Lethal Hearts Where Killers Meet

CHAPTER 8: The Lamb, The Wolf

CHAPTER 8

The air was electric with the fury of the Taron-Ryle matchup, a tension that overshadowed the usual Rumble chaos. “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice low and urgent amidst the sudden silence that had fallen over the crowd.

She nodded her head, “I am.”

“That bastard punched you?” Finn asked with that worried look on his face.

“Yeah,” She responded, but her eyes were on the fight, wanting to watch Ryle fight to learn from his movements, but then again, everyone always watched him fight. “But it’s okay, not something I haven’t been through here being punched.”

“You shouldn’t be used to it.” Finn shook his head, his gaze following hers. “But forget Taron. He's finished the second Ryle stole your fight." He paused, then leaned closer. “I’m talking about Ryle. What he just did… that’s unheard of.”

“What do you mean?” Lauren whispered, still fixated on Ryle, who looked like a statue carved from ice.

“He never interrupts,” Finn emphasized, his voice tinged with awe and confusion. “Never.”

Lauren blinked and looked at him, “What do you mean?” She asked before turning her attention back towards the arena.

Finn answered, “The Top Fighter Steal is a rule, but it’s essentially decorative. Ryle only comes out for the Championship Round, which is always his round, or for a demonstration that the instructors mandate. He doesn't waste his focus on craps or settling disputes.”

Lauren watched as Taron began circling Ryle, fueled by raw, futile rage. “He said it was a waste of training time,” she muttered, repeating Ryle's justification with a bitterness that belied the relief she felt.

“That’s the arrogant part," Finn conceded. "But he humiliated Taron publicly for trying to hurt you over a personal vendetta. He didn't just win the argument; he stripped Taron of his right to fight you. He protected you, but did it in the cruelest way possible—by making it clear you weren't even worth his time."

Lauren clenched her teeth. “He didn’t protect me. He just shoved it on my face that I was just useless and weak here. I know I am. I'm well aware of his opinion of me, but he had to do it in front of everyone.”

Finn shook his head, “It's not about his opinion," Finn corrected gently. "It's about the risk. He used his only real privilege to ensure you weren't injured. Why? Because you remind him of Rianne." Finn looked back at her, his eyes serious. “He never intervenes. He’s putting his own rules aside for you, Lauren.”

"He didn't save me," Lauren scoffed, crossing her arms tightly over her sore stomach. "He just called me scraps in front of the whole organization! Whatever 'Rianne' is—or whoever—it’s just an excuse for him to show off." She sighed before continuing, "Look, he didn't intervene for me. He only stepped in to prove he's the king and everyone else is just the dirt on his boot. Ryle doesn't have rules; he has standards, and apparently, I don't meet them as a sparring partner yet."

As Finn finished speaking, Taron let out a guttural roar and lunged at Ryle, initiating the fight. The roar was immediately followed by the sickening, silent THWACK of Ryle's counter, and the Royal Rumble began.

“What’s wrong, Ryle?” Taron snarled, recovering his balance and circling, though his movements were still heavy and predictable. “Too busy playing hero for the newbie b***h? Lost your edge?”

Ryle said nothing. His light gray eyes were flat, watching Taron with the detached interest of a scientist observing a frantic insect. He moved with an unnerving economy of motion, effortlessly dodging another heavy hook.

“Or maybe,” Taron continued, his voice dripping with venom as he feigned a left and swung a right, “you’re just trying to impress her! That little street rat. Think you’re tough?" He lunged, trying to tackle Ryle, but Ryle merely side-stepped, letting Taron crash into empty air.

Ryle seemed utterly unbothered. There was no anger on his face, no rise in his chest. He was a stone wall, impervious to Taron's taunts. He merely observed, letting Taron exhaust himself with ineffective flurries. Each of Taron's movements was loud, telegraphed, an open book that Ryle had already read a hundred times.

“Does she remind you of your missing sister? " Taron spat, trying to provoke a reaction, his voice thick with malicious glee. "Is that why you're suddenly so soft? That's why you went after Jarek, too!"

The mention of Rianne, however, finally caused a subtle shift. Ryle’s jaw tightened, almost imperceptibly, and his light gray eyes, previously detached, narrowed just a fraction. It was the only sign that Taron’s words had landed, a tiny ripple on an otherwise placid surface.

But instead of rising to the bait with anger, Ryle’s movements changed. They didn't become faster or more aggressive; they became colder, sharper, even more precise. It was as if Taron had handed him a target, and Ryle had simply adjusted his aim.

“Land some hits, Taron!”

“Stop hitting the air!”

Taron, fuming with anger from what the audience hollered out to him, swung another wide haymaker. This time, Ryle didn’t just dodge. He moved into the strike, a fluid, terrifying counter-motion. His left hand snapped out, not to punch, but to trap Taron's arm mid-swing. With a brutal twist of his wrist, Ryle leveraged Taron's own momentum, spinning him around.

Taron let out a surprised grunt as his back was exposed. Before he could recover, Ryle’s knee slammed into his kidney, a precise, jarring blow. Taron gasped, doubling over, but Ryle didn’t release his arm. He used Taron’s own downward momentum, twisting his arm back and up with savage efficiency until a sickening crack echoed through the arena.

Taron screamed, a raw, animal sound of agony as his shoulder dislocated, cleanly replicating the injury Ryle had inflicted on Jarek weeks earlier. Ryle released him, and Taron crumpled to the ground, clutching his arm, tears streaming down his face.

The brutal fight was over. The arena was silent, save for Taron's whimpers. Ryle stood over him, perfectly still, his breathing even. He looked down at him, then turned and walked away, not even bothering to wait for Kaelen to call the match.

The message was clear: there was no challenge, no fight, just an inevitable, clinical dismantlement.

Kaelen stepped into the arena, his face grim. “Taron is disqualified. Ryle Kain is the victor!” He signaled two paramedics to drag Taron’s whimpering, defeated body out of the arena.

Lauren watched Ryle pass, his silhouette cutting through the dim light, before disappearing back into the shadows. The relief that she hadn’t faced Taron was immense, but it was poisoned by the cold, public judgment Ryle had handed down.

The Royal Rumble continued for another hour, the brutal energy of the trainees gradually diminishing as more fighters were eliminated. The final match of the night was always the main event: the Championship Round. For years, this meant one thing—a ceremonial challenge against Ryle Kain.

The bell rang for the final time. The challenger, a veteran recruit named Marcus known for his raw brawling strength, stood panting in the center of the ring.

“The final match of the Royal Rumble!” Kaelen announced, his voice tired now. “The chosen challenger, Marcus Davis! Facing the reigning, undisputed Royal Rumble Champion: Ryle Kain!”

Ryle emerged from the shadows again, looking as rested and cold as he had hours ago. His tactical crewcut was immaculate, and his bare torso was still without a trace of sweat or effort. He pushed past the ropes, his light gray eyes already focused, dismissing the noise and the crowd.

The champion’s match wasn't usually a true fight; it was a demonstration of Ryle’s superiority. Marcus, however, was desperate, fueled by the slim hope of an upset and Ryle's earlier distraction.

The final bell rang. Marcus charged, roaring as he delivered a massive overhead swing. Just as the bell started, the fight ended just as quickly.

Ryle struck the challenger with a relentless sequence: a rapid jab to the temple to daze him, a sharp hook to the floating ribs to drain his air, and a brutal kick to the inside of the thigh, dropping Marcus’ entire weight onto his injured leg. The whole combination lasted less than three seconds.

Marcus collapsed, his vision swimming, unable to breathe, his muscles locked from the concentrated trauma. He tried to push himself up, his arms trembling, but couldn’t get his body to respond.

Kaelen quickly delivered the count, though Marcus’s state made it purely ceremonial. “The winner, and still the Royal Rumble Champion: Ryle Kain!” he announced. Kaelen shook his head, watching Ryle walk away with his usual utter lack of celebration for the win.

Driven by a surge of pure anger and complete annoyance, Lauren’s feet moved before her brain could stop them. “What are you doing?” she mentally demanded, but she was already chasing Ryle.