The Heir of the Boxing King
A week later, it was Isaac's match. As a gladiator slave, Isaac preferred to alternate between sword and axe. Today he carried the axe, with a fifty-centimeter blade fixed to his severed arm in place of a hand.
His opponent wielded a short spear just over a meter long.
Gladiator matches were divided into strict categories. Fighters who used only their fists competed as fist slaves. Those permitted every form of unarmed attack fought as brawling slaves. A slave who entered with a single sword was a sword slave. And those who fought with any weapon at all were simply gladiators.
Isaac had once been a sword slave, but the rules forced him into the unrestricted matches. His prosthetic arm counted as a weapon whether he liked it or not. So he fought with the blade and axe mounted on that arm while his opponent carried the far more expensive short spear.
Muslan watched the bout through the iron bars of the underground cell. Chira and Obben stood beside him.
“You came. Isaac’s back has improved a great deal. Thank you. I’ll repay this debt, no matter what.”
“He worked hard for it. He’ll get even better.”
“You might as well have saved his life. His back was only getting worse. I never expected this kind of result in a single week. Remarkable.”
The short spear lunged for Isaac’s abdomen. Isaac slipped aside and slammed the blade on his prosthetic arm down onto the shaft. His face twisted with effort.
The spear tip hooked into Isaac’s side, carving a vivid gash. Blood streamed down his flank.
Yet he gave flesh to take bone. Ignoring the wound, Isaac drove forward and buried his axe in his opponent’s forehead. The blade on his prosthetic arm followed, stabbing three times to make certain. Only when the man lay still did Isaac exhale, a long breath mixing relief and triumph.
The crowd roared. They had come for blood and death, and this match delivered both without surrender. That always pleased them more.
“My turn now,” Obben said, pleased that Isaac had won. The injury looked bad, but gladiators knew worse. Obben himself was a hardened veteran; he showed no concern.
“Obben.”
“Yeah?”
“Ease up on your strength.”
“What?”
Obben had been gathering his weapons to leave. He turned, puzzled.
“Control your power. If that’s hard to grasp, think of it this way: two light attacks, then one heavy. Nothing else. Just that.”
The advice came without warning, yet Obben took it without offense. Muslan’s earlier counsel had already restored Isaac’s back and refined his footwork. Today’s victory proved the value of those words. Isaac’s opponent had been strong, yet he had walked away with only a shallow cut.
Obben nodded once and said nothing more.
He won his own match with the same effortless grace, even more decisively than before.
The advice worked because both Isaac and Obben possessed real skill.
“So the third match is set?”
Isaac and Obben now treated Muslan with open trust rather than mere goodwill.
“Tomorrow.”
“You’re cutting back on the drinking, right?”
“Yes.”
He was not. If anything, his growing internal energy let him drink more. Still, Muslan answered that he was cutting back.
“Word is the opponent is one of Baskun’s boxers. A caterpillar, but anyone under Baskun deserves caution.”
“Baskun’s name keeps coming up.”
“They call him the Boxing King. One man who conquered every style of unarmed combat with his fists alone. I’ve seen him fight once.”
“Is he strong?”
“A monster. Rumor says he even uses mana breathing.”
“One-eye, you don’t need to fear Baskun anymore. You’re retired.”
Isaac chimed in from the side.
“Still, we should stay sharp. Baskun really is a monster. I saw him drop five fighters while wearing only gauntlets.”
“Gauntlets, as in arm guards?”
“Even specially made ones aren’t proper weapons. Yet Baskun handled five armed men without breaking a sweat. The whole fight lasted less than three minutes.”
That gap in skill was enormous. Muslan realized this world still held warriors he had to respect. If Baskun had faced five fighters on Isaac’s or Obben’s level, the title of monster fit perfectly.
“He’s still just a caterpillar, not Baskun himself. But he’ll be strong. Baskun doesn’t teach just anyone. After what happened last time, they’ll send their real prospect tomorrow.”
“I should get some sleep.”
“I still think you’ll win. Only someone with an iron heart could turn a fight around after taking that kind of beating. You probably didn’t notice, but when you pulled off that comeback we all cheered from here. If we were that loud, imagine the crowd tomorrow. More people will come just to see you fight.”
“About tomorrow’s opponent…”
Isaac spoke while chewing through a piece of hard bread.
“What about him?”
“Why not ask Liscal? He might tell you.”
“Liscal hates that kid.”
“I doubt it. Have you ever seen him actually hate any of the slaves? He’s just doing his job. And he doesn’t dislike you personally. Ask him. He’ll grumble, but he’ll answer. Bring a bottle of liquor if you want to be sure.”
Obben stood at once and left. The guards no longer stopped the veterans from moving freely inside the arena. That freedom came only after years of survival.
Twenty minutes later Obben returned, face stiff.
“Well?”
“They say he’s the man Baskun considers his successor.”
“And someone like that is still a caterpillar?”
“Apparently. He’s already beaten every boxer under Baskun.”
“He’s still new. Isn’t that an exaggeration?”
“No need to exaggerate. And Baskun isn’t the type to lie about his own disciple.”
“Then why is Liscal arranging these matches? Is there something more to it, Muslan?”
Isaac asked. Muslan saw no reason to hide the truth.
“There are high-ranking people who want to see me stuffed and mounted.”
“Mounted? What does that mean?”
Obben asked. Isaac’s voice trailed off as he explained.
“It means… catching beasts alive and displaying them exactly as they looked in life.”
Obben felt his stomach turn. He had endured the empire’s cruelty many times, yet this was something new.
“Liscal must have received orders from above. That’s why he’s setting up these fights.”
“Don’t worry. I have no intention of losing. I’ll break free of slavery first.”
“And after that?”
“I haven’t thought that far. Tomorrow’s match comes first.”
Muslan calmed the two men whose faces had hardened. They found him strange. Perhaps it was his noble birth, or perhaps something deeper in his nature. Either way, Muslan possessed a quiet power that drew people to him. Obben and Isaac felt it clearly in that moment.
Roccom sat with Baskun.
Baskun stood nearly one hundred and ninety centimeters tall, long-limbed and square-jawed. His hair reached his shoulders. Though long retired, his body carried not an ounce of excess flesh. He sat upright in his chair.
“This time will be different.”
Baskun spoke first.
“I believe you. Luck only works when the skill gap is narrow. Since this isn’t a sword match, there won’t be any stray blades to ruin the plan.”
Roccom gestured for him to drink.
Baskun’s mood remained sour. The previous incident had tarnished his reputation.
He never taught boxing to just anyone. He judged talent by his own eye alone. After retirement he had trained several different styles of boxer, and all had succeeded to some degree. This time, however, trouble had struck before results could show. Worse, he had accepted payment to provide the fighter, so the failure reflected directly on him.
That was why he now spoke with Roccom in earnest.
“Don’t worry. Avei is the one who will inherit my mantle. Even among my disciples, no one can match him in boxing.”
“Is the rumor true, then?”
“His goal is higher than mine.”
“Higher?”
“I conquered every unarmed style with my fists. He intends to do the same with swords.”
Roccom asked, “You’ve beaten swordsmen yourself, even several at once.”
Baskun answered firmly.
“Still, I never faced the very best. My disciple wants to surpass even them.”
Roccom’s mouth fell open. Baskun was saying his goal was nothing less than dominating the entire world of gladiators with his fists.
“He has that kind of talent. So, how do you think tomorrow’s match will go?”
“……”
“One thing worries me.”
“What is it?”
“I’m afraid he’ll beat the crown prince so badly that his face will be ruined.”
“You needn’t worry. The client’s agent will be watching every match. If the damage is too great, the contract simply won’t proceed.”
“Then that’s a relief.”