Twenty-Seven Deaths for One

Chapter One

Content Warnings for this Chapter: Minor Mentions Blood

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Dougier's cheek gives a satisfying crunch underneath the impact of Wriothesley's fist.

The man reels, staggering back, barely catching himself on wobbling feet before Wriothesley's other fist darts out with quick succession. The left hook nails the sweet spot of Dougier's nose. Another crunch, the bone giving way, and Wriothesley pulls back, shaking the impact out of his hands.

A scream of rage fills the ring. "You bastard! You—" Dougier's nose is now crooked, tilted at a very distinct angle that it previously lacked. Blood streams freely down his face and into his mouth. He rubs at it, hissing, and when he meets Wriothesley's gaze again, his eyes burn red with fury.

Wriothesley is relaxed. He clicks his teeth, and huffs. "Now, isn't that a good look for you? It's about time that someone worked out that kink in your nose, but I would've gone to a real doctor. You know how it is when you resort to black market hack jobs."

"You'll pay for this!"

"Will I?" Wriothesley raises an eyebrow. "You brought the fight here, not me. I was more than content to leave you alone and do my work in the shadows."

The Pankration Ring is one part entertainment, one part vigilante justice in the depths of Meropide. In Teyvat, there are few rules, The Heavenly Principles—the laws by which life is lived—but most importantly that death always comes in fours.

Meropide runs on its own laws. Down here, in the ocean, in the fathomless depths of those waves, folks are forgotten save for when needed as fodder. But that is a thought for later, thinks Wriothesley. His current problem is more immediate.

"You're bleeding all over my ring," he taunts.

"Your ring?"

Oh, Dougier sounds pissed. It just makes Wriothesley's smile widen, curling across his face, haughty.

"Remind me of how many wins you have? Is it you with the wealth around here, or am I the one with skin in the game? Last I checked it's my Coupons paying for the renovations around here, so yes, it's my ring."

Dougier doesn't need to be reminded of the hierarchy down here. He knows the power that Wriothesley holds as well as anyone else in this damnable place. But he's the sort to pick fights, and because Wriothesley poses a threat to his gang, Wriothesley is a target.

"I think I even paid for those stupid hats the lot of you wear."

"Berets! They're berets, and you—you—" Dougier whines when he can't ignore the pain of his broken nose any longer.

Wriothesley can't help but feel smug. "I know that stings. Maybe you should get the little lady to look at it."

Dougier can't afford it. Wriothesley would bet a month's wages that he'd laid down most of his bank on this fight. A fool thing to do. Wriothesley would never, even knowing he'd win.

"Fuck you," snaps Dougier, spitting a glob of red-tinged saliva to the ground.

Wriothesley eyes the spot and sighs. "Now that's just extra work for me, not to mention the cost. Maybe I should make you scrub it out with your toothbrush."

Dougier lets loose a snarl, but it's all bark and no bite. He heels. They always do. Wriothesley has yet to be called on his bluff, and he's more than doubled in age since he first stepped foot inside these metal walls.

Still, Wriothesley gives the man another chance. "Planning on a second go? Or has this argument been settled?"

It was less of an argument and more of a turf war. Not that Wriothesley would call his men a gang—they lack a fancy name a la The Beret Society, but he supposes they are a group nonetheless. Misfits. A family. Blah blah; it's all the same down here.