The simulator accepted both of them with a ripple of pale light, pulling their consciousness inward until

  the outside world dissolved into a seamless, self-contained environment. The instant the initialization

  finished, Bash stood upon solid ground again, feeling the shift of gravity settle into place under his

  boots.

  The arena materialized around him in a slow, sweeping expansion of light. It was circular, stone floored, surrounded by towering walls of rough dark material that looked like obsidian pillars fused

  together. Overhead, a white sun hung still and unmoving, casting sharp, clean shadows across the

  ground. No weapons. No armor. No resonance glinting beneath the surface.

  Just the basics. Just the fighters.

  Bash looked down at himself. Standard Spartor fatigues, simple grey fabric that offered no protection

  and gave no advantage. A similar set covered Tyrish on the opposite end of the arena.

  Tyrish rolled his neck, his expression calm but focused, the faintest hint of a grin touching his mouth.

  The grin of someone who had been waiting for a reason to test himself again.

  SC’s voice entered Bash’s mind, smooth and clinical. “Simulation parameters confirmed. No resonance

  allowed. No external enhancements. All strikes will register as realistic. Bone breaks will inhibit

  movement. Joint dislocation will be reflected in neural feedback. Fatal blows will terminate the

  scenario immediately.”

  Bash exhaled slowly. “So it will hurt.”

  “Yes,” SC said. “Pain levels will be identical to reality, though no lasting injuries will carry beyond the

  simulation. I can reduce the realism if you prefer. Or negate the injury conditions entirely.”

  Bash shook his head once. “No. Let it run as is. I want to try this on my own.”

  “Understood,” SC said, quiet and steady.

  Across the arena, Tyrish lifted his hands to chest height, palms open, elbows relaxed. A practiced

  stance. Confident. Center of gravity low and stable.

  Bash mirrored him.

  The simulation recognized both fighters had set their footing.

  The floor vibrated once beneath them.

  A resonant chime echoed overhead.

  Tyrish moved first.

  Not recklessly, not aggressively, but with a sharp, probing jab to test distance. Bash slipped to the side,

  letting the blow pass by his cheek without a counter. Tyrish pressed in, testing with a low kick aimed

  for Bash’s shin. Bash stepped back just enough that the strike tapped air.

  Bash snapped in a quick jab of his own. Tyrish blocked it cleanly.

  Both men reset.

  A small smile touched Tyrish’s mouth. “You are fast.”

  “You are strong,” Bash answered.

  They closed again.

  This time Tyrish opened with a convincing feint to the ribcage, then switched into a high arc hook

  aimed for Bash’s temple. Bash ducked beneath it and delivered a sharp straight strike to the underside

  of Tyrish’s arm. Tyrish grunted, more out of surprise than pain, but he recovered instantly and tried to

  grab Bash’s wrist.

  Bash twisted away and slapped Tyrish’s hand aside, shifting angles.

  Tyrish retaliated with a forward knee aimed for Bash’s abdomen.

  It landed.

  Bash felt it like a shockwave through his core. Air punched from his lungs. The realism was staggering.

  He stepped back, regained his breath, and Tyrish did not chase. He waited. Studied. As if learning

  Bash’s reactions by the millisecond.

  They circled.

  SC murmured quietly in Bash’s mind. “He is analyzing patterns. He reads weight distribution

  extremely quickly.”

  “Yeah. I noticed.”

  “You must respond unpredictably.”

  “I know.”

  Tyrish lunged again, this time with a full commitment to a driving punch aimed at Bash’s sternum.

  Bash twisted sideways, letting the strike pass, but Tyrish pivoted with surprising speed and clipped

  Bash’s ribs with a short elbow.

  Pain lanced beneath Bash’s arm.

  Bash answered immediately.

  A tight, precise jab. Then another. Then a quick shot to the ribs on Tyrish’s right side, followed by a

  sweeping kick to the outer knee.

  Tyrish absorbed the hits with a grunt, stumbled half a step, and charged forward.

  They collided.

  The impact drove both to the ground in a tumble of limbs and grit. Tyrish tried to take top position by

  forcing his weight over Bash’s torso, but Bash slid his hips, using the momentum to roll them

  sideways. Tyrish attempted to hook Bash’s leg from underneath. Bash blocked with a knee and shifted

  again.

  They rolled twice, each man fighting for leverage, breath harsh and controlled. Eventually Tyrish

  managed to pin one of Bash’s arms to the ground, but Bash twisted his shoulder under, pulled free, and

  struck Tyrish’s ribs with a palm heel.

  Tyrish winced.

  Bash saw the reaction, filed it away, and pressed the attack. A quick succession of strikes aimed all

  along Tyrish’s rib line, not enough to break anything but enough to weaken the area, slow him down.

  Tyrish shoved him off hard.

  Both men scrambled back to their feet.

  Tyrish shook out his arm. “You have accuracy. Precision strikes. Not many fighters prioritize rib work.”

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  Bash shrugged. “You leave it open.”

  Tyrish laughed, breathless. “Noted.”

  They clashed again.

  Tyrish’s strength dominated in close quarters. Every time Bash allowed the distance to close more than

  a meter, Tyrish muscled him back with brute force, trying to overpower him into a clinch. Bash fought

  to avoid being locked in place, slipping arms, breaking grips, sliding hips out of alignment.

  But strength had advantages.

  Tyrish caught him once.

  The clinch locked around Bash’s torso like iron. Bash felt his ribs compress, the simulation feeding in

  the exact pressure that would occur in reality. Bash slipped one arm between their bodies, braced it

  against Tyrish’s hip, and forced a wedge, loosening the grip enough to drop lower, escape out the side,

  and reposition himself.

  They reset briefly.

  Sweat rolled down Bash’s jaw. His heartbeat echoed in his ears.

  Tyrish cracked his knuckles. “You study body mechanics.”

  “You swing like a boulder,” Bash replied.

  Tyrish grinned. “Flattery.”

  He launched again.

  The next exchange was faster. More fluid. Tyrish drove a heavy strike toward Bash’s sternum. Bash

  rolled with the blow, allowing it to slide past while landing a sharp knuckle strike directly into a nerve

  cluster under Tyrish’s arm.

  Tyrish recoiled, eyes widening. “Pressure points. You use pressure points.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “That is dirty.”

  “That is fighting.”

  Tyrish laughed again.

  Then he tackled Bash.

  Bash hit the ground hard. The air left his lungs again. He brought his legs up immediately to guard,

  trying to establish distance, but Tyrish pushed his weight downward, forcing Bash’s guard apart.

  They rolled again, each competing for top mount.

  Tyrish managed to get one knee planted beside Bash’s hip, starting to climb into a dominant position.

  Bash swept his other leg inward, catching Tyrish’s ankle with a precise hook and using the shift to

  topple him sideways.

  Back and forth.

  Dominant position lasted seconds at most before the other reversed it again. Breath grew harsh. Sweat

  touched the simulation floor. The movements grew less clean, more instinctive.

  Bash grabbed Tyrish’s wrist, tried to lever it into an arm bar. Tyrish twisted powerfully, breaking the

  hold. A sharp elbow glanced off Bash’s cheek, sending a burst of hot pain across his face.

  SC noted it calmly. “No fracture. Minimal abrasion.”

  “Thanks,” Bash muttered inwardly.

  Tyrish tried to pin Bash’s shoulders.

  Bash bucked upward, twisted, and locked his legs around Tyrish’s hip, trying to leverage a sweep.

  Tyrish fought it off, then suddenly shifted his strategy entirely.

  He disengaged, backed up three paces, and raised his hands again.

  The two fighters stood, breathing in tight controlled bursts.

  Tyrish exhaled. “I see why you won the tournament.”

  Bash shrugged. “It was not this kind of fight.”

  “No,” Tyrish agreed. “But your instincts are sharp. Efficient.”

  Bash smiled faintly. “Yours hit like a brick wall.”

  Tyrish smirked. “I will take that as a compliment.”

  They closed again.

  This time Bash struck first.

  A sharp jab to Tyrish’s chin. A low kick to his calf. A rapid follow-up combination aimed along the left

  side of Tyrish’s ribcage. Tyrish blocked two, absorbed one, then retaliated with a crushing hook that

  slammed into Bash’s shoulder like a hammer.

  Bash staggered.

  Tyrish pressed in, attempting to drive him backward. Bash pivoted, deflecting a strike aimed for his

  gut, and countered with two quick short blows directly into Tyrish’s weakened rib area.

  Tyrish winced and stepped back.

  Bash chased the advantage.

  Another strike to the ribs.

  Another.

  Another.

  Tyrish’s movements slowed slightly.

  But only slightly.

  Because Tyrish adapted.

  He switched from brute aggression into a more defensive, counter-focused stance. Bash pressed

  forward, reading the shifts in momentum, and tried to force Tyrish into another opening.

  Tyrish let him.

  At the last second, Tyrish slipped under Bash’s arm.

  His hand locked around Bash’s wrist.

  The world tilted.

  Bash’s balance evaporated as Tyrish swept his legs, pulled him downward, and the two crashed back to

  the ground in a controlled fall that left Tyrish landing behind him.

  Before Bash could react, Tyrish’s arm slid around his throat.

  A choke.

  Not a blood choke. A full constriction choke.

  The pressure tightened instantly.

  Bash’s hands flew to Tyrish’s arm.

  The hold tightened further.

  SC murmured in his mind, calm and analytical. “Your airflow is restricted. If he completes the hold for

  six more seconds, the simulation will register unconsciousness.”

  Bash tried to shift his hips.

  Tyrish locked his legs around Bash’s torso and tightened the choke another level.

  Air grew thin.

  SC spoke again. “Your options are limited.”

  Bash braced.

  The fight was far from over.

  Tyrish’s voice low, controlled, just behind Bash’s ear.

  “Let us see what you do now.”