Let them come. He was ready.
The teams spilled out of the opposite tunnels like predators scenting fresh meat. His gut tightened at the sight, that familiar warball buzz crackling through his veins hotter than any arena lights could burn.
Parac’Norr Exiles first. He knew those faces too well. Daavyn led them with that same ugly snarl he’d worn on the practice pitch, shoulders bunched as if he wanted to rip someone’s throat out. To be fair, he probably did.
Sorrath flanked him, claws half-extended and his red eyes glittering with the promise of violence. The rest of them looked half-mad already, new armor over bodies that he knew didn’t need it, and muscles corded from years of survival rather than training.
They moved like a pack rather than a team. The sort of pack that had learned the only way to survive was to take what they wanted. His chest ached. His almost-team… the ones he’d coached. Seeing them here twisted something sharp behind his ribs.
Then the Ascendants emerged beside them, and the air in his lungs turned to ice. They swaggered out in their gleaming black-and-gold armor like they owned the draanthing place.
His lip curled back from his teeth. These weren’t exiles scraping by… these were the league’s golden boys. His gaze locked on the Ascendants’ striker, and everything faded to static.
Vikrav R’Tev.
The draanthic strode out like one of the gods themselves, helmet tucked under one arm and basking in the adoration of the crowds. His dark hair was caught back and stitched into place, imitating a warrior’s braids that he’d never have the right to wear. He had a sharper jaw than Raaze remembered, and eyes that scanned the field as if he were picking out which of the Exiles to break first.
Raaze’s canines ached in his gums, and his fists flexed at his sides. This was the male who’d stolen everything… the one whose family had faked tests, ended careers, and murdered players so their golden boy could reign.
Every instinct he had screamed at him to close the distance and pound Vikrav into the dirt right now.
The teams lined up on either side of the commentator’s platform, the Exiles bristling with barely contained rage, and the Ascendants radiating cool arrogance.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the stadium. “We got the Ascendants, who basically own the whole damn galaxy at this point. And then there’s the Exiles… bunch of has-beens and monsters nobody wants, right? But hey, that’s what makes this grudge match so sweet.”
Raaze’s jaw tightened, bitterness flooding his chest. Those polished helmets, those smug strides… Vikrav out there like some untouchable god while he stood here masked and ignored.
The commentator’s voice dripped with excitement. “And don’t forget, folks, this ain’t just any game. One wrong move and we might see what real Blood Rage looks like up close. And make sure to place your bets, because we have a wildcard on the pitch and he’s either gonna burn bright or get crushed under Ascendant boots.”
The crowd erupted in fresh mockery, but Raaze didn’t hear it. He stared straight at Vikrav across the pitch, lips peeling back in a slow, vicious grin behind his mask.
Come and get it, you draanthing murderer.
The commentator took a deep breath, “Let’s play!”
The whistle screamed, and the world erupted into violence.
The first play came at him like a freight shuttle. An Ascendant barreled straight through the center line, shoulder dropped in a classic cheap-shot angle.
Raaze read it half a second too late, expecting them to hit the Exiles first. The impact lifted him clean off his feet and drove him backward into the turf. Pain exploded through his ribs, bright and specific, like someone had taken a hammer to his side. He tasted blood, copper flooding the back of his throat as he hit the ground with a mouthful of dirt.
Trall, that was going to hurt for weeks.
If you live that long. Get up and get it together!
Rolling, he got his feet under him, just as a clawed hand raked across his shoulder guard. One of the Exiles had taken the Ascendant’s lead and decided the wildcard was fair game. The claws punched through the cheap padding like it was wet paper and kept going through into skin. He hissed and yanked away before they could rip through muscle and bone as well.
Blood sheeted down his arm, the sticky warmth already soaking through his undershirt.
Great, just draanthing great.
The Exiles were feral. Which meant they had armor just under their skin, claws that could punch through hull steel, and crazy-fast healing.
If he wasn’t having to concentrate on staying alive, he’d be laughing his ass off and waiting for the moment the Ascendants realized their opponents could play chicken with a shuttle and win.
Wiping blood off his palm against his thigh, he scanned the field. The Ascendants were running a standard pincer formation, driving the sphere carrier toward the Exile defensive line, where the real damage could happen. He almost sighed. It was textbook… aka boring and predictable. It was the play you’d run against a team you didn’t respect, or that you assumed didn’t know any better.
The crowd was laughing, waiting for the Exiles to be handed their asses by the top-tier team.
