End of the line. One last stop. Though he’d heard it described as “underground,” Davis was loath to call the last round of the fight anything close to that since it took place on the roof of a building. And what a roof it was. Packed with promoters, gamblers, fans of all types, the only man he found honorable of the whole bunch was his opponent, who stood at the edge opposite his own with his sword glinting in the late evening city sun. This was crazy. He knew it. Crazy didn’t mean the two remaining swords on the roof—his, a broadsword and his opponent’s, a thin curved hookblade—hadn’t spilled a lot of blood that day. Both blades looked almost pink in the dying light. He made brief eye contact with his opponent, who only smirked at him. He didn’t want to admit the move gave his man the edge, but it had. “GENTLEMEN.” The fat announcer man stepped between them. What Davis wouldn’t have given to open his belly, instead. “BEGIN.” And they were off. The crowd shied back as the opponent, all youth and lean muscle, leapt catlike from the ledge, waving the hooked blade in figure eights multiple times before touching down on the roof again. Davis cracked a smile. This time, he made sure to make eye contact. For a brief moment, he could see uncertainty in his opponent’s eyes. He felt grateful for the advantage. Advancing. Advancing. The man charged at him with the hooked blade upheld, going to his foreswing and following it with a backswing. Davis dodged the first and met the second with his broadsword. The weight of the thing sent his opponent’s blade back, back, back…but not far enough to knock the blade free of his hands. Striking. This arcing shot sliced the fabric of Davis’s shirt at the midsection. It missed the flesh behind it by perhaps a centimeter. His man staggered. Davis swung. His broadsword missed, though not close enough to eat fabric. The opponent managed another smirk, this time at the spryness of his dodge. Davis had to admit it was impressive, but this time, the sight only made him angrier. Swing. Swing. Swing. The first two missed badly, but the third, a backswing off the one before it, found flesh. The heavy broadsword ate through his opponent as easily as air. The fighter dropped to a knee, tried to stand, and dropped again. “A WINNER!” The fat man stepped towards the center again, making sure not to sully his expensive shoes with the loser’s blood. “CLAIM YOUR PRIZE. OR, THE BONUS!” Davis looked at his man. The most honorable man there, yes, but the wound was bad enough to kill him. That, and Davis needed money. He raised his sword and smiled one last time, avoiding eye contact as he brought it down for the last strike of the tourney.