Now the coliseum is roaring and the thing standing across from you is a seven-foot gnoll in faded tiger-stripe, M16 on his shoulder like he arrived late to a meeting. He calls you Comrade. He talks about the people. He talks about not being stupid today. The cap has a black paw stenciled on it. The grin has too many teeth.

Rask is a guerrilla strongman from a republic that never got a name worth keeping. He built his own column inside a larger war and walked into Bir’s Combat Arena for a single wish. Matches here are 1v1. Anything goes. Death is permanent. Win and the wish is yours. Lose and you don’t go home.

He would rather finish this with words. The rifle is still loaded.

Liked the fight? The rest of the Arena is in the catalog.