Chapter Text
You hate free-for-alls. They're all spectacle and no substance. You've heard the argument that they're meant as a proving ground for newer fighters. If that were true more of them would come out uninjured. Some people justify the free-for-all's existence saying they are tests of endurance. Whoever says that has never had to run around a battlefield in search of the last few opponents. Too much bloody running in a free for all. No, the real reason for the free-for-all's popularity is bloodshed, pure and simple. People love carnage, and put a bunch of excitable idiots on a field filled with blades, that's exactly what you get.
All of this were your thoughts leading up to the first free for all in the tournament, of course. Your thoughts now are currently a lot more fight or flight-y. And your attention turns from yourself and towards the uncertain roar a rookie fighter lets out as he barrels towards you, a thick sword held in both hands.
He's telegraphing his attack like a boss fight. But this will hardly be that. You throw up your short sword (the closest thing they had to a knife in the armoury) to catch his strike, but find yourself having to brace the blade with your other hand, caught off guard by this fighters strength.
A slight tilt and the heavy sword slides off yours and into the sand pf the stadium. He throws a grimace and you move forward, expecting him to take a moment to pull his sword back into position, but instead he kicks out at your legs, keeping you at a safe distance, and giving him enough time to raise the weapon and come at you again. This time he tries a sideswipe. Its coming at you too heavy to parry so you step back, taking you out of the arc of the sword but up against the wooden wall of the arena. You steal a glance upward at the roaring crowd. Hundreds of people are in the stands today, yelling and clapping and laughing, encouraging the violence. One man is banging a walking stick on the wood to add to the noise, and it gives you an idea.
The rookie launches at you again, smiling, believing you to be cornered (as cornered as you can be in a circular arena). What an idiot. he charges at you, blade ready to impale your stomach, and at the last second you deftly dodge out of the way. Or at least you intended to. Your manoeuvre is a little too slow and the sword manages to catch your ribs, slashing into your side, making you cry out in pain. The crowd above you loves that. But your plan has still worked, and the blade continues its charge straight into the wood, now stuck fast.
The rookie, panicking now, takes a second to try and pull his weapon free, and its the only second you need. Suddenly you're behind him, ready to strike. And for a second you feel it, that feeling.
To go for the kill. To strike. End it. Quickly!
But this is a public match, and you were supposed to try for no fatalities. So you spin the sword in your hand and hit the rookie over the back of the head, hard.
You turn back to the stadium. Most of the fighting has quietened down now and the crowd has hushed. Last few standing then. Finally. You step toward the centre of the field to end this fight. In fact, if you've made it to the last two then you've still made it into the next bracket. You could probably just throw this fight. As you complete that thought the other contestant comes into view, and breath hitches in your chest.
Even without his signature crown and blood red cloak you can tell its him. The heavy set Piglin strides into view, all muscle and scars and bared tusks. There is a bit of blood running down his forehead but otherwise there's not a scratch on him. Much in comparison to you who's heaving and clutching your side. But you catch yourself and straighten up, since the Blade is here. You don't remember seeing his name in this bracket, perhaps he's using a moniker. Despite this the crowd recognises him immediately. You hear yells from the stands: It's the Blade! Never dies, never dies! Kill them Techno!
If the supposed Blood God Conduit hears any of this he doesn't react. You see him drop into a stance and you do the same. There's a moment of silence, and then he's running. His axe, despite its weight, moves in quickly on your side, and you throw yourself backward to avoid it. Technoblade doesn't lose control of it's momentum, and presses forward in his attack. His teeth are locked an a sneer, but you get a moment to look at his eyes, and they seem bored, almost tired. It doesn't distract you though as you circle him swiftly to look for an opening. No chance, he whirls around, hoofs kicking up sand, and you're face to face again. The dude's defence is airtight, you need another plan. You think for a second, and then to everyone's surprise turn tail and run.
Too much bloody running in free-for-alls.
The crowd laughs and boos, you're suddenly a coward and an idiot according to the masses, and the Blade is on your heels. You need a weapon, any weapon, for this next bit to work. You spy an unconscious fighter, half covered in sand, a broadsword in the ground beside him. Perfect. Without slowing down you snatch it up, hearing the crowd stop booing and lean forward in their seats. You run faster, aiming for one of the sheer wooden walls, hearing no slowing from Technoblade behind you. You're nearly at the wall now, eyes of the crowd before you wide with anticipation, and a meter before you reach it you jump. And then one foot on the wall, giving a little more lift, and then with the other foot you push off the wall and send yourself spinning in the air, now looking down at the Blade.
Before he can react, you enact your plan. With a flick of the wrist, the short sword flies toward the Piglin. Not aimed at his head, no, aimed at his shoulder. Its an easier, more instinctual deflect, and honestly won't even have the Blade break a sweat. But he'll have to move his axe off to the right to do so, leaving his other side open for your new offhand weapon. You see the crowd leap from their seats as the sword flies through the air. You need to be fast if this is going to work, and you've already begun the swing toward his left. And then you see him smile, and its too late.
Instead of taking the bait, Technoblade takes the short sword straight to the shoulder, it must hurt cause you see his body reflexively shudder in pain. But the smirk doesn't leave his face as he parries your heavy left swing, leaving you totally unguarded. You fall to the ground, last card played. He gently puts the axe against your neck, and a horn blares signalling the end of the match. The smirk hasn't left his face.