Shocking though it might seem, Jack did not actually enjoy fighting.

Sweat soaked through his rough cotton shirt and his breath came in sudden gasps. His right eye was swollen from a lucky punch earlier in the evening, and his knuckles stung with a dull ache familiar to any pugilist. That was nothing compared to the injuries he had dealt out, however. Seven consecutive wins in the ring, ranging from a few who had taken a quick beating and dropped out to a stubborn man who had refused to give up, even after breaking two ribs, until Jack had been forced to knock the man out with a quick jab to the forehead. Jack hadn’t intended to go that far, of course, but his hand had been forced.

He was born the bastard child of Earl Helion, a rich nobleman in the Rissex Dukedom. It was a classic tale; a pretty young seamstress, a gentleman with a healthy libido and enough power to make any inconveniences disappear, a few midnight trysts, and a few months later Jack and his sister came along. His mother had been thrown out of the Earl’s estate as soon as she started to show signs of the pregnancy, of course. She had returned to her village and her parent’s home, where she gave birth to Jack and Mary.

His eighth and final opponent entered the ring. He was a giant of a man, towering over those around him and with arms like the trunk of a small tree. His clothes were plain enough, if marked by dirt and ash, yet they strained to contain his body. The giant clearly worked at one of the steel mills, since his skin was marked by small burns, both new and faded, from the flecks of molten steel. His eyes were recessed and his nose had the tell-tale bent of being broken more than once. Clearly, this man was no stranger to either pain or brawling. Even Jack would have a difficult time beating him, at least without any thaumaturgic aid.

He grew up in Lyndhurst, a small countryside town. Most of the adults shunned his mother for her indiscretion, and subsequently most of their children tormented Jack and his sister. He took it on himself to protect his sister from the other children. In the first year attending the local school, he learned how to take a blow and then how to take a fall; by the time he learned how to read, he had learned to give as good as he got; by the time he was sixteen, it was rare for anyone else to score a blow. He still hadn’t made friends with his peers, but he had won their grudging respect. And then he and his sister had Bloomed. They left their mother and the small town to attend the Academia Magnolis, and everything had changed.

“Well, gents, we come to our final match,” a voice cried out, his voice carrying over the noise of the crowd. The announcer was a boisterous fellow called Lawrence, thin as a rail but with a winged mustache that flared out magnificently and wearing an eye-catching red waistcoat. The magnophonic device that amplified his voice was an expensive little bob of circuitry, but Jack knew that the slick paid for itself in tickets and betting. Several hundred men, most of whom worked at the nearby docks and factories, had gathered in the warehouse near the river Temsas. In the day it traded in rum and sugarcane, but on certain nights the main floor was cleared off to host these events. It wasn’t exactly illegal, although that didn’t mean the Peels couldn’t come and book them all if they wanted to. It was why the owner of the warehouse paid Highchurch Yard a visit every month and monetarily persuaded them to look the other way.

“On my right, we have the relentless newcomer, Jack Basher!” Jack tiredly raised one arm into the air. He always used a pseudonym when fighting, for the same reason that he dressed in plain clothes and wore a leather mask over the top half of his face, with holes cut out for his eyes. “Mr. Basher trained in the far off lands of the Orisol, where he learned ancient techniques of martial artistry. He claims that our pugilism is no match for his Eastern style, and so far, he has made quite a convincing case! He’s taken out seven Estelanmen, but they didn’t go down without a fight. Now, can he defeat our eighth, final challenger?”

There’s a loud cry from the crowd, a mixture of excitement and disdain. Of course, Lawrence’s statements were largely exaggerated; Jack had first taught himself to fight in his childhood, and then that had been honed and refined through his training at the Academy and later his experience within the militia itself. Although he had received some small instruction in the arts from the East, he had never even stepped foot outside the country. Still, he had to admit the lie sounded better than the truth, and raised less suspicion as well. The Academy was on his mind tonight, and had been ever since he had returned to the city. He shook those thoughts from his mind; he would need his head clear for this next bout.

“On my left, we have a returning champion to our ring! Weighing sixteen stone and standing at a staggering seven feet three inches, it’s the Steel Wolf! When he was just a babe, he was abandoned in the woods, where a group of wolves took him in and raised him as their own. Now he’s been reintroduced to civilization, but his savage childhood makes him a terrifying opponent in the ring!”

The other man let out a cry, powerful and animalistic. He was missing three teeth, although it was impossible to say if they’d been lost to decay or prior fights. The crowd let out a cheer, especially a group near the front who were marked with similar burns. The story was almost certainly nonsense as well, and most who were watching knew that, but Jack had to give the announcer credit; he knew how to spin a tale to make for a more exciting bout.

There was a second reason to stall, and that was to ensure that everyone who wanted to had time to get their bets in with the stout bookmaker at the back of the room. The man was busy accepting pawnings, shills, and the occasional sterling from the gathered crowd, frantically writing down names and amounts into a ledger. Jack himself had given the man three sterlings at the start of the evening, with instructions to bet on himself each round.

There was an unspoken signal between the bookmaker and Lawrence, and the thin man began backing out of the ring. Once he had cleared the chalk markings drawn onto the cobble floor, he held up the magnophonic device once more. “The match will continue until one of the contestants submits, voluntarily leaves the arena, or is rendered unable to fight. As you know, biting, gouging, and grappling beneath the waist are all grounds for forfeit; all other techniques are allowed. Now, gentlemen, begin!”

The Steel Wolf moved immediately, lunging forward far faster than his size might suggest. His meaty hands were wide open, clearly intent on grabbing Jack and securing an early victory. Jack was ready for it, however, and drew out of range with a quick pivot around his front foot. The Wolf had overextended, and Jack took advantage by turning the pivot into a spinning kick. His foot connected with the other man’s hip, although if it affected the Wolf, the giant of a man didn’t show it.

Instead, the Wolf carried on with his attack, lashing out with two quick jabs. Jack managed to duck beneath them, dancing backwards, although he was aware that he was getting pushed back. He dodged three more blows, easily reading his opponent’s movement, but the greater reach of the taller man meant he couldn’t safely counterattack. Quickly he came to the realization that this was not an opponent he could beat if they were to go blow-for-blow. The Wolf had the advantage in both size and stamina, since Jack had been fighting for the past hour, so a fair match was out of the question. Jack would need to get the man on the ground.

Ducking under the next jab, Jack lashed out with a low kick, connecting with the Wolf’s shin. The other man winced, but it wasn’t enough to stop him from throwing out another strong blow. Jack tried to slip to the side, but it wasn’t enough; the Wolf’s knuckles collided with Jack’s brow ridge. Jack’s head snapped back and he was stunned for an instant, enough time for the Wolf to step forward and land a solid body blow.

Jack winced, but even through the pain he couldn’t help but grin. Now that he was close enough to grapple, he reached up and grabbed the rough fabric of the Wolf’s shirt. The other man had overextended once again, and this time Jack made sure to take full advantage. He began to fall backwards, while at the same time hooking his foot around the Wolf’s leg and pulling back, breaking the man’s center of balance.

Jack turned his fall into a smooth roll, pulling the other man up into the air, off his feet, and then crashing down on his stomach against the hard stone. He could hear the sudden gasp of air as the Wolf had his breath knocked out of him, and then Jack was moving, grabbing the Wolf’s arm and twisting it around until it resisted his motion. The man started to thrash, trying to push himself up, but Jack just applied more pressure until there was a nasty snap as he forcibly dislocated the other man’s arm. The Wolf went still then, whimpering slightly in pain, then tapped three times against the ground with his free arm.

It had taken barely a second to turn a hopeless situation into a victory, but that was the nature of combat. He let go of the Wolf’s arm and stood up, and then winced. One of his ribs was probably fractured, he thought, and the area would certainly show a dark bruise the next day. Still, it had been worth it to take him down; trying to play it safe would have almost certainly resulted in greater injury to both himself and his opponent.

“Jack Basher takes it!” Lawrence’s reedy voice echoed in the warehouse. There were a few cries of dismay or frustration, especially from the steelworkers who had probably placed larger bets on the other man. Still, the men came here to watch a fight, and that was certainly what they got. He understood the desire, the need to watch some kind of raw violence to break up the monotony of factory work and warehouse loading. Fighting was primal and uncivilized, despite what some might believe, and for these men who were getting crushed under the weight of the mighty Estellan civilization, it was a necessary outlet.

Jack left the ring, one hand still pressed to his side. The crowd parted around him, giving him the healthy respect typically shown to someone who just casually dislocated another man’s arm, and he took the opportunity to quickly make his way over to the bookmaker’s table. There was a bit of a crowd gathered around it already, but they let him make his way to the front.

The bookie had set aside Jack’s winnings already, and he silently handed them to Jack in a small purse. Jack hefted it, but didn’t make any attempt to count it here; the bookie ought to know better than to stiff him, and if he didn’t, well, that was a problem for tomorrow. Jack casually slid the purse into his inner jacket pocket and then made his way back through the crowd, this time heading toward the large doors that made up the entrance to the warehouse. They were cracked open and it was simple enough to slide out into the dim light of Ludestre’s streets.

The room he’d rented was several blocks to the southwest, but it was just past sunset and streetlights were few and far between in this part of town. Some of the buildings were residential, and in a few windows he could see the warm glow of an oven or candles, but most of them were either boarded up to comply with the window tax or else completely dark. The factories were all empty as well, the great machinery silent and still, the smokestacks no longer spewing into the air. There were still people out on the streets, appearing as dark silhouettes, but they moved quickly and furtively, giving each other a wide berth. The exception to the dark and quiet were the gin palaces, seemingly on every corner, with their large windows in gilt frames, light and noise echoing out into the street.

Jack had known that someone was following him since he left the warehouse. They had left shortly after him, and now they were trailing him close and making no real effort to hide it. He could hear their footsteps behind him, and occasionally checked back to make sure they were still following by pretending to cough. Once he’d gone a few blocks, he stepped to the side of the street and kneeled down, pretending to adjust his boot, although in reality he had one hand resting on the knife he kept in a sheathe by his ankle. His pursuer caught up, although they stopped a good ten feet back.

“Nice night for a stroll, is it?” Jack said idly.

“Nice enough, I suppose,” a decidedly female voice answered back. What’s more, a decidedly recognizable female voice. “Although you seem to think it’s even nicer for a fight.”

He turned around. Behind him, dressed in plain clothes that worked to disguise her as a teenage boy, was a woman he knew very well. “It’s good to see you as well, Mary.”

“I wish you wouldn’t engage with those types of operations, brother. It really is beneath you.” She stepped forward, bringing her face into focus. He stood up, then reached out and pulled her into a close embrace.

“I didn’t know you were in the city,” he said after a moment.

“I would have let you know, but you never sent your new address,” she said, the admonishment clear in her voice. “It took a bit of work to track you down, although it wasn’t all that hard to connect the dots.”

“I thought it was better if there wasn’t a paper trail connecting us at the moment, given the work I was planning on doing.” He stepped back, looking at her; they had exchanged letters fairly frequently, up until about six months ago, but it had still been several years since he had seen her last.

“What happened?” Mary’s face was a mask of concern. “The last I heard, you had steady employment up North, and then you seemed to disappear entirely from high society.”

“I had a job go bad,” Jack said, his mood souring as he remembered it. “You remember Marchioness Calwright? Well, it turns out that she was less interested in learning to defend herself, and more interested in getting me in bed while her husband wasn’t around. I had to leave quickly, and she refused to write me a recommendation after that.”

She nodded sympathetically. “I figured it was something to that effect. For what it’s worth, I am sorry to hear that. Still, I have a job offer for you, much better than these brutish street fights,” She smiled then, which was rare; she tended to keep her cards close to her chest, even with him. Even now, he thought he could see a calculating bent to that grin. “But we’ll need to clean you up a bit first.”