《Unarmed and Dangerous》
CHAPTER 1: Old Man
The crowd roared. It was a tidal wave of sound that pressed against the walls of the small MMA gym. ¡°The best in the state,¡± if you were to believe the ads. But Jude knew better.
It wasn¡¯t a glamorous venue, just a cramped octagon surrounded by folding chairs and dim fluorescent lights.
But tonight, it felt like an arena.
Jude stood in the corner, his hands gripping the towel that hung around his neck. His knuckles were white, his jaw tight. Across the ring, his fighter¡ªhis son¡ªwas struggling.
Tyler¡¯s movements were sluggish now, his feet heavy and uneven. He was barely keeping his hands up. His defenses were showing a lot of cracks.
¡°Come on, Ty!¡± Jude shouted. ¡°Stick and move! Don¡¯t let him corner you!¡±
Tyler stumbled, his opponent¡ªa wiry southpaw with a killer hook¡ªclosing in with a predatory gleam in his eye. Another punch slammed into Tyler¡¯s ribs, the sound like a hammer on wet wood.
He grunted, doubling over, but somehow managed to stay upright.
¡°Throw it!¡± someone yelled from the audience. ¡°End it, coach!¡±
Jude¡¯s hand hovered over the towel. His gut screamed at him to stop the fight, but¡ something else rooted him in place.
His pride? His stubbornness? Jude couldn¡¯t tell what it was.
Tyler straightened. His eyes met Jude¡¯s across the ring.
¡°I¡¯ve got this,¡± Tyler mouthed, barely audible. He wobbled forward, throwing a weak jab that grazed his opponent¡¯s shoulder.
Jude swallowed hard. Throwing the towel meant admitting defeat¡ªnot just for Tyler, but for himself.
And Jude Mason never quit.
Tyler threw another sluggish right hook. The counter came immediately¡ªan explosive overhand left that slammed into Tyler¡¯s temple. Like a hammer hitting a watermelon.
Tyler fell down with a terrible sound. The crowd roared, sensing the end. His opponent pounced, grabbing Tyler¡¯s head and locking him in a tight guillotine choke.
Jude¡¯s jaw tightened, his nails digging into his palms. He¡¯d taught Tyler that move. He¡¯d drilled him on how to escape it a thousand times.
But Tyler wasn¡¯t moving. His arms flailed weakly, his legs kicking out in slow, desperate motions.
¡°Fight it, Ty!¡± Jude shouted, his voice hoarse. ¡°Don¡¯t let him have it! Hand on the wrist! Fight the hands!¡±
The ref knelt closer, watching Tyler¡¯s struggle with sharp, practiced eyes. Jude¡¯s hand hovered over the towel again.
¡°Come on, kid!¡± he screamed. ¡°You can do this!¡±
But Tyler¡¯s movements slowed. His hands went limp, his legs stilled. His opponent held the choke a second too long before releasing it, and Tyler crumpled to the canvas like a broken doll.
He wasn¡¯t moving.
The referee dove in, waving his arms to stop the fight. The crowd erupted, some in cheers, others in groans of disappointment.
Jude barely heard them. He was already moving, shoving the gate open and rushing into the cage as the medics swarmed his son.
Blood pooled beneath Tyler¡¯s head where it had struck the canvas on the way down.
Jude dropped the towel, already too late.
¡°You¡¯re okay, Ty,¡± he lied. ¡°You¡¯re okay. You¡¯re okay.¡±
The sounds of the crowd faded into a dull hum, and the world blurred around Jude. All he could see was his broken son, lying still, too far gone to hear the words Jude had waited too long to say.
¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±
* * * * *
¡°Hey, newbie! Don¡¯t sleep on the job. Wake up!¡±
Jude jolted upright. The world around him came into focus. A grinning man in a tattered coat leaned over him, his voice cutting through the roar of a crowd. ¡°You¡¯re up next! Don¡¯t keep ¡®em waiting.¡±
The haze of sleep cleared, and Jude remembered where he was. Not Earth. Not the gym.
This was a different world, and he was a different Jude. He clenched his blue-skinned hands into fists with an empty look on his face.
A different world.
It¡¯s only been a month. Surely it should take longer than that to get accustomed to new rules?
And this world had rules a plenty.
When he first found himself here, he was forced to start anew. Jude stuck to what little he knew, so when it came to choosing a class, he picked something called a [Pugilist].
Unarmed fighting.
¡°You sure you know what you¡¯re getting yourself into?¡± the man asked him again.
¡°Sure I¡¯m sure.¡±
¡°How should we present you?¡±
¡°Huh?¡± Jude was still drowsy.
¡°A nickname. Every fighter needs a nickname. A Big Belly Ben, or a Brick Fist Sam, or a¡ª¡±
¡°Old Man.¡±
That was his nickname back in his old life. Back in the old world.
¡°Oh, because of your white hair? I get it.¡± The announcer didn¡¯t sound too impressed. ¡°By the way, where¡¯s your gear? Sword? Axe? Dagger? We¡¯re not lending anything, you know that, right?¡±
Jude stretched, rolling his neck until it popped. ¡°Don¡¯t need any.¡±
¡°We don¡¯t allow magic, either.¡±Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.
¡°Okay,¡± Jude said plainly. He didn¡¯t know any magic, anyway.
¡°You¡¯re serious?¡± The announcer laughed nervously. ¡°Well, it¡¯s your funeral. Good luck, bare knuckle. You¡¯ll need it.¡±
Jude didn¡¯t reply. He stood, his bare feet scraping the dirt floor, and stepped out into the arena.
The crowd erupted, their cheers washing over him like a tide as they sized him up. Above his head, glowing letters displayed his stats:
Only level 5¡
Levelling up proved to be a much harder task than Jude first anticipated. He wasn¡¯t much for video games back in the old world, but he was slowly learning the ropes.
Tyler would have known what to do. His son always liked playing in his free time.
The memory stung. Jude shook his head.
Across the arena, a much larger figure awaited. His opponent¡¯s name hovered in bold script:
Silas towered over Jude, his broad shoulders and scarred torso a testament to years of battle. His skin was the color of fresh mud.
The man grinned, showing two rows of razor teeth, and cracked his knuckles. ¡°Seems like you forgot your weapon, champ.¡± Silas had a two-handed mace at his side.
Jude ignored his opponent, his focus narrowing to a razor¡¯s edge. He crouched low, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
He was reborn into a younger, much more resilient body. He only prayed that his instincts hadn¡¯t dulled over the years.
The announcer¡¯s voice boomed overhead:
¡°Ladies and gentlemen! A classic mismatch for your viewing displeasure! In one corner, the undefeated fighting wonder, Silas ¡®Boom ¡®n Doom¡¯ Redgrave!¡±
When Silas waved to the crowd, some woman fainted.
¡°And in the other,¡± the announcer continued, ¡°A weaponless nobody! Place your bets, and let the carnage begin!¡±
Why ask me for a name if you don¡¯t have the decency to announce me? Jude thought angrily. The crowd barely acknowledged him, too.
But it was best not to think about unimportant things right now.
A glowing countdown appeared in the air:
3... 2... 1... FIGHT!
Silas charged, his two-handed war mace raised high. The weapon gleamed in the arena lights, its heavy head bristling with spikes.
Now that''s a first. I''ve never fought against a mace-wielder before.
Jude¡¯s eyes locked on the incoming blow, his muscles tensing as his mind processed the trajectory. The crowd roared in anticipation.
Jude sidestepped at the last second. The mace crashed into the ground with a deafening thud. Splinters of wood flew from the arena floor as Silas overcommitted, his momentum carrying him forward.
Jude capitalized immediately, darting in to land a sharp jab to Silas¡¯s ribs. The impact reverberated up his arm, but Silas barely flinched.
I guess he didn¡¯t skip on his conditioning.
The crowd¡¯s cheers rose as Silas spun, swinging the mace in a wide arc. Jude ducked just in time, feeling the rush of air as the weapon whistled over his head.
The follow-up strike was quicker than expected, a horizontal slash aimed at his legs. Jude leapt backward, narrowly avoiding the mace¡¯s brutal head.
Each movement felt natural, like slipping back into an old rhythm¡ªbut there was no denying the reality of the level gap.
Silas adjusted his stance, moving faster than a man his size had any right to. He closed the distance with two quick hops, the mace coming down in a crushing overhead swing.
Jude rolled to the side as the weapon smashed into the ground again, sending vibrations through the floor. Before he could regain his footing, Silas¡¯s backhand strike caught him on the shoulder.
Pain flared like a live wire.
HP: 380/500
Jude staggered, gritting his teeth against the pain.
This isn¡¯t sparring, old man. One wrong move, and you¡¯ll be flattened.
¡°All right, big guy,¡± he muttered under his breath, his lips quirking into a wry grin. ¡°Two mistakes: mine for getting hit, yours for leaving yourself open.¡±
Jude had a habit of talking too much inside the octagon. Despite what his critics believed, it wasn¡¯t a way to get on his enemies¡¯ nerves.
It was a way to calm his.
Even with over 40 professional MMA bouts under his belt, Jude couldn¡¯t help but feel shivers whenever he stepped into a ring.
He let Silas charge again, this time allowing the blows to land. The mace struck his side, the impact radiating through his body, followed by a sharp hit to his ribs. Jude¡¯s vision blurred, his HP draining rapidly:
HP: 250/500¡ 150/500¡ 90/500
The crowd gasped at the beating he was taking, but Jude¡¯s mind remained razor-sharp. He could feel the fire in his chest stoking hotter with every hit.
Then, as his HP dipped below 20%, a notification flashed in his vision:
Passive Ability Activated: Last Stand
Strength and Agility +50% when HP is below 20%
Jude straightened. His muscles were tightening, his senses sharper than ever. The pain dulled to a manageable hum.
This may be the only chance I get.
He took a steadying breath, then darted forward, closing the distance before Silas could wind up another swing.
The mace came down in a desperate arc, but Jude was already inside its range. He ducked under the strike and delivered a devastating uppercut to Silas¡¯s chin. The crowd gasped as Silas staggered, his health dipping sharply.
Silas HP: 950 ¡ú 850
Jude didn¡¯t let up. He slipped around Silas, grabbing the haft of the mace with both hands and yanking it downward. The move forced Silas off-balance, his grip faltering for just a moment. Jude capitalized immediately, slamming his knee into Silas¡¯s midsection.
The larger man grunted, stumbling back as the crowd erupted in cheers.
¡°Stay on him, Jude!¡± someone shouted.
Oh, I have fans now?
Jude advanced with relentless precision. His fists became a blur¡ªa jab-cross-hook combination that hammered Silas¡¯s torso. Blood sprayed from Silas¡¯s mouth as his HP bar plummeted:
Silas HP: 850 ¡ú 500 ¡ú 300
The war mace clattered to the ground as Silas raised his arms defensively, his footing unsteady. Jude circled him, his breath coming hard and fast but his movements deliberate. His body screamed for rest, but he ignored the pain. Years of experience had taught him how to push through.
¡°You¡¯re in my territory now,¡± Jude said. ¡°Show me what you¡¯ve got left.¡±
Silas roared, lunging forward with a desperate haymaker. Jude stepped inside the arc of the punch, grabbing Silas¡¯s wrist and twisting it downward. Using the momentum, he pivoted, slamming his shoulder into Silas¡¯s chest and driving the larger man into the ground.
The impact shook the arena floor.
Silas groaned, trying to push himself up, but Jude was already on him. He mounted Silas, trapping his arms beneath his knees, and began raining down punches.
Each strike landed with bone-jarring force, whittling away what remained of Silas¡¯s HP:
Silas HP: 200 ¡ú 100 ¡ú 50
¡°Enough!¡± Silas gasped, his voice ragged. His arms flailed weakly, his massive frame pinned and defenseless.
Jude paused for a fraction of a second, his chest heaving. ¡°You done?¡±
Silas glared at him but nodded. The fire in his eyes dimmed. Jude stood, rolling his shoulders as the announcer¡¯s voice boomed through the arena.
¡°Unbelievable! The rookie takes down Silas Redgrave!¡±
The crowd erupted into chaos¡ªa mix of cheers, boos, and the sound of coins exchanging hands. Jude raised his fists briefly, but the adrenaline was already fading, replaced by the familiar ache of exhaustion.
As the announcer grabbed his wrist and held it high, Jude glanced at Silas, who was sitting up, his expression unreadable.
Jude¡¯s vision swam, and his body felt like it might collapse at any moment.
But a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
I won.
¡°Ladies and gentlemen, we¡¯ve got a new contender to watch! Let¡¯s hear it for Jude ¡®the Old Man¡¯ Mason!¡±
The crowd roared again.
CHAPTER 2: A Friend in Need
The arena had quieted, cheers and curses replaced by the hum of workers cleaning up the debris of the fight. Jude leaned against a splintered table in the corner.
I haven¡¯t eaten all day, he realized.
The manager came by without fanfare or congratulations. His face was tight and his fingers twitchy. He didn¡¯t even bother looking up as he shoved a small pouch of coins toward Jude.
¡°Your cut,¡± the manager said curtly.
Jude raised an eyebrow, picking up the pouch and weighing it in his hand. It felt¡ light. Too light.
¡°This can¡¯t be right,¡± he said, his tone flat but sharp. ¡°I just took down your top fighter. The place was packed. I should¡¯ve made more.¡±
The manager¡¯s lip curled into a sneer, his fingers rapping against the desk. ¡°You know how much I lost because of you? I put a giant bet on Silas.¡±
Jude¡¯s fingers tightened around the pouch. He wasn¡¯t the type to lash out¡ªyears of discipline in and out of the cage had taught him restraint¡ªbut moments like this made it difficult. He took a deep breath.
¡°I don¡¯t fight to make you money,¡± Jude said evenly. ¡°I fight to win. You don¡¯t like that? Find someone else to run your circus.¡±
The manager snorted. ¡°You¡¯re lucky you¡¯re still getting anything. Now take your coin and move along, kid.¡±
Kid. It was so surreal to be the one everybody called a kid.
Jude stared at him for a moment longer, then pocketed the pouch without a word. No use arguing with someone like this.
He turned and walked back toward the fighter¡¯s area, his footsteps echoing in the narrow corridor.
As Jude entered the cramped locker room, he caught the tail end of a conversation. Silas¡¯s voice was low and gravelly¡ªhe recognized him immediately.
¡°¡ªby the end of the week, all right? Just give me a few more days.¡±
Another voice, sharper and more insistent, replied. ¡°You¡¯ve been saying that for weeks, Silas. Three days, or you¡¯re out.¡±
The conversation ended with the click of boots on stone as someone left through the side door. Jude stepped further in, spotting Silas sitting on the edge of a bench, his shoulders slumped and his hands buried in his hair.
He looked up as Jude approached, his face flushing slightly.
¡°What? You here to gloat?¡± Silas muttered.
Jude reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin pouch, tossing it lightly in the air before catching it. ¡°You eaten yet?¡±
Silas frowned. ¡°What?¡±
¡°You know, if we put our money together, we could buy a nice beef stew for two. I know a place.¡±
In all fairness, that was the only place Jude knew, but Silas didn¡¯t need to know that.
Silas squinted at him, clearly not used to this kind of offer. ¡°You¡¯re serious?¡±
¡°Dead serious,¡± Jude said. ¡°Can¡¯t fight on an empty stomach. Plus, you earned it. You gave me one hell of a fight out there.¡±
For a moment, Silas just stared at him, as if trying to figure out what angle Jude was playing. But Jude¡¯s expression was open and calm, without a trace of mockery or pity.
Finally, Silas sighed and pushed himself to his feet.
¡°Fine,¡± he said, brushing off his pants. ¡°But if they¡¯ve got bread on the side, we¡¯re getting extra. And I swear to gods, if you run away and leave me to pay the tab¡ª¡±
¡°I¡¯ll pay in advance,¡± Jude said, grinning.
They shook hands on that.
* * * * *
The tavern was a modest hole-in-the-wall nestled in a quieter corner of the Warrens. Its wooden beams sagged under years of neglect, and the air carried the faint smell of spilled ale and smoke.
But the food was warm, the drinks were strong, and the clientele wasn¡¯t trying to kill them¡ªusually. That made it as good a spot as any.
Jude and Silas sat at a rough-hewn table near the back, two steaming plates of roasted meat and vegetables in front of them. The clink of mugs filled the air.
¡°I¡¯ll admit, this doesn¡¯t smell half bad,¡± Silas said, tearing into a hunk of bread. ¡°Beats eating street vendor slop.¡±
Jude grinned, cutting into his portion with a knife that looked older than the tavern itself. ¡°My coach once said there¡¯s nothing sweeter than a decent meal after a day¡¯s work.¡±
Silas raised his cup. ¡°To your coach, then! A wise man indeed.¡± They clinked mugs, and Jude took a long swig, savoring the bitter taste.
Silas gestured at Jude with the bread. ¡°I still say you owe me for carrying your sorry hide through that last fight.¡±
¡°Oh, yeah,¡± Jude replied, smirking. ¡°You carried me so hard I had to win to make sure we walked out with cash.¡±
¡°Details.¡± Silas shrugged.
They ate in companionable silence for a while. Jude leaned back in his chair, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
When was the last time I ate like this?
¡°Y¡¯know,¡± he said, glancing at Silas, ¡°fighting¡¯s not just about brute force. It¡¯s about rhythm. Timing.¡±Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
Silas raised an eyebrow, chewing thoughtfully. ¡°Is that what you call getting your ribs cracked?¡±
Jude laughed. ¡°Not exactly. You caught me good, but I¡¯m talking about controlling the fight.¡±
¡°Oh no,¡± Silas groaned. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me you¡¯re one of those assholes who always talk about the ¡®art¡¯ of fighting.¡±
¡°You don¡¯t think it is art?¡±
¡°It¡¯s not art if you only paint in red.¡±
¡°Then how come I beat you?¡±
Silas shrugged. ¡°No offense, but you got lucky. Everybody does at some point.¡±
¡°There¡¯s no luck involved in true fighting. Only skills.¡± The beer was getting to Jude, he could already feel it.
¡°Alright, I¡¯ll humor you. What makes your style of fighting so different?¡±
¡°It¡¯s all about the diversity of attacks.¡±
Jude leaned forward, his elbows on the table. He entered his coach mode. ¡°You¡¯ve got your bread-and-butter punches. The jab, that¡¯s your fastest punch. Keeps your opponent at bay, lets you control the range.¡±
Jude launched a few playful jabs and smirked when Silas flinched.
¡°Then there¡¯s the cross. Comes straight from your back hand. There¡¯s real power behind it. You set it up with the jab, so when they¡¯re too busy guarding against one...¡±
¡°They get hit with the other,¡± Silas finished, nodding. ¡°I get that.¡±
¡°Exactly,¡± Jude said. ¡°But it¡¯s not just the hands. That¡¯s what people get wrong. Your legs, your hips, they¡¯re the real engine. Without them, you¡¯re just slapping air.¡±
He stood suddenly, his chair scraping across the floor. ¡°Footwork makes the difference. You can¡¯t just stand there like a statue, trading blows.¡± He hopped lightly from one leg to the other, his movements fluid despite the beer in his system. ¡°You¡¯ve got to move. Circle your opponent, look for angles, force them into bad positions.¡±
¡°Angles?¡± Silas groaned, leaning back dramatically. ¡°Ugh. I hate geometry.¡±
Jude laughed, shifting his weight and demonstrating quick sidesteps. ¡°It¡¯s simple. If you stand right in front of me, I know exactly where to hit you. But if you¡¯re moving¡ªchanging angles¡ªI¡¯ve got to adjust. That split second? That¡¯s your chance to strike or escape.¡±
Silas raised a skeptical eyebrow. ¡°And what¡¯s stopping me from biting you?¡±
¡°That would be against the rules.¡±
Silas sat back, his expression skeptical but intrigued. ¡°Rules, huh? What¡¯s the point of rules in a fight?¡±
¡°To keep it fair,¡± Jude said. ¡°And to make it about skill, not just who¡¯s bigger or meaner.¡±
Silas snorted. ¡°Never heard of a fair fight in the Warrens. But all right. So, jab, cross, the silly dancing you do with your feet. That it?¡±
¡°There¡¯s way more than just punching,¡± Jude said, his tone shifting into full coach mode. ¡°Striking¡¯s important, but what happens when someone closes the gap? You¡¯ve got to know how to clinch. Grab their neck or their arms, control their movement. Knees to the body, elbows to the head. You make every second count.¡±
He stepped closer, lightly mimicking a clinch by grabbing Silas¡¯s shoulders. ¡°And if it hits the ground? That¡¯s where grappling comes in. You take them down, pin them, or go for a submission.¡±
¡°Submission?¡± Silas tilted his head. ¡°Like what, a choke?¡±
¡°Exactly. Like a rear-naked choke. Lock their neck with your arms, cut off their air until they tap out or pass out.¡± Jude demonstrated by shadowing the move, locking his arms in an invisible choke.
¡°I¡¯d die before getting submitted like that,¡± Silas muttered, but he was leaning in now, clearly intrigued. ¡°So, punches, grappling, fancy footwork. That it?¡±
¡°Not quite.¡± Jude smirked. ¡°Defense wins fights too. It¡¯s not about brute strength. It¡¯s about positioning, timing, parrying.¡± He mimicked pushing a strike aside with his forearm, turning the motion into a counter punch.
Silas tapped the table thoughtfully. ¡°Sounds like dancing. Didn¡¯t think I¡¯d need to be graceful in a fight.¡±
¡°Fly like a butterfly, sting like a bee.¡±
¡°Is that a common saying where you come from?¡±
Jude hesitated for a fraction of a second, realizing his words had slipped out unbidden. He covered it with a casual nod. ¡°More or less.¡±
¡°Where do you come from? I know you¡¯re not local. I can smell it on you.¡±
Jude stiffened slightly but masked it with a sip of his drink. That obvious, huh?
¡°Look, I¡¯m not trading my secrets for free.¡±
¡°Why not? You gave away all the best moves you knew.¡±
¡°Oh, that? That¡¯s barely the tip of the iceberg. No training in the world would have saved you from the kinds of guys like Sugar Ray Robinson or Muhammad Ali.¡±
¡°Moo-ha-who?¡±
¡°The one who came up with the ¡®sting like a bee¡¯ saying.¡±
Silas nodded slowly, still chewing on the strange names. ¡°I¡¯m betting three coins that if I ever meet this Ali guy, I¡¯m knocking him out cold.¡±
¡°You¡¯d waste your coins.¡±
¡°I don¡¯t have any, anyway.¡± He gestured at the half-empty plate. ¡°But this? This was money well spent.¡±
For a moment, Jude allowed himself to relax. The food and the company dulled the edges of his exhaustion.
Silas wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back with a satisfied sigh.
¡°That hit the spot,¡± Silas said, smirking. ¡°Might be the first time in a while I¡¯ve eaten like that without someone trying to take it off me.¡±
¡°You¡¯d think a guy swinging around a mace wouldn¡¯t have that problem,¡± Jude said.
Silas chuckled, swirling the dregs of his own beer. ¡°You¡¯d be surprised. Desperation makes people stupid. And mean.¡±
Jude didn¡¯t respond, letting the quiet hang between them. Silas tapped his fingers on the table, his gaze shifting to Jude.
¡°You ever think about training someone?¡± Silas asked, breaking the silence.
Jude stiffened, his fingers tightening around his mug. ¡°What do you mean?¡±
¡°I mean me,¡± Silas said, leaning forward. ¡°You clearly know what you¡¯re doing. I thought I had you tonight, but you picked me apart like it was nothing. You¡¯re not just some upstart brawler, Jude. You¡¯ve got real skill.¡±
Jude shook his head, his voice cold. ¡°I fight to get by. That¡¯s it.¡±
¡°But you could teach,¡± Silas pressed. ¡°Help me get better. I mean, I¡¯ve got raw power, yeah, but you saw what happened. I swing big, I miss, I get punished. You could help me fix that.¡±
Jude¡¯s chest tightened. He saw Ty¡¯s bloodied face before him.
He pushed the image away, his jaw tightening.
¡°No. Sorry. I¡¯m not a coach.¡±
Silas frowned, clearly caught off guard by the sharpness of Jude¡¯s tone. ¡°Why not?¡±
¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Jude said, standing up. ¡°You¡¯ve got your instincts. You¡¯ll figure it out.¡±
Silas looked like he wanted to argue, but Jude¡¯s expression stopped him. Instead, he slumped back in his chair.
The night dragged on, and Silas drank more than he probably should have. By the time the tavern was nearly empty, he was leaning heavily on the table, his words slurring together as he rambled about everything from his first fight to his favorite type of bread.
Jude listened quietly, only half paying attention. His mind kept circling back to Silas¡¯s earlier question.
Training him. The idea sat uneasily in his chest, dredging up memories he¡¯d worked hard to bury.
But something about Silas¡¯s determination¡ªhis raw, reckless energy¡ªnagged at him. The kid reminded him of Tyler, in some ways. The same fire, the same willingness to push past limits.
And maybe that was why it scared him.
¡°I¡¯m serious, Jude,¡± Silas mumbled, his head lolling to the side. ¡°You could teach me. Show me how to... to move like you do. Not just fight. Like... think.¡±
Jude sighed, running a hand through his perfectly white hair. ¡°I already said no, Silas.¡±
¡°I¡¯m not g-gonna stop (hic) asking,¡± Silas said, grinning despite his drunken state. ¡°Y-you¡¯ll cave eventually.¡±
Jude stared at him and then closed his eyes with a deep sigh.
¡°All right,¡± he said finally. ¡°We¡¯ll train together. Once. I¡¯ll see what you¡¯ve got, and then we¡¯ll go from there.¡±
Silas blinked, his grin widening into something boyish and triumphant. ¡°Ha! Knew you¡¯d come around.¡± He waved for the bartender to come closer. ¡°Hey, give me your (hic) best ale! I¡¯ve got a toast (hic) t-to make!¡±
* * * * *
The night air was cool as Jude half-dragged, half-carried Silas through the quiet streets of the Warrens. The younger fighter mumbled incoherently, his head bobbing against Jude¡¯s shoulder.
It wasn¡¯t an unfamiliar scenario. Jude had carried plenty of drunken teammates out of bars back in his old life. Still, something about it felt different this time.
Maybe it was the fact that, for the first time since waking up in this strange world, he didn¡¯t feel completely alone.
He shifted Silas¡¯s weight, glancing down at the younger man¡¯s slack face. ¡°You¡¯re a pain in the ass, you know that?¡±
Silas snorted in his sleep, muttering something about stew and uppercuts.
I¡¯ve been here for well over a month and only just made my first friend, Jude thought.
Is there an achievement for that?