Death Cultivator by eden Hudson (knowledgeable books to read .txt) 📗

Behind him, Warcry was scowling down at a tattoo identical to mine on his scar-lined forearm.

“All right,” the Bailiff said, ghost hands slapping us on the backs. “Enough fiddle-farting around. Let’s get you boys in the cage!”

Fight in the Cage

THE BAILIFF LED US around the cage to the door. Nearby, the shark guy who’d won his fight was having his biggest gore wounds bandaged by a minotaur. Like the tattoo cling wrap, the bandages sank into the shark guy’s skin and disappeared. Fresh black tattoos bridged the wounds, stopping the bleeding.

“Hang in there, Ripper,” the Bailiff said cheerfully as he led us past.

He stopped at the cage door, then opened it with one of his huge ghost arms to let the winner of the last fight limp out.

“Congrats, fella,” the Bailiff said. “Guess Chali wasn’t as tough as he thought. You boys wait here ’til I announce you, then come on in.” He headed out on the plank, already yelling, “What a fight! What a fight! Collect your winnings, folks, or let it ride on this next little doozy yours truly just turned up—a human brawl!”

Whistling and shouting drowned out everything for a second, and my brain started to register that this was really happening. I was about to cage match some dude in front of a bunch of criminals so I could join their gang. One of us could potentially die, and if we didn’t, we’d be serving the gang for a year.

My stomach crawled around my insides like it was looking for a way out.

“Hey.” I looked over at Warcry. “How do we know who won? If we’re not supposed to kill each other, how can we tell if the fight’s over?”

“You say you give up,” he said, “then I stop the beating.”

My fists balled at my sides. “Man, you’re a douche.”

Out on the rock island, the Bailiff screamed, “Yes, place your bets with the barristers now, folks! A pair of humans—you don’t see that every day—both vying for entry into the OSS fold. Watch as they rip each other’s throats out for a chance to live the dream Of Smoke and Silk!”

With his huge ghost arms, the Baliff waved us on. Warcry shouldered past me through the door. I glared at his back, following him across that flimsy plank to the middle of the cage. Heights don’t usually bother me that much, but I was pretty glad when I made it to solid rock without falling.

“Whoop ass, boys!” the Bailiff crowed.

Before I could even think what to do, Warcry was flying through the air at me. I hunched down and threw my fists into high guard, slamming a cross block into his punch. Pain rang through my arm bones, and the shock ran up into my shoulder. It felt like I’d stopped a lead pipe.

Then my ribs crunched, just barely audible over a ping like someone nailing a home run with a metal bat. I folded in half, clutching my side.

The prosthetic! Don’t get kicked with his prosthetic was what Kest had said. That flashy Superman punch had been a setup for his kick, and I’d fallen for it.

A cuff to the ear knocked me the rest of the way to the dirt. Then another stiff baseball bat kick caught me in the stomach. I threw up Coffee Drank.

Warcry grabbed me by the hair.

“Pathetic,” he sneered. “Give up?”

I was having a hard time thinking about anything right then, so a smart comeback wasn’t ready in the queue. When I saw him leaning on his left leg, though, I remembered his other one was bad. I planted my feet in the dirt and slammed my shoulder into the knee of his good leg.

Warcry didn’t go down immediately, just started raining punches down on me, but my head and neck were tucked up into his thigh where he couldn’t get in a good shot. I could take shots to the shoulders all day.

I scrabbled my feet in the dirt until he went down, then I rolled away from him and stumbled back to standing. I probably should’ve stayed on top and twisted the heck out of his good leg or beaten the crap out of him while he was down. But I’d done basically no grappling in my entire life, and I hurt a lot, and all I could think about was getting to a distance where he couldn’t kick me again.

My shoulders heaved as I tried to get my breath back, and I could feel dust sticking to the coffee barf on my cheek. I was less than three feet from the edge of the cage’s dirt island. From there, it was Drop to Your Death City. Faces pressed up against the chain link on all sides, screaming stuff at me and at Warcry, but I couldn’t tell what any of them were saying.

Across the cage, Warcry’s legs lifted over his head, then he did one of those flawless kick-ups you only see show-offs on YouTube do.

“Give up?” I asked him.

Warcry broke into a limping run, then jumped. The punch probably would’ve knocked my face out the back side of my head if it’d made contact. But remembering the setup for his last kick, I ducked under the fist and crashed both forearms into the prosthetic rocketing toward my head. The block spun his leg out of the way, and I shot out a kick to the back of his real leg.

His knee buckled, but when he hit the dirt, he swept his prosthetic out and knocked my legs out from under me. I hit the ground hard and tried to roll away, but he was already on top of me, throwing punches. I curled my arms around my head trying to protect myself, but he found all the holes in my blocks.

The blows paused for half a second.

“Give up?”

“Rather die,” I grunted, blood and spit hissing between my teeth. And I meant it. I get that way sometimes.

“Fine.” Warcry wrapped his