Chapter 9: THE FORGE FIGHTS
Sugar's bar transforms on Saturday nights.
The main room stays normal—beer, pool tables, locals unwinding. But the back room becomes something else. Cleared floor. Chalk circle. Men standing around the perimeter, money changing hands.
"Welcome to the tradition," Sugar says, leading us through. "Been doing this since before I owned the place. Banshee's way of settling things without involving badges."
"Ironic," Lucas mutters. "Since we're wearing badges."
"Tonight you're not." Sugar grins. "Tonight you're just two guys watching fights. Unless someone gets brave."
The back room is packed. Maybe forty people, mostly men. The air is thick—sweat, beer, testosterone. Someone's fighting when we enter. Two guys circling each other. No rules I can see. Just violence until someone yields or can't continue.
It ends quickly. The smaller man catches a knee to the ribs. Goes down. Stays down.
The crowd roars. Money changes hands. Sugar pulls us to the side, near the bar where we can see but aren't in the way.
"Rules are simple," Sugar explains. "Challenges get made. Both parties agree. Fight until submission, knockout, or surrender. No weapons. No eye gouging. Everything else is fair game." He pours three whiskeys. "Respect is currency here. You fight well, you earn it. You fight dirty, you lose it."
"And if we don't want to fight?" Lucas asks.
"Then don't accept challenges. But refusing too many times also means something." Sugar's eyes are knowing. "Reputation matters in this town. How you handle yourself here echoes everywhere else."
I watch the next fight. Two locals I don't recognize. One has some training—boxing maybe. The other is pure street. The boxer wins on technique. The crowd respects it. No shame in losing to skill.
Between fights, men approach Sugar. Conversations I can't hear over the noise. But I see the pattern—gambling debts settled, information traded, small disputes resolved. This isn't just entertainment. It's infrastructure. Social lubrication.
"Smart," I say to Sugar. "Contained violence prevents scattered violence."
"Exactly." Sugar studies me. "You understand things quick."
"Survival trait."
The fights continue. Some quick, some grinding battles of endurance. The crowd's mood shifts with each outcome—respect, disappointment, occasionally shocked appreciation when someone pulls off something unexpected.
Then between fights, a man approaches Lucas. Big guy. Thick neck. Confident swagger.
"You're the new sheriff." Not a question.
"I am."
"Heard you can handle yourself. Damien." He extends his hand. Lucas shakes. "You fight?"
"I've fought."
"Want to put that to the test? Nothing personal. Just curious what city training looks like."
Lucas glances at me. I shrug slightly. Your call.
"Okay," Lucas says. "Yeah. Let's do it."
The crowd notices immediately. The new sheriff accepting a challenge. Money starts flowing. Bets placed. Damien's got local support. Lucas is the unknown.
They step into the circle. Damien moves well—MMA training. Lucas shifts into a fighting stance I recognize from our first night. Military combatives mixed with street experience.
They engage.
Damien is better technically. Cleaner strikes. Better footwork. He lands a solid punch to Lucas's jaw. Follows with a leg kick. Lucas weathers it. Doesn't retreat.
This is where I see Lucas's real style. He doesn't fight pretty. He fights mean. Takes hits to land harder ones. Endures pain to create openings. By the third exchange, Damien's breathing hard. Lucas is bleeding from his mouth but grinning.
The fight goes five minutes. Feels longer. Damien dominates on points. But Lucas just won't quit. Won't stay down. Eventually catches Damien in a choke—messy execution, but effective. Damien taps.
The crowd erupts. Not because Lucas won. Because he earned it. Took punishment. Showed heart.
Lucas and Damien separate. Shake hands. Genuine respect between fighters.
"You're tough, Sheriff," Damien says. "Tougher than you look."
"You too. That was good work."
They join us at the bar. Sugar pours drinks. Lucas's lip is split. His ribs are probably bruised. But he's smiling.
"Feel better?" I ask.
"Yeah. Actually." He touches his lip, winces. "Needed that."
I understand. Lucas has been wound tight since seeing Carrie. The fight gave him an outlet. Something simple. Pure. Violence with clear rules and respectful resolution.
We watch three more fights. I'm learning the local hierarchy through combat. Who's respected. Who's feared. Who's all talk.
Then a voice from the crowd: "What about the pretty deputy?"
I turn. A man I don't recognize. Maybe thirty. Scarred knuckles. The look of someone who's been in a lot of fights.
"You want to challenge him?" Sugar asks.
"Just curious. Sheriff fights. Deputy watches. Makes me wonder." His smile isn't friendly. "Unless watching's all he knows how to do."
The crowd goes quiet. Watching. This is the kind of moment Sugar warned about. Refusing creates a reputation. Accepting reveals capability.
I set down my drink. "Okay."
"Ben—" Lucas starts.
"It's fine."
I step into the circle. The crowd presses closer. More money appears. I'm the unknown quantity. The man I'm facing—Jake, someone calls him—is familiar.
We face each other. Jake rolls his shoulders. Cracks his neck. Showing off. Intimidation.
I just wait.
"You sure about this?" Jake asks. "I hit hard."
"I'm sure."
He moves first. A probing jab. Testing my reaction.
And my Violence Mastery clicks on like a light switch.
Everything clarifies. Jake's stance. Weight distribution. The slight telegraph in his shoulder before he throws. The pattern of his footwork. I see it all. Understand it all.
He throws a combination—jab, cross, hook. Fast. Technically sound.
I slip all three. Don't counter. Just avoid.
Jake resets. Surprise flickers in his eyes. He comes again. Low kick, high punch, grab attempt.
I'm already moving. His kick hits air. His punch misses by inches. The grab finds nothing.
Now I see the frustration. He's landing nothing. I'm not even trying. Just reading and avoiding.
He commits. Really commits. A wild haymaker meant to end this.
I step inside. His arm goes over my shoulder. My hand finds his elbow. Just pressure. Just the right angle.
His arm hyperextends. Not broken. Just locked. He goes to his knees. Yielding position.
I let go. Step back.
Total time: maybe thirty seconds.
The crowd is silent. Jake stands slowly. Stares at me. Not angry. Shocked.
"What the fuck was that?"
"Sorry," I say. Meaning it. "Instinct."
"Instinct." He shakes his head. Laughs—no humor in it. "Yeah. Sure. Instinct."
He walks away. The crowd parts. Conversations start quietly. The fight was too clean. Too easy. I made a mistake.
Sugar hands me a beer. His eyes are thoughtful. "You fight like you were trained somewhere interesting."
I don't disagree. Can't disagree. The display was too perfect.
Lucas joins us. "That was..."
"Too much," I finish. "I know."
"You barely moved. He never touched you." Lucas's voice is low. "Where the hell did you learn that?"
I have no answer. The truth—I don't know, it just happens—sounds insane.
The fights continue. But I notice the difference. People watching me now. Assessing. The casual violence I demonstrated carries weight. Reputation forming whether I want it or not.
We leave an hour later. Walk back toward the apartment. The night air is cold. Helps clear my head.
"I've seen a lot of fighters," Lucas says eventually. "Military, prison, street. Never seen anyone move like that."
"Lucky."
"Luck looks different. That looked like someone who knows exactly what a body can do." He stops walking. "Ben. What are you?"
The question hangs between us. Third or fourth time he's asked in different ways.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I woke up in a dying body. It healed. And apparently, I can fight now. I don't know why. Don't know how. I just... can."
"Supernatural."
"Maybe."
"Not maybe. Definitely." Lucas starts walking again. "You healed from wounds that should've killed you. You fight like a professional assassin. You do things that aren't possible."
"And you're a thief wearing a sheriff's badge. We're both impossible in our own ways."
He laughs. Bitter. "Fair point."
We reach the apartment. Climb the stairs. Inside, Lucas heads for the bathroom—cleaning his split lip. I pour bourbon. Stand at the window.
The fight replays in my mind. Every movement. Every read. The perfect clarity of Violence Mastery showing me exactly how to win.
It should scare me.
It doesn't.
It feels right. Natural. Like I'm finally becoming what I'm supposed to be.
The wolf learning to hunt.
Lucas emerges, lip cleaned. "Tomorrow we're back to being cops."
"Yeah."
"But tonight—tonight people saw what you can do. Word's going to spread."
"I know."
"Proctor's going to hear."
"I know that too."
Lucas pours his own drink. "You're playing a dangerous game. Getting his attention. Showing capability. Eventually, he's going to want you working for him or dead."
"Let him want." I turn from the window. "I'm not afraid of Kai Proctor."
"Maybe you should be."
"Maybe. But I'm not."
We drink in silence. Two men hiding from their pasts. Building reputations they can't fully control. Dancing with dangers we don't fully understand.
Tomorrow brings new complications.
Tonight, I just enjoy the bourbon and the quiet.
The hunt continues.
And I'm getting better at it every day.
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