The crowd held its collective breath.
Eyes darted frantically, struggling to track the blur of motion—punches that appeared from nowhere, kicks that defied expectation, a battle that had escalated beyond anything the fighting grounds had witnessed in months.
"I'm changing my bet!"
"Me too!"
"Are you insane? Nesbet still wins! He always wins!"
"Look at him! Just look!"
The crowd fractured into warring factions—those who believed in their champion's legend, and those whose eyes were showing them something new.
Around them, the other fighting rings had fallen silent. One by one, the matches had stopped as spectators abandoned their circles to join the growing throng. For the first time in anyone's memory, the entire fighting grounds had coalesced around a single battle.
The announcer's voice rose above the chaos, thick with disbelief and delight. "By the storms—look at this! The entire grounds! Every eye on one fight! I've never—in twenty years, I've never—"
The metallic rain of bronze coins never ceased. Two heaps had formed on the desk, then grown into small mountains, then expanded beyond the table's edges until coins spilled onto the packed earth. Bettors shoved past each other to add their stakes, changing allegiances with each exchanged blow.
In the center of it all, the fight continued.
Nesbet—undefeated, unchallenged, a living legend of the rings—threw a straight punch that should have ended lesser men. It caught Toric square in the chest with enough force to crack ribs.
Toric caught the fist with both hands.
For a heartbeat, the two fighters stood locked—Nesbet's expression shifting from confidence to confusion to dawning alarm. Then Toric pulled, dragging the champion forward, and drove his forehead into Nesbet's face with a crack that echoed across the silenced grounds.
"OH! A headbutt! A brutal headbutt! The champion is—he's staggering!"
Nesbet's legs betrayed him. He stumbled back, arms windmilling, vision swimming.
Toric didn't follow. Instead, he spread his arms wide, turning slowly, basking.
The crowd erupted.
"TORIC!"
"TORIC!"
"TORIC!"
Nesbet shook off the darkness. His eyes focused. His stance reset.
Then he launched himself—a flying kick aimed at Toric's throat, designed to end the match and perhaps the man.
Toric ducked—just inches. The kick sailed past his head.
And in that moment of exposure—Nesbet airborne, off-balance, vulnerable—Toric's fist drove upward into his gut with all the force his newly-opened channels could provide.
THUD.
The sound was wet and final.
Nesbet hit the ground like a sack of meat. His mouth opened, expelled a spray of saliva laced with crimson, and stayed open.
Toric loomed over him, knuckles clenched, a sneer spreading across his weathered face.
"Get up." His voice carried in the sudden silence. "I'm not done."
The silence broke into chaos—but not the chaos of cheers.
"No! It can't be!"
"Nesbet is losing! He's actually losing!"
"Wait—I know him! I know that man!" A voice rose above the murmurs, sharp with recognition. "He's one of them! One of the two who butchered the market! The Mistress's men!"
The words landed like stones in still water.
Toric clicked his tongue.
Ah, fuck. Do I really have to fight more of them now? On an empty stomach?
The crowd's temperature shifted. Faces that had been alight with excitement now hardened with suspicion, fear, hostility. The Master's men were everywhere in this crowd—the fighting grounds were his territory, his coin, his enterprise.
No one cheered Toric's name now.
Well. That's a lot of hostile stares.
His eyes swept the crowd—and stopped.
But none of them feel like that one.
The man was trying to be hidden, but "hidden" wasn't a word that applied to someone his size. Bald head gleaming in the noon sun. Thick beard swallowing his lower face. A frame that seemed carved from old wood and stubbornness. He stood at the crowd's edge, motionless, watching.
Their eyes met.
The bald man's gaze held no heat—only assessment. Cold. Clinical. The look of a man measuring livestock.
That fucking baldy. Toric's lips twitched. If you want to fight, fight. Don't just stand there staring like I'm a puzzle to solve.
Unless...
Unless the Captain was right. They're watching. Measuring. Deciding.
Toric's smirk widened.
Behind him, Nesbet struggled to rise. His face was a ruin of pain and pride, limbs shaking with the effort of standing.
He never made it.
Toric moved without looking—a pivot, a surge of prana through his right arm, a fist that connected with Nesbet's face like a cannonball.
CRACK.
Bone broke. Blood sprayed. Nesbet's body folded and collapsed, unconscious before it hit the ground.
Toric flicked his hand, shaking loose the droplets of red.
"That'll keep him down for a while."
No bell rang. No cheers followed.
The announcer stood frozen behind his desk, face pale, mouth opening and closing without sound.
At the crowd's edge, the red-haired man beside the bald observer trembled with barely contained violence. "Let's just kill him. He's one man. One! I can take him myself if you just—" He grabbed the bald man's arm. "Hey. I'm talking to you."
The bald man didn't respond. Didn't move. His eyes remained fixed on Toric, cataloging, calculating.
He has energy too. The reports said the other was a child—must be a servant then. Or a distraction.
The Master was right to wait. We need more data. More observation.
He turned and walked away.
The red-haired man's face twisted—anger, frustration, something close to humiliation—but he followed. They all followed. The Master's men melted from the crowd like water into sand.
One of them paused beside Nesbet's body, hoisting the unconscious champion over his shoulder. Before leaving, he spat at Toric's feet.
Toric smiled.
So, they're stepping back.
Ring-ring-ring!
The announcer found his voice at last. "We have a new champion! TORIC rules the rings!"
The crowd, freed from the weight of the Master's presence, erupted.
"Hell yeah!"
"That was incredible!"
"Did you see that punch?"
Toric let the cheers wash over him, but his mind was elsewhere.
"You'll understand eventually." That's what the Captain said.
And now I do.
The Master's men saw me fight. They measured me. And they withdrew. Not because they couldn't take me—they could have, numbers alone—but because they're still uncertain. Still watching.
But that's not all.
His eyes widened slightly.
Reputation. We need people. A crew. And what draws people faster than a champion? Someone who can win, who can fight, who can protect?
The rings aren't just a test of strength. They're a recruiting ground.
He smirked, accepting the crowd's adoration.
The Captain's playing a game I'm only beginning to see.