Darkness pressed at the edge of Bash’s vision as Tyrish’s arm locked beneath his chin. The choke was

  clean, tight, and perfectly angled, pinning him against the simulation arena floor. Tyrish’s breath was

  hot against his ear, slow and controlled despite their battle’s brutal pace.

  SC’s voice slid into his mind, steady and analytical.

  “Your options are limited.”

  Bash braced, planting a knee, shifting his hips just enough to keep his airway half-open.

  The fight was far from over.

  Tyrish’s voice came low, almost calm, just behind Bash’s ear. “Let us see what you do now.”

  It was not taunting. It was a fighter testing another fighter, pushing, probing, demanding a response.

  Bash’s pulse hammered. Blood dripped from his eyebrow, trailing into one eye, blurring half the world

  into streaks of blue.

  He could feel Tyrish’s weight shifting behind him. Not a mistake. A transition. Tyrish was preparing to

  sink the choke deeper, rotate his hips, collapse Bash’s base, and finish it in one motion.

  SC whispered again. “You have approximately four seconds before unconsciousness onset.

  Recommendation: structural counterstrike.”

  Bash exhaled sharply.

  He made his move.

  At the last possible moment, he twisted, not away from the choke, but into it, driving his shoulders

  forward as if giving Tyrish what he wanted. Tyrish’s grip tightened instinctively. That was the opening.

  Bash slammed his elbow backward with every ounce of strength he had left.

  There was a sickening crack.

  Followed by an immediate, wet shift inside Tyrish’s chest.

  Tyrish gasped, sharp and strangled, the choke loosening as his body seized.

  SC spoke over the sound. “Confirmed. Rib fracture. Fragment has punctured Tyrish’s left lung.”

  Tyrish coughed, a harsh, wheezing sound. Bash felt the grip slacken enough to pull his chin down and

  turn out of the choke. He rolled free, chest heaving, vision swimming.

  But Tyrish was not done.

  The Spartor surged forward despite the injury, an arm wrapping around Bash’s waist, dragging him

  back down with the grit of someone who refused to break. They crashed to the floor, sliding across the

  simulated arena dirt. Bash grunted as Tyrish pinned him, knee driving into his hip.

  Pain flared up Bash’s side. His ribs screamed. Tyrish’s strength had not left him. Even running on half

  an oxygen supply, his movements were forceful, practiced, lethal.

  SC chimed inside Bash’s mind. “Caution. Tyrish’s remaining lung is compensating at a reduced rate.

  Expect explosive, short-duration attacks.”

  Bash snarled and twisted, trying to break free as Tyrish’s arm slid across his chest. They grappled

  violently, rolling through dust, each man gaining and losing dominant position within seconds. Tyrish

  slammed an elbow toward Bash’s jaw, but Bash tucked and deflected, countering with a hammerfist to

  Tyrish’s ribs.

  A loud groan tore from Tyrish’s throat.

  But he kept fighting.

  They rolled again. Tyrish ended up on top with a knee on Bash’s forearm. Bash brought his legs up

  tight, trying to hook Tyrish’s hips and reverse him, but Tyrish blocked, driving his shoulder forward,

  pinning Bash by the sternum.

  Bash’s head hit the ground with a sharp thud.

  And then, unexpectedly, a memory broke through the chaos.

  Not a hallucination. Not a vision.

  Just a memory.

  A kitchen floor.

  Hands tangled in his shirt.

  His father’s laugh, low and warm.

  A grip on his arm, shifting weight.

  A lesson in balance.

  A nudge behind the knee.

  A reminder.

  “Use what matters. Waste nothing.”

  Then the memory faded and the present snapped back brutally.

  Tyrish’s fist hammered into Bash’s cheekbone. Bash’s head jerked sideways. He tasted blood.

  He shot his hips up, rotated left, and clamped onto Tyrish’s trapped arm exactly how his father once

  taught him, even if the memory had been years old and half-forgotten.

  Before Tyrish could adjust, Bash pulled. Hard.

  The reversal worked.

  They rolled again, Bash ending on his knees with Tyrish half-wrapped beneath him. Bash swung a

  palm strike straight into Tyrish’s sternum. The impact made the larger man cough violently.

  A thin whistle escaped Tyrish’s throat. Half a lung working frantically. Bash knew it would not hold.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  They separated at last, staggering to their feet.

  Both men swayed.

  Tyrish’s breaths came in ragged, uneven gasps. His chest stuttered. His left side barely expanded at all.

  Bash’s face was a mess of swelling and smeared blue blood dripping down his neck. His ribs ached

  every time he inhaled. His arms burned from lactic acid and dozens of impact shocks.

  Yet both stood.

  Both smiled.

  Tyrish wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do you give up?”

  Bash chuckled, voice thick. “Not a chance.”

  They collided again.

  Tyrish threw a heavy right hook. Bash ducked under and slammed his knuckles into Tyrish’s side. Not

  the broken side. The good one.

  Tyrish grunted, shifting to block.

  That was the real setup.

  Bash pivoted and struck the broken side instead.

  Tyrish gasped, the sound desperate and thin. His body buckled.

  He retaliated with a wild, powerful punch straight into Bash’s jaw. Bash reeled, blind for a heartbeat as

  stars flashed behind his eyes.

  SC warned him immediately. “Blood-loss threshold at seventy percent. If you cannot accelerate the

  fight, the simulation will terminate in Tyrish’s favor.”

  Bash blinked the blur away.

  Tyrish charged again.

  They crashed together, trading brutal blows. Tyrish slammed a knee into Bash’s stomach. Bash landed

  three fast punches to Tyrish’s ribs, one-two, then a hook under the arm. Tyrish staggered backward,

  clutching his side, his breath wheezing louder now.

  He was slowing.

  Both of them were, but Bash felt the shift.

  He pressed the attack, forcing Tyrish backward step by step.

  Then Bash went for the finish.

  A right cross. A left hook. A quick jab to the sternum. Tyrish tried to block, but Bash hammered the ribs

  again, the good ones, over and over until he felt the structural give, a small pop under his knuckles.

  Tyrish’s eyes widened.

  Bash hit him once more.

  Hard.

  Directly on the compromised ribs.

  The break was immediate.

  The effect catastrophic.

  Tyrish collapsed to his knees, hands on the ground, gasping without sound.

  SC’s voice cut sharply into Bash’s mind. “Second lung punctured. Tyrish is entering critical respiratory

  failure. You have ten seconds before your blood-loss threshold forces a simulation stoppage. You need

  to end the fight.”

  Bash did not move.

  He just stared at Tyrish, chest heaving, blood dripping from his chin.

  Then he closed his eyes.

  He gambled.

  If Tyrish’s vitals crashed faster than his own blood-loss count, the simulation would stop on Tyrish first,

  giving Bash the win.

  If not…

  He would lose by the system stoppage.

  But he would not strike a man who could not even inhale.

  He planted his feet.

  Said nothing.

  Did nothing.

  SC’s tone tightened. “Bash. You have seven seconds.”

  Still, he did not move.

  Tyrish sagged lower, gulping at air that could not reach either lung. His vision flickered. His arms

  trembled. The simulation struggled to determine whether to register his condition or Bash’s bleeding as

  the decisive factor.

  “Five seconds.”

  Bash locked eyes with Tyrish.

  Tyrish understood.

  He could not speak, but he nodded once, the smallest motion, an acknowledgment between fighters.

  “Three seconds.”

  Tyrish’s body slumped fully.

  “Two seconds.”

  Bash swayed.

  “One.”

  The world went black.

  Bash jolted upright inside the simulation pod as the hatch hissed open. He sucked in air greedily even

  though his real lungs were fine. Tyrish stumbled out of his own pod a breath later, sweating, wide-eyed,

  hair matted to his forehead.

  Both men froze.

  Then Tyrish grinned, wide and triumphant.

  They clasped hands, gripping forearms.

  Tyrish chuckled, still smiling. “Good fight.”

  Bash grinned back, mentally exhausted. “Yeah.”

  They turned together toward the nexus observation room.

  That was when they noticed the crowd.

  Over a hundred of Green-ranked Spartors had gathered, every seat filled, others standing shoulder to

  shoulder, all staring at the massive holographic display dominating the chamber wall.

  The simulation replay hovered in shimmering light.

  Their brutal grappling exchange.

  The staggering hits.

  The moment Tyrish collapsed.

  The freeze-frame at the end.

  And atop the glowing projection, in massive letters:

  VICTORY: BASH