The ring was simple.

Two competitors, a fight, one winner. Each competitor had come for the prize. They were ready to hurt for it. They were ready to be hurt, though neither planned on it. There was no need to think: once the fight started, all you had to do was win.

Ortho adored that simplicity. It cut out all the trouble that came with beating up another man.

The bell sounded. Cheers rattled the cramped underground fight club, then fell to a fragmented murmur as the tension rose. The centre of the ring called to Ortho—it was furthest place from the boundary line which, if his foot crossed over it, he’d lose the fight outright.

Ortho took a step towards the middle. His opponent, an oversized fellow who’d been introduced as Ripper, did the same. They braced their repulsors—convex, oval shields with smooth, chrome faces. Once they moved within a step of each other, Ortho felt his repulsor hum and resist his efforts forward as the two aftos pushed against each other from a distance.

Ortho lowered his weight to steady himself. His repulsor tried to free itself from his hands and he braced it against his right shoulder. Ripper pulse his repulsor by pushing it forward an instant. The increase in pressure caused Ortho to shuffle back. Growling, Ortho responded with his own pulse, this one slightly off centre and a fair bit stronger that the one that had struck him. It caused Ripper’s shoulder to roll and he shifted sideways to adjust.

They pulsed back and forth, teasing and testing each other. Ortho took a high stance and pressed downwards with his repulsor, trying to be more aggressive. Ripper stayed lower and held a firmer position. Ortho was already dripping sweat, more from the stuffy air of the underground arena than from effort. But they were only just beginning. With each pulse, they both flowed more enma into their repulsors, testing each other’s as well as their own limits.

Each was trying to find a gap in the others’ defence so they could slip in and take the boss, the centre of the ring. It was slow and required great patience. Just a moment of hastiness—slip your foot the wrong way, twist your shoulder too far, press from a stance too high—and your opponent would quickly pry you open and send you flying towards the boundary line.

Ortho didn’t care for that. To him, skill was just a prerequisite to a good fight.

Between heavy breaths, he said, “Hey, brother, are we going to play some hoshing already? Come on. Give me a good fight!”

Ripper’s face screwed up. He dropped his weight and twisted his repulsor downwards. Ortho couldn’t move in time.

Without his own repulsor to apply a counter-pressure, the force emanating from Ripper’s repulsor pressed Ortho’s front leg. If Ortho kept his leg braced, his opponent could close in and press his leg until it snapped, or duck low and shift his repulsor up to take Ortho’s balance.

Rather than deflect with his own repulsor, however, Ortho shifted his weight onto his rear leg then let the force slide his front leg to the rear—a shimmy.

In doing so, he gave the boss to Ripper. Ortho sneered at his opponent and silently vowed to pay him back with twice the ferocity.

Ripper had taken a low stance, his legs spread wide and knees bent, to better stay his position. Ortho, coming off the shimmy, assumed a high stance. That let him be lighter on his feet, allowing him to poke for a weakness in Ripper’s defence. He stepped forwards diagonally and pulsed down at Ripper’s leg.

Ripper dropped to a knee and raised his repulsor, blocking the pulse. The crowd woo’d. Ortho felt his repulsor lift up and he dropped his weight onto it to keep it from flying out of his grip. The force raised him up a few centimetres. He used the momentum to make some distance, cursing all the way. He came to a stop near the yellow line marking the ring’s boundary. Ripper got to his feet and pressed the advantage.

Ortho shouted, “Come at me, you son of grupp!”

His opponent charged at him, trying to use his own momentum to push Ortho over the line. Ortho casually sidestepped.

The two handles on the back of a repulsor were offset vertically, requiring they each be grabbed individually. Ripper held his in an orthodox grip, with each hand holding the grip furthest from their respective shoulders so that his forearms and shoulder braced the afto. Ortho, however, used an eagle grip, where he held each handle with the hands closest to it so that his elbows were splayed outwards. Though it exposed him to sideways pushed, it also meant he had more flexibility.

Ripper stumbled forwards as the pressure released. Ortho released one of the grips on his afto. Twisting with one hand, he swung his repulsor onto his shoulder and caught Ripper as he staggered to a halt, locking him into a position equally as close to the edge. Ortho’s own repulsor braced against his shoulder, then he firmed his footing and lowered himself into a neutral stance, his feet spread shoulder width apart, his toe pressed to the line. Ripper tried to shimmy back and around the ring to get away. Ortho closed the distance.

They stayed locked in that position for a few more seconds. Their repulsors drew closer. Ortho tensed his toes to keep them dug into the canvas floor. He pressed his face closer.

“You call this hoshing a sport?” he growled, “but in Huhl Hadem, we call this survival.”

Ripper’s nostrils flared. Then Ortho felt himself being pushed back despite Ripper not pulsing. Instead, Ripper was increasing the enma flow into his repulsor. Not wanting to sacrifice another step, Ortho matched him by increasing his own enma flow.

Their arms were covered in coloured bands, called weights. They were aftos that had to be bound before the competition began so that both competitors could fight at their level cap. They did nothing other than consume levels, and each colour took up a different amount.

Resting on the edge of their level and having to constantly flow enma into the repulsor, hoshing fighters were always on the edge of madness. Flow a bit too much for too long and you’d take a curse from the repulsor. It turned the fight from an afto slug fest into a competition of skill, delicacy, and technique—all of which Ortho ignored where he could in favour of brute force.

Ripper’s coach shouted from outside the protective cage, positioned two long steps back from the boundary line. The taller fighter took deep breaths and reduced his enma flow. Ortho growled and charged in.

The spot which Ortho charged towards, however, was where they’d been locked in a pulsing contest for a good minute earlier. Sweat stained the canvas floor there. So, Ortho wasn’t ready when Ripper chipped at his foot and sent his leg slipping out.

Biting into his mouthguard, Ortho dropped forwards. He quickly leaned his repulsor to the side and flowed a sharp pulse of enma into it. This time, however, the form he used for his repulsor was a little different, a bit harder and, if he had to give it a scent, it reminded him of a root just pulled from the earth. Rather than the repulsor absorbing the brunt of the repulsing force, it instead pushed him, spinning him around.

Ortho landed hard on his back. The crowd screamed with excitement. The impact winded Ortho, but that only drove him harder.

“Come on, poser!” he wheezed at Ripper, raising his voice to hide his injury. “I’ve fought monsters so disgusting they’d make you puke. You’re nothing!”

Being on his back put Ortho in a bad position. Movement was one of the most important defensive techniques in hoshing and being on the ground restricted what Ortho could do.

Ripper took advantage and circled around so that he was pushing Ortho towards the line. Ortho quickly kicked himself around so that his head was facing Ripper. His safety helmet protected him from forces to the head and he took full advantage of that.

Ortho threw his shield over his head and angled it. He braced his elbows against his body to lock the repulsor in place. The force from Ripper’s repulsor was reflected down into two points: Ortho’s chest and where the shield touched the floor. That dug him in rather than allow Ripper to push him towards the line. Ortho dragged his legs in to prevent them from crossing over the line, which would have lost him the fight right then.

Ripper flowed more enma into his repulsor in sharp bursts, pulsing it. Ortho pulsed back, trying to knock Ripper back a step. From his lower position, Ortho had a slight advantage as he could push Ripper up, destabilising his footing.

The crowd was screaming for Ripper to finish the fight. He was a fan favourite, the clearly superior and more charismatic fighter, rumoured to have a shot at the pro leagues. They’d all obviously bet on him. That only made Ortho want to crush him more.

Ortho was level twenty-four, whereas Ripper was twenty-six. Being higher level, Ripper had two extra bands strapped to his wrists called deadweights. He had to constantly flow enma into them to keep them from weighing his wrists down. Even so, weights and deadweights were much easier on the soul than a proper afto, so Ripper was realistically at an advantage.

Or so he thought.

Under normal circumstances, Ortho’s arms would have been trembling from exhaustrion. However, as they went tit-for-tat with their pulses, Ortho was trickling another couple flows of enma into two metallic bangles, bound tightly around his wrists. It was subtle, the thin flows stemming off the flows travelling up his arms and into his repulsor, completely invisible so long as they stayed inside his body. With that, his repulsor felt as light as sand.

Ripper was waiting for Ortho to wear down, and clearly getting frustrated that it wasn’t working. Curses should have been building up for both of them, making this an endurance race. But Ortho was hardly putting in any effort.

However, the curse in question was terrible for someone standing in a higher position: it made you lighter. And each time Ortho pulsed, he could feel Ripper shifting back a little further before charging back at him again.

Ortho hissed air through is teeth. The fight was over, and it hadn’t been much of a challenge. He flowed every drop of enma that he could muster into his repulsor, near overcharging the thing. With his strongest pulse yet, he sent Ripper flying up into the air.

Ortho pulled his enma back from the repulsor entirely now that his defences were freed up. He rolled on his shoulder until the repulsor was facing downwards then kneeled on top of it.

“Alright, poser,” Ortho screamed. “Let me show you how a warrior fights!”

Taking a breath, Ortho flowed a powerful burst of enma into his repulsor. Then he launched into the air.

Ripper was coming down close to the line opposite Ortho, falling slowly thanks to the curse he’d built up. When he saw Ortho leaping right at him, Ripper tried to twist to get his repulsor under him, to pulse and bounce away.

Too late. Ortho let out a howl. He twisted, angled his repulsor at an upward angle, and caught Ripper midair. The taller fighter couldn’t defend and he took the full brunt of the force. He went flying right over the line and slammed into the cage.

Then Ortho, being heavier, landed smoothly on his knees in the boss.

The bell sounded. The crowd went wild, mostly booing him. Ortho leapt up, threw his repulsor at the cage, ripped his safety helmet off, and beat his chest. He howled at the crowd long and loud, holding it until his breath gave out, leaving him panting in the afterglow.

He was one with the crowd, one with their jeers, the breaker of their gambled fortunes. He soaked in their misery as the referee grabbed his wrist below his bangles. The referee raised his hand. He never heard what the referee said—he was too busy revelling in his victory.

But victory wouldn’t let him forget about the dark-suited men waiting at a table up the back, watching him like a kalbeyu.