Chapter 153: "You’re All On Your Own"

Nazario’s face twisted into an even deeper grimace at Jordan’s words.

Yet, his expression turned downright miserable when his gaze shifted toward Aren, who stood several paces away with her machete lowered, her posture completely relaxed.

She looked harmless again.

Almost absurdly so.

As though she hadn’t just executed a lightning-fast feint and delivered a cut so precise that Nazario had been utterly incapable of countering it.

Nazario’s eyes narrowed until his eyelids trembled.

’What the hell is going on with this woman?’

’Did Jordan somehow teach her to use a machete this well in such a short time?’

His teeth clenched until his jaw ached.

’And now they want to injure me badly enough to force me out of the match?’

’No fucking way.’

The very thought filled him with a shame that years of winning the Marchetti Trials might never be enough to erase.

One defeat was one thing.

Being driven from the final round by a woman who supposedly didn’t even know how to use a machete was something else entirely. It would leave a filthy mark on the record he had spent years perfecting for his father.

Before Aren could even respond to Jordan’s proposal, Nazario snarled,

"In your dreams, you two cowardly losers! I challenge you! Come fight me at once if you dare!"

He pivoted sharply on his back foot and lunged straight toward Aren— his entire body carrying the unmistakable intent to maim.

Yet...

Aren stood there without moving.

The sight made the relaxed smile vanish from Jordan’s face entirely.

"Ariana, watch out! Parry!"

Jordan lunged toward her at once, already preparing to intercept the attack, but Nazario was faster.

He was only a few steps away when he dropped his center of gravity, twisting his body low as his machete swung outward in a vicious horizontal arc aimed directly at Aren’s ribs.

The blade came sweeping toward her.

Yet instead of stepping backward—

She dropped.

Lower.

Lower still.

She slipped beneath the blade so smoothly that it passed over her head by mere inches. Then, without hesitation, she pivoted directly into the force of Nazario’s charge.

Slash.

Nazario’s eyes widened.

A strangled sound escaped his throat as pain tore through him.

"Hng—!"

Blood spattered onto the pristine white canvas.

Another collective gasp swept through the warehouse as dozens of hands flew to mouths in disbelief.

Aren’s blade had found Nazario’s thigh.

One clean cut.

The fabric of his white trousers immediately darkened as crimson spread across the wound.

Nazario’s momentum carried him past her before he could stop. He staggered several steps, shock flooding through his body.

’She cut me again.’

He refused to accept it. Refused to let himself hesitate. He pivoted sharply, determined to return the strike before Aren could recover.

He swung his machete toward her with all the force he could muster.

But when he turned—

Aren wasn’t retreating.

She was already looking directly at him.

Her eyes were cold.

Focused.

Completely devoid of the nervousness he had expected from her.

Before Nazario could react, a flash of steel crossed his vision, aimed precisely at the place where he had intended to strike her.

The ribs.

Slash.

Nazario froze.

More blood sprayed into the air before falling onto the white canvas in a neat trail of crimson droplets.

Around the arena, the spectators seemed to be experiencing the same disbelief. Before long, the shock quickly dissolved into frantic murmuring.

"What the hell is happening?"

"Mister Nazario? Getting sliced three times in a row by the Lombardi heiress?"

"I wouldn’t believe that in a hundred years."

"Is he actually as strong as everyone says he is?"

"Apparently not."

Every word reached Nazario’s ears.

Every whisper struck like another blade.

His fingers tightened around the machete until his knuckles whitened.

’Fucking traitors... switching sides as quickly as a pack of rats on a sinking ship.’

His fingers closed harder around the machete.

’Fine.’

’Sit there and watch me slice this bitch into pieces.’

Whatever composure he had possessed earlier was gone. In its place — nothing but raw, furious intent.

His grip tightened until his knuckles whitened, and when he lunged again, there was nothing casual about his movements.

All the years of training he had accumulated went into every strike. He charged Aren, his machete hacking downward and then sweeping sideways in a succession of vicious arcs.

Unfortunately, no matter how fast Nazario moved, Aren was faster.

Effortlessly so.

She pivoted backward again and again, slipping past each attack by inches. Her feet barely seemed to touch the canvas as her body flowing around his attacks like water flowing around a stone.

Nazario’s blade cut through empty air again and again. His frustration mounted with every failed strike.

"Stop dodging and fight me, you cowardly woman!"

He pivoted sharply.

His machete came down in a brutal vertical arc, aimed to cleave through her shoulder. But before the blade could reach her, another machete flashed into his peripheral vision.

Steel carved into the opposite side of his ribs.

Schluck—!

"Hargh—!"

Pain detonated through Nazario’s body.

He staggered backward several steps, one hand immediately clamping over the new wound as blood began soaking through the fabric.

When he looked up, Jordan was standing several paces away, staring down at him with undisguised contempt.

He had taken advantage of the opening Aren created, and this cut was deeper than the previous three — deep enough to carry the weight of all the hatred Jordan had been forced to swallow since the moment he exited the Dark Room.

Aren’s face brightened when she saw the result.

"Great slice, Jordan!"

Jordan glanced toward her, and the hard expression on his face softened into a grin.

"And you’re not so bad yourself for someone who only picked up a Marchetti signature machete yesterday."

When his attention returned to Nazario, his smile sharpened.

"Not so easy anymore when you’re holding a machete, is it, brother?"

He glanced over Nazario’s blood-soaked shirt and trousers with obvious satisfaction.

"Too bad. Up here in the ring, you can’t use any nasty tricks anymore. And there are no rats up here to help you. You’re all on your own."

Nazario had barely managed to straighten before Jordan was already moving again.

He didn’t wait for a response.

Didn’t give him time to catch his breath.

Swoosh!

As Jordan closed the distance, he shouted, exhilaration and triumph ringing through his voice.

"Come with me, Ariana! Let’s force my brother out until this entire ring belongs to the two of us!"

Aren’s eyes flashed with excitement.

"At once!"

Without wasting another second, she lunged after Jordan, her machete flashing beneath the warehouse lights as the two of them charged straight toward Nazario together.