Mike hardened his brain and stopped fighting the enemy coronas.    He didn't have the mental energy to split his attention like that anymore.    There were only four opponents left.    That sounded great when compared to the initial number of one hundred.    It didn't seem half bad even when you considered the difference between seven full paragons and four.    In that moment, though, the contrast between one of him and four of them proved most relevant.    He was wiped out, barely able to hold on, and so dizzy from the thrashing he didn't think he could walk in a straight line if his life depended on it.

The last time they had done this, they had paused after a while, no doubt thinking he might be dead.    They wouldn't stop prematurely a second time unless they were idiots.

What could he do in this situation?    His ability to perform brain hardening was waning.    He could either default to the less complicated method and hope he didn't die when he went into seizures or drop the hardening on his brain and hope no one scrambled his gray matter.    Neither option screamed winner to him.    Blasting off in a random direction wouldn't be smart either, considering the punishment for leaving the bounds of 'cage' was one of his soldiers died.

So . . . what was his move?    The exhaustion told him to give up.    Fuck that.    He would rather die fighting.    All fear fell away, pushed out by lethargy and stubbornness.    There wasn't always a smart move to make.    Sometimes you just had to embrace the suck and work through the grind.

Mike determined to seize the next opportunity to fight back, no matter how small.    Three collissions later, he found himself momentarily inside the core of a smashed minivan.    What were the chances his opponents, with less than a month of training, were constantly hardening their bodies while they curb-stomped a downed opponent?    Mike pressed out with his corona in all directions, exploding the minivan wreckage in all directions.    He collapsed back to the ground as the coronas on him went slack.

"No rest for you," Mike grumbled to himself.    Then, taking advantage of the lull, he lashed out with his corona.    He found an opponent pawing at his eyes, no doubt blinded by the glass shards raining down about them.    Mike crushed another brain stem.

Three left.

Try to stand.    Nope.    Too dizzy.    Might need to throw up.    Definitely need to throw up.    Fine, but keep fighting while you empty your belly.

Mike dropped his brain hardening and dedicated himself to corona wrestling for all he was worth, eyes closed to fight the motion sickness.    The confrontation became similar to the corona slap game he had trained first with Cassandane and then with his troops.    Only in this case, the slaps came with consequences.    Mike felt his shoulder dislocate when he failed to counter an incoming strike and his last-minute bone and muscle hardening failed to encompass the tendons, allowing a painful soft tissue injury.    His flesh shredded in several other spots, splashing his surroundings with blood.

He gave back as good as he got, though, shattering the leg of one and breaking the ribs of another.    They kept fighting in spite of their injuries.    Everyone was committed to seeing their battle to the end.

As they continued to exchange strikes, a feral hunger awoke within Mike.    He confronted the one with the broken ribs first, waiting for the man to attack, wagering that he would slack on his defense while focused on attacking.    Wagering . . . and succeeding.    Mike felt the cartilage of his nose crunch as he wrenched broken-rib's head around by more than a hundred and eighty degrees.

Only two remained.    Mike managed to hold himself erect on his knees and opened his eyes.    He smiled up at his horrified opponents.

"How?"    The man, middle-aged with soft hands and a soft paunch, shrieked the question.

Though there was only the one word, Mike understood the full context just fine.    How did he keep going?    How did he turn it around no matter what they did?    How was it possible?    How was it fair?

All sorts of responses occurred to Mike, but he chose the one he thought most disheartening.    "Because I'm the good guy and you're the terrorist scumbags."

The man stared at him for two seconds before fleeing.    Mike watched his progress halt.    The man struggled visibly as he levitated towards Nallit.    The demon spun his finger in the air when he noticed Mike and his final opponent were watching him.    "Time to get the show on the road," Mike said.    Without waiting for a reply, he tossed debris towards the last man from multiple directions while corona wrestling.    The man took several hits, becoming a bloody mess.

Mike moved to stand over the man as he internally decapitated him.    He took heaving breaths as he stared at Nallit, the row of news vans, and the gathered crowd behind them.    He had won.