Wolfpack 2: A Post-Apocalyptic GameLIT/Cultivation Novel Read online

  “Swine! He is the second son of Baron von Bauer!”

  The second man said it with pride, his chest swelling and his chin rising. I shrugged dismissively.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Is he the…?” Ajax started to ask, “No. I can’t remember the name.”

  Confusion swept in, replacing a bit of their rage. Confusion that we didn’t know who the Baron’s son was? Or that we weren’t showing him any respect? Fuck that, I had no respect left for nobles after what we’d seen. I wanted them to know that I didn’t know who he was, but also that I didn’t care.

  “Why should I care?” I said. “We’ve been out there, in the wilds, beyond the protective walls of the city. You know what your nobility means out there? Let me tell you. Nothing. People live and die. It is that simple. And you nobles don’t use your power, your wealth, or your influence to change that. So, no. I don’t know who he is. Nor do I care.”

  My words were ice cold, but they were honest.

  “The Baron is one of the most powerful men in Munich!” the second man screamed, as the first, the nobleman’s son, twitched.

  The floor went silent as those who hadn’t been watching us took notice. He seemed satisfied with the effect, although the baron’s son just looked twitchy and wrathful. The third man, obviously their bodyguard, just looked uncomfortable.

  “But you’re not in Munich, friend,” Ajax said coldly, accentuating the last word. “You are in a city where a lot of people have lost friends and family thanks to the arrogant pricks in Munich.” The big man finally turned to face them, the feet of his chair scraping loudly against the ground.

  “I suppose he is right,” I dropped a hand on Ajax’s shoulder.

  The two angry men actually nodded, blinking in surprise, yet their bodyguard’s discomfort seemed to deepen.

  “Yes, well—”

  I didn’t give him time to finish.

  “What I meant to say was this, and listen carefully, okay?”

  The bastard even nodded. I chuckled, but just managed to keep from laughing loudly.

  “You’re not in Munich. How safe do you think you are? Most of the people here hate you for what your leaders have done. What would happen if we stopped you from leaving this place alive?” I let my right hand come to rest on the handle of my wakizashi hanging at my side.

  The baron’s son blanched, as all the color bled from his face.

  “I’m sorry. Did I scare you? Did you just soil yourself?” I asked.

  The young man stepped back, almost falling over the chair he knocked over earlier, and sprawled into his guard’s lap. A chorus of laughter erupted all around us, as even the fighters interrupted their bout to see what was going on.

  The young noble extricated himself from the bodyguard’s lap, the crimson flush returning to his cheeks. Once he’d regained his feet, he rounded on the man.

  “Are you going to just sit there? What is my father paying you for?”

  The bodyguard looked around nervously and finally rose to his feet, approached the noble, and leaned in, whispering something in his ear. I focused, and with Ivory’s heightened sense of hearing, just managed to make out what he said.

  “I’m here to protect you, liege, but if you start a confrontation here, all three of us will end up dead. Now sit down and stop causing trouble. Those men are fucking mercenaries!”

  The noble’s face paled again but his eyes flicked to me, his disdainful look not wavering.

  “You’re joking, right? Why do you think they’re impressive? With their…fur cloaks?” He shook his head, but the bodyguard leaned in, and again we listened.

  “Those cloaks aren’t from normal wolves. I’m certain that at least one of them was from a grade three beast, maybe even four. Do you really want to take the chance? The chance they weren’t rich enough to buy something like that? If they fought and killed a beast like that, we’ve got no chance.”

  The noble opened his mouth to argue, but no sound came out. He opened it for a second time but seemed to think better of it. Quietly, he picked his chair up off the ground and sat. He leaned into his friend, and the bodyguard, their voices again dropped to a whisper.

  “Which one is the grade three beast?” the noble asked. The bodyguard half turned and eyed us, then leaned back in.

  “The big guy. The other one is similar but not quite as large. It might be a grade two or a weak grade three.”

  Ajax smiled proudly as I shook my head. The bastards were actually sizing us up by grading our cloaks.

  “Dick,” I muttered, and his smirk turned to a grin.

  “I told you!” Ajax muttered, “When you finally grow into a man, we can swap!”

  I looked back to the nobles, but quickly lost interest and turned to the arena. The two fighters were now barely standing and thoroughly beaten, bruised, and soaked with sweat. More than a little blood covered them and the ground beneath them, too. Ajax and I stood as the crowd erupted into cheers, honoring the two men and their performance.

  “This place is alright with me!” I said, slapping Ajax on the back.

  Three

  Jabs

  The crowd settled and the fight resumed. The two fighters, evidently wary of letting the bout go on too long, circled twice, and appraised one another.

  The fighter in white kicked at his opponent’s leg, but at the last second pulled back, pivoted, and did a roundhouse kick instead. The feint worked and the heel of his foot connected with the bare-chested man’s shoulder, staggering him.

  It wasn’t a bad move, but he’d cocked it up. If he’d aimed a little higher, then he might have caught the man in the chin, or further in, and hit his collarbone. I had seen men suffer broken clavicles during fights. It usually laid them low.

  Shaking off the strike, the bare-chested man danced right, faked left, and rushed in, trying to take the martial artist before he could recover his balance. He grabbed the man’s head and wrenched it down, bringing his knee up at the same time.

  Cheers erupted from the crowd as the knee connected, the martial artist’s nose crunching loudly. Blood splattered over the mat, staining the man’s Gi as well. The scrapper tried to press the advantage, but even with a broken nose, the martial artist broke free.

  The bare-chested man slid in and jabbed with a left and then a right, peppering the wounded man’s face and nose. He defended with his arms, slapping a few weak punches away, but the scrapper pivoted right and swung a strong right hook, breaking right through the man’s defenses and slamming into his jaw.

  “Did you see that?’ Ajax roared, clapping excitedly. “This bout is over, I tell you. Over!”

  “Not so fast,” I cautioned, and threw him a wink. I knew from ample experience that you should never count a trained fighter out.

  The bare-chested man circled, flexing and shadowboxing, as he played to the crowd. They roared appreciatively. Some men jumped up and pumped their fists, sloshing their drinks. I spotted several women in the crowd across the arena that lifted their shirts, flashing the fighters. The scrapper noticed and roared his approval. All the while the martial artist circled and waited.

  Desperate to impress the women, the scrapper pumped his fists and moved in again, a wide, confident smile now on his face. He snapped two quick jabs, the attacks left intentionally short. When he reared up and threw his strong cross, the martial artist retreated. Sensing victory, the scrapper advanced and swung wide.

  I grabbed Ajax’s arm as the martial artist reacted, snapping his elbow up to block, while striking hard with his right. The movement was so fast I almost didn’t see it, only heard his lead foot slap the mat.

  Staggering back, the scrapper clutched at his throat.

  The strike evidently was strong enough to collapse his windpipe, but the shock and pain were enough to put him entirely on the defensive. A round-house kick sealed the deal, knocking him out with deadly precision.

  “Well, fuck!” Ajax muttered in surprise.

  “What did I say?”

  I joined in on the cheering, as the victor turned, bowing to the audience. His nose was a mess and every time he bowed, it dripped a healthy spatter of blood onto the mat.

  When the cheering died down, the winner climbed out of the ring and made his way up the steps. He wobbled, his legs obviously unsteady. A pair of uniformed men rushed in from the side and helped guide him to a chair.

  Two more uniformed men rushed into the ring and attended the loser. They checked his pulse, lifted his eyelids to check his pupil response, and more. A moment later they waved off to the side, and two more men appeared with a stretcher. They eased him onto the stretched and carried him out of the ring.

  “Are you ready for more?” a strong, energetic voice yelled from overhead. I lifted my gaze to the balconies, trying to track the speaker.

  The crowd responded, cheering and clapping their hands. Ajax and I joined in, cheering for more action.

  “That’s right. Raise those voices!” the speaker continued. “Ladies and gentlemen! Tonight we have a special treat in store for you, an old favorite! The fist that shattered a thousand chins, and the chin that broke a thousand hearts!”

  The crowd erupted, cheering and screaming, and in response the temperature seemed to rise. I had no idea who was about to fight, but the other guests seemed to know, and that became infectious. Before long, Ajax and I were standing, clapping, and screaming with them.

  “That’s right! Appearing in our next match is our very own favored son, Zurich born and bred!”

  The crowd grew louder, chanting a name.

  “Leo!”

  “Leo!”

  “Leo!”

  “That’s right! Leonardo Lienhard! Leo the Lionheart!”

  The ambient light from glowing crystals dimmed, before a magnified spot of light hit one of the four doors on the far wall. A man sauntered into the arena, the Swiss flag printed on the side of his shorts. He strutted around, gyrating his hips, and the women responded, screaming, and calling his name. The lewd suggestions and catcalls continued, especially when Leo turned, showing that he had a white cross on his ass.

  “Is that a target on his ass?” I shouted, leaning into Ajax.

  Several angry stares flashed our way from nearby tables.

  Ajax flashed me a disapproving frown, then eyed the crowd around us. Was he disappointed in their response? My comment? Or that I was letting loose and having fun? It appeared that with or without memories, I was a lightning rod for trouble.

  He leaned in closer and spoke in a barely audible whisper.

  “You want to make some money and crystals? You would likely be healed before the girls get here.”

  The announcer continued, but I wasn’t paying attention. My mind latched onto Ajax’s question and spiraled down that rabbit hole. We needed to start cultivating in earnest, and how better to prepare than winning a bunch of crystals?

  “They open the arena up to a challenger from the crowd,” Ajax whispered.

  I sat, not wanting to draw more attention to us, but leaned in to my counterpart.

  “Let’s see if he’s any good,” I whispered as the second fighter entered the arena. A wolfish smile crept up my face.

  It was…a woman and boy did she look fit. She wore tight-fitting shorts and a sports bra-style top. Her arms and legs were impressively muscular, but it didn’t make her less feminine. I did appreciate her skin tone, which shone light brown in the crystals glowing overhead.

  The crowd responded to her differently. A smattering of applause erupted, but there were no cat-calls or lewd comments, at least not like I expected.

  Judging by her face, the woman meant business. She watched Leo, her eyes narrowed, and jaw clenched. I liked her intensity, but liked her long, black hair more. It was pulled together in a single French braid down her back.

  “How long is her hair?” I whispered. “And it’s so dark.”

  “Zaäbar! My chocolate goddess!” a man yelled below, waving at the woman from the first ring of seats. The way she responded told me everything, as her head snapped around.

  Without warning, the female fighter leapt over the ropes, jumped up and out of the arena, and ran at the man’s seat. Before anyone could react, she grabbed the man by the throat and lifted him out of his chair.

  “What did you just call me?” she growled, my extra-sensitive hearing serving me well.

  The man swallowed hard and tried to speak, but it appeared that she was holding his throat too tightly. Thoroughly interested by the building drama, I slid forward in my chair, hoping to hear, or see, more.

  In a flash, the female fighter’s hand shot out, her fingers latching onto the man’s family jewels. He gasped, yelped, and started to splutter and shake, as his ears and neck turned red. Then she seemed to squeeze and twist, and the man gave a shrill, strangely feminine cry.

  “I c—called you my ch—chocolate goddess.”

  “I have tolerated you bastards calling me Zaäbar but let me make myself perfectly clear! My skin is not chocolate, or coffee beans. If I hear that out of your mouth again, I am going to come back over here, and twist those shriveled berries right off your body. Understood?”

  She didn’t shout, but she also didn’t need to. I found that I liked her instantly. Sure, she came off as a little hotheaded and potentially violent, but considering I hung around with mercenaries and a wild wolf, that didn’t seem like much of a problem.

  Then again, she was likely angry from having to deal with narrow-minded and racist bastards… often. I couldn’t give two fucks what color her skin was. We all bled red, after all. I was interested in watching her fight. She finally released the heckler’s balls and crawled back into the arena.

  Zaäbar stood in the middle of the mat, while Leo walked circles around her, a smug smile on his face. Her expression didn’t tell me much either, as they both didn’t seem to like the other.

  “Who should we bet on?” I asked, hooking an arm over Ajax’s broad shoulders. The big man watched, chewing his bottom lip, and grumbling to himself.

  I found myself rooting for Zaäbar, but for more reasons than I initially realized. Yes, she was attractive, and feisty, and likely fighting against great odds, but she was also facing what looked to be a rather pretentious noob.

  Leo’s short blond curls, blue eyes, and smug smile notwithstanding, he acted like every prissy, pampered royal I’d met. I kind of wanted to smash his face in, on the off chance that he was related to someone who was…well, someone.

  Was I jealous of all the fanfare? Not particularly. I just really didn’t like the blatant favoritism going on here.

  “These Swiss pricks…” I started to say to Ajax but caught myself before I could go too far. He was Swiss, and not every one of them was a self-righteous asshole like Alfred.

  Before Ajax could reply, the announcer spoke, drowning him out.

  “Tonight, we have a clash between two S-ranked former champions of the Second League!”

  The crowd started chanting and stomping their feet, at least those sitting on the ground floor and around us.

  “Do they really have to make so much noise?” I muttered, crossing my arms and glaring at the ring. A headache was already forming.

  “I’ve watched Leo fight before, Tak. Yes, he’s a showy bastard, but he is blindingly fast and ruthless. I’ve only ever heard of her, but she has killed three men so far. Most probably annoyed her first or thought she’d be a push over. Ya know? On account of her being a girl.”

  “She looks more like a woman to me,” I replied, elbowing him in the ribs.

  I watched the two fighters circle each other, wondering how hard it had to be for a woman to climb the ranks. It would have been hard for anyone not from Zurich to succeed, but for someone like her, that stood out from the pale hair and eyes crowd…well, you could say the deck was likely stacked against her.

  “I don’t want to bet on either of them,” I admitted.

  “Oh? I am torn, as well,” he replied and leaned in. “But I know which chocolate cookie I’d like to win.”

  “Why…do you need another massage? You’re still practically glowing from the last one.”

  Ajax snorted and pointed at the ring just as the announcer started counting down.

  “Wagers are closed! The bout will begin in three. Two.”

  A piercing, high-pitched voice rang out then, cutting through the chatter.

  “Kick his ass, Viv!”

  I probably wouldn’t have noticed it if the voice hadn’t been so shrill. It appeared that we weren’t the only ones rooting for Zaäbar, or Viv, or whatever her name was.

  “Go!”

  Zaäbar moved like lightning, unleashing a furious barrage of attacks toward Leo. Most turned out to be feints, to set him up for a vicious kick.

  Leo deftly blocked most of the attacks and jumped back but couldn’t dodge the kick. He danced sideways and back, swinging wide to push her back. But I noticed a wince when he shifted his weight between legs.

  How much damage had she caused with that one kick? Leo’s arrogant smile was gone now, replaced by a determined grimace, which devolved into an angry scowl. He was probably realizing that he couldn’t afford to play around with Zaäbar. Her bite matched her bark.

  “He’s a fool,” I muttered.

  Ajax grunted in agreement. After all, anyone going into a fight should expect their opponent to be dangerous. That meant triple for cultivators: firstly because of their strengthened bodies, second their skills, and lastly, their fighting experience. Anyone hunting monsters would have a trick or two up their sleeve.

  The crowd hooted and yelled, while a small contingent chanted for Zaäbar. My headache was starting to build, and the crowd wasn’t helping. It was arguable if the crowd knew anything about fighting. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the nuts? A beloved local fighter like Leo lose? And to a woman? Oh, I would pay to see that!

  A group of people screamed and hollered to our left, throwing insults and fists into the air with equal abandon.

  “What’s their problem?” I nodded toward them.

  “They probably have a lot of money riding on Leo. So, if he loses, they lose big.”