Chapter 144 - 143: Taking The Bait.

Chapter 144: Chapter 143: Taking The Bait.

The fight is a vicious one. It’s bloody, and brutal, and ferocious, and when it’s all over; when Khobi ascends back to the dais he is positively steaming .

There is wildfire in his eyes; the air around him shimmering , rippling with uncontainable heat. He’s sweating as he storms up the stairs; glowing , almost; his skin flushed and red, and patches of his handsome leather armour darker than the rest. But not with his blood.

He’s got a couple of scratches on him, sure; patches of dirt, and a bruise or two, but his opponent isn’t in such good shape. Alive, but definitely defeated.

​And the crowd, well, whether or not they support him or his being there; he has worked them into a right frenzy.

Because the kind of energy that radiates off Khobi when he fights is infectious . Passion often is. There’s just something about watching someone do the thing they love that makes you want to see more .

​And boy, do they want to see more.

​They want to see what he’s capable of. Just who he’s capable of beating. And then they want to see him lose.

Violently, for sure. Just by walking out of the arena alive he’s defied their expectations, and mobs like nothing better than seeing the rebellious fall. With each fight that passes they’ll want it all the more.

​Khobi seems to know that.

​And he doesn’t care.

Not one bit.

​It’s not his first time before a hostile crowd; not by a long shot, and as he turns his back on his opponent it’s like he doesn’t even hear them.

He holds his head high as he sheaths his sword; stands tall and proud as he makes the long walk back through a maze of foes.

Some of them turn their noses up at him; others dip their heads in quiet acknowledgement, but all of them step aside as he passes, his very presence sweeping them back by no will of their own.

​He looks ferocious .

​At the top of the steps; the eyes of the royal family and their guards upon him, he pauses, just to suck in a deep breath --like a man just newly unchained bringing new air into his lungs for a new beginning. And even though they’re all staring, he only has eyes for one person.

​And the crimson look that he sets on Loac is searing .

​Loac doesn’t look away. Doesn’t even flinch at the wildfire in his eyes. He just stares right on back.

​"...I don’t mind entertaining you," Khobi states thickly, eyes glinting out from under a challenging scowl; the fresh blood smeared against his cheek making them so incredibly red.

And with the ominous airs of a gathering storm, a thick and suffocating kind of tension rises up around them as he adds, in what can only be considered a barefaced taunt, "If you think you can afford to take it that easy."

​When Loac looks back at him, Khobi could swear that in the distance, he hears thunder .

​...

​After that, something changes. It’s a beautiful day, but from that moment on it feels somewhat like the world teeters on the brink of an almighty downpour.

​...

​Predictably, Loac keeps winning. Quicker, each time. It’s not like his opponents are getting weaker though --if anything, they are the ones who have systematically triumphed over plenty of other capable swordsmen, and should be stronger.

​And yet he despatches them with an almost offensive level of ease.

​The fights --while short to begin with --grow ever shorter, although judging from the state of the poor souls who have to face him, they have put up the fight of their lives.

They come off drenched in sweat, caked in dirt, and have a stricken, almost disoriented look about them, like they’ve just been woken from a nightmare.

Loac doesn’t look back at them when he leaves the stage; just flings himself back into his seat without a word and kicks his feet up onto the railing like the whole thing had been a real waste of his time.

Gurdet tells him that if he’s bored, then he’s more than welcome to leave.

​Loac pretends not to hear him, and wins the next fight even quicker.

​It’s almost like he’s growing impatient .

​And, determined to continue to defy expectations, Khobi matches him, win for glorious win.

​(It might be coincidence, but his fights seem to have the crowd at its loudest.)

​And every time he returns to his seat, he sets Loac with that same, burning glare, as if to tell him that he better watch and learn while he can, because he’s coming for him.

​What he doesn’t know, that as fixated as he’s been by each and every one of Loac’s fights; Loac’s been watching him just as intently.

​"...He’s going to do it, isn’t he?" the princess murmurs quietly, as down in the arena Khobi lets out an explosive roar and throws a fist to the sky as his opponent falls.

For someone who has already won his way through so many fights, he’s showing no sign of flagging.

If anything, he seems to be gaining momentum; like each fight, rather than wearing him out, simply spurs him forward. "He’s really going to fight Loac."

​Bongo, standing stoically behind her, nods.

​"It would appear so, Your Highness," he states, although he’s clearly not surprised by the assessment.

Or by the outcome, for that matter. And even though it was her statement to begin with, Xena purses her lips, conflicted.

​"Surely that’s not... proper ," she frowns, giving her father a look of concern.

​"Why wouldn’t it be?" he remarks smoothy, looking politely taken aback by the question.

​"...They’re getting married , father," she reminds him, a little put out that he hasn’t seen what she has, "...Should they really be fighting with each other?"

​"Show me a married couple that doesn’t,"

Gurdet scoffs dismissively. "...Besides," he adds in a conspiratorial whisper, "...Don’t you want to see who will win?"

​Xena can’t pretend she doesn’t, because she honestly, truly does.

...

There is no escaping the fact that Loac Trent is kind of incredible.

​It’s a hard fact to swallow, but the world is full of simple truths --like that the sky is blue, or that winter is cold, or that if you throw a rock into the air it will always come back down --and this is just another one of them.

Khobi had heard, only in whispers, really, of his strength, and having only caught glimpses of said strength for himself, had been uncertain as to their...credibility.

​But then he’d seen him fight.

​And, having watched every one of his fights with compounding awe, he has been forced to conclude each time, that he will be, without a doubt, the most extraordinary person he has ever had the privilege to fight.

​And he’s going to beat him.

​That’s why he’s going to beat him. It’s not fair to say that he’s been waiting his whole life for this chance; it would be more accurate to say that he’s been fighting for it.

Training as a child, bleeding his way through his youth; pouring every ounce of his energy into resisting the rot of Briyagi and just staying alive .

All so that he could one day cross swords with the strongest men in all the land and earn his place among them.

​And now, here they are.

​From the first time he saw him fight, somehow he’d known that this was how things were going to turn out; how things were going to be.

Because for the last fight of the day --the penultimate battle of the tournament put on in celebration of his own supposed betrothal --the two men left standing in the arena, having climbed to the pinnacle over the bodies of fallen foes, are him, and Loac.

​(For what it’s worth, Loac doesn’t seem surprised to see him, either.)

​He doesn’t greet him as he approaches, and instead a thick silence fills the space between them; ominous and disconcertingly still.

Even the wind seems scared to break it. But even though the air is cold and strangely stifling, there’s heat under Khobi’s skin and in his blood that warms him, as he stares down the man whose fights he’s been watching with fervid fascination.

​All in black, alone but for his shadow cast long against the dusty, bloodstained battlefield, Loac looks truly formidable.

In reality, he looks a lot like most of the other soldiers Khobi’s faced today --a lot of them have been big, and all of them have been strong, but even if he hadn’t just witnessed him making light work of what had to be dozens of other soldiers, Loac so casually exudes an aura of such immense, unquestionable power that every instinct he possesses is screaming out to him, with an urgency no other soldier today has evoked, that this man is dangerous .

​That he’s strong. That Khobi would do well to be afraid.

​(It’s too bad that he’s actually just the opposite.)

​A moment passes, and it’s one that feels like it stretches on into eternity.

Dimly, Khobi is aware that there’s a crowd out there; that there are thousands of eyes trained on him right now and some of them want him to win, and some of them want him to lose.

But their voices all fade away into dust as Loac reaches for his sword.

​It’s a simple movement. A necessary one, at that, but it sets off alarm bells in Khobi’s ears and has him reaching for his own sword with a sudden, overwhelming sense of urgency.

But despite the threat of an impending attack, Loac makes no move to engage. Instead, sword loosely dangling in hand, he just stands there; his eyes hooded, and the temperature in them set cooler than the crispy autumn wind.

​Come and get me, then , they seem to say. Taunt, even.

​If you can.

Khobi knows he’s being baited, but that’s exactly what he planned on doing, so he bites anyway.

​And makes sure to come down hard . First strikes are typically obvious, rarely the last, and are usually just a way to test the waters of a new opponent, but Khobi throws that to the wind and makes sure to throw his weight behind his blade as he springs into motion to leave no doubt in Loac’s mind that this fight won’t be like the others.

That if he wants to win, he’s going to make him work for it.

​Just like he’d anticipated, the block comes out of nowhere.

​What he doesn’t expect, is the sheer force behind it.

​Khobi is by no means weak, but when Loac’s sword materialises and pushes back against the weight of his attack, his bones rattle so badly in his arms it almost feels like the flesh could fall right off them.

But he stands his ground, refusing to let Loac turn his blow aside, and resists the urge to wince at the grating, strangled noise their blades make as their masters grapple for dominance.

​Usually Khobi revels in the sounds of battle, but this opening note is ear-shatteringly awful.

Like nothing he’s heard before. Off , somehow. Like instruments fallen out of tune.

​The next note --the one that grinds off their blades as Loac breaks free and strikes out at him in retaliation is even worse.

And the one after, an instant later, when Khobi meets him halfway, is piercing and strangled.

​Khobi’s never heard anything like it.

​But he doesn’t let himself linger on that because he has promises to keep and something to prove.

​His days of being looked down on are over.