ribs.
He pushed himself up.
The older man stood over him, waiting. His arms were down. He was not attacking.
"Get up," he said. Not unkind.
Arin got up.
His legs were shaking. His arms were heavy. He stood across from the man and breathed.
"I can't," he said. "Use them."
The man tilted his head. "Why?"
Arin looked at the woman. She was standing now, her hands pressed against the barrier that separated her from the pit. Her face was pale. Her eyes were fixed on him.
"Because she's not worth losing them for."
The man was quiet for a moment. Then he nodded.
He attacked.
Fast. Hard. A combination that Arin could only block, not evade. Each blow drove him back. The edge was close now. One step. Two.
Arin planted his feet. The man's next strike met his forearm. Pain shot up to his shoulder. He held.
The man's eyes widened.
Arin pushed.
Not with power. With leverage. The man's weight shifted. Arin stepped inside his guard, caught his arm, turned. The man stumbled. Arin let him go.
He stood at the center of the pit. The older man stood at the edge, his heel an inch from the line.
They looked at each other.
The man smiled. He stepped back, over the line.
The crowd erupted.
The man at the edge raised his hand. "Fifth round. Winner."
Arin stood in the center of the pit, his chest heaving, his arms shaking. The lights were too bright. The noise was too loud.
He looked at the woman. She was crying.
He walked toward the edge. The man who had brought him here stood waiting, his arms crossed, his face unreadable.
"I won," Arin said. "Release her."
The man looked at him for a long moment. Then he smiled.
"You think this is over?"
He raised his hand.
The doors at the far end of the pit opened. Men poured through, filling the space around the ring. More appeared from the shadows, from the seats, from the corridors. Their faces were hard. Their hands were empty, but they didn't need to hold anything to be a threat.
Hana moved to Arin's side. Ren's hand was on his katana. Dmitri stood between them and the woman. Maya was already reaching for her.
The man stepped into the pit.
He moved differently now. Slower. Deliberate. The weight of his presence pressed against them, heavier than the crowd, heavier than the lights.
"You fought well," he said. "Better than I expected." He rolled his shoulders. "But you don't get to walk out of here with what's mine."
He stopped a few feet from Arin. His eyes were flat. Cold.
"I'm M9," he said. "And you're not leaving until I say you do."