The Bloodied Advance
The match time had arrived. Liscal, for some reason, said nothing to Muslan. He only glanced once at the bottle of liquor in his hand.
And the match began.
Chaaang!
Muslan downed an entire bottle of liquor in one go from the entrance. Then he threw the bottle into the stands. The spectators erupted in cheers.
"That's what I came to see!"
"I bet on you today. Show me what that tough body can do!"
"This won't be easy. This time it's Basqun's disciple!"
"But isn't his build smaller than Benzol's?"
"When has Basqun ever fought with size? He lives off his fist techniques. If he's calling him his disciple, there must be something to it."
Muslan stepped out and confirmed his opponent. The opponent was lightly stepping from the entrance, throwing out jabs occasionally.
Jabs and straights. And hooks. Though there were some rough parts, it wasn't much different from modern boxing.
What was impressive was that he performed the movements without expending any effort. It seemed Basqun's disciple title wasn't a lie.
At least the silver lining is that his weight class is the lowest among the opponents so far.
The reason Muslan thought this was because Abey's build was smaller than Benzol's. Though he had a solid, muscular physique, his frame wasn't large. It meant his body hadn't fully matured yet.
If someone had properly learned techniques and had a significant size advantage, it would be a desperate situation. However, now the size difference was less than with previous opponents. If there was an opportunity, this was it.
"Zakr!"
The referee's shout rang out.
Abey had heard stories about his opponent's previous matches from Basqun. So he came out with a tailored strategy.
Conserve stamina. Gradually break him down from the desired distance without overexerting. Those were the two things Basqun had ordered Abey.
So Abey maintained distance. His favorite middle range. A distance where mid-range strikes could land properly.
But as soon as it started, an unexpected situation occurred.
Thud!
Pain shot through the fist he extended for a feint.
Forehead?
He had clearly aimed for the face. Until the moment of impact, he hadn't doubted much, but the opponent had tucked his chin and thrust out his forehead.
Did he aim for it?
Abey didn't think it was intentional. If he had the skill to aim for that, there would have been no need to take the difficult path. It meant there was no need to take countless beatings in every match just to look for a reversal.
Taking many punches naturally damages the body. And a damaged body doesn't recover easily. It was something all fighters rolling in the arena knew.
So Abey didn't suspect as deeply as Bebo or Benzol had. That the opponent staggering drunk before his eyes possessed superior body techniques than himself. And that for some reason, he wasn't fully utilizing those techniques.
Still, his movements are ordinary.
He hadn't earned the title of Basqun's disciple for nothing. Indeed, he was a genius whom Basqun personally cared for from one to ten. When Muslan used the forehead-ramming tactic, he reacted immediately.
Feint?
He pretended to throw a jab, gave a brief fake, and when Muslan thrust out his forehead, he threw an uppercut.
Thud!
It was an uppercut sharp in timing, speed, and angle. Blood immediately flowed from Muslan's nose.
He had reacted. He had even slipped it. But he couldn't slip it perfectly. However, with Muslan's current physical abilities, he couldn't fully respond to Abey's attacks. Abey's skill was that superior.
This is almost at the level of a pro boxer...
No, perhaps even better. In the modern era, they wear gloves, but here they don't. Landing pinpoint strikes with bare hands was no easy feat. Yet the recent attack was a sharp pinpoint strike. Muslan instinctively knew that if he didn't fight properly, he'd lose.
Different. Definitely different from before.
Muslan's expression hardened. Abey was an opponent skilled enough to warrant tension.
In the arena, silence was considered a virtue during matches. The fighters' breathing. The sound of weapons clashing. And screams. Because they wanted to vividly enjoy all of it.
But now, such virtues didn't exist in this arena. Cheers continued to echo from the stands. It meant a legendary match was unfolding that made one forget such virtues.
Muslan and Abey's match showed content worthy of being called a legendary match even by its progression so far. A bloodbath unprecedented in boxing match history. And as time passed, slugfests occasionally broke out.
Arena boxing matches weren't without slugfests. However, those slugfests usually decided the outcome within a minute. They exchange blows with power and end quickly. But this match was different. They had already been exchanging blows for nearly 5 minutes, and it wasn't ending.
Abey mixed backsteps and sidesteps appropriately while striking, and Muslan advanced unconditionally. When Abey sidestepped, Muslan turned direction and kept advancing.
Naturally, Abey had far more successful attacks. As Muslan charged in while taking hits, his face was already covered in blood. There were many torn spots. When bare skin collides with bare skin, it's natural for the skin to tear.
In terms of match content, it was one-sided. It wasn't a match made to look one-sided like Muslan's previous matches, but truly one where Abey held overwhelming advantage. If it were modern boxing or martial arts, there had been several moments where a TKO would have been called without surprise.
Yet Muslan continued advancing like a bull. It was a tactic of sacrificing flesh to take bone, to the point where even that phrase was insufficient. The only way was to stubbornly advance and wear down the opponent's spirit. Because Abey held the advantage at all distances, mid and long range.
After about 20 minutes of the match. One side had a clean face, the other a face so damaged it was unrecognizable — from this, one could infer the match's flow.
There were no breaks, but both still had stamina left. Abey's was the result of rigorous training, and Muslan's was the power of internal energy.
The reason Muslan applied forward pressure was also due to this. Currently, Abey was only countering the incoming Muslan with sidesteps and backsteps. There was no need to enter first. Why overexert when the opponent was foolishly coming in to take hits?
But Muslan's intention was to push in foolishly and instead seize control of the battle's pace himself. That way, he could maximize the use of his recovery ability through internal energy.
Though it was a weak internal energy, it was still internal energy. If given even a moment's rest, he could recover stamina faster than ordinary people. Above all, hadn't Muslan drunk heavily before entering the arena to raise the energy of Chwihyeon-gyeong?
Unaware of internal energy's existence, Abey thought he was conducting the match well as instructed. And he also knew the end was slowly approaching.
No matter how tough the body, there is a limit to stamina. Abey, who had learned from Basqun that there are areas that cannot be covered by mental strength alone. So Abey was thinking with calm eyes that he needed to finish it.
However, there was one strange point. The match was beyond one-sided, into overwhelming. If he consumed the last bit of stamina now, a reversal would absolutely not happen.
Yet what was the look in the eyes of that fallen kingdom's crown prince. It wasn't simply a look of suppressing frustration. It was as if... a look convinced that reversal was still possible. Abey didn't like that. Very much so.
Still not giving up? How arrogant.
So he clenched his fists tightly. With the intention of completely extinguishing hope now.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Attacks landing on both sides of the body. And an uppercut that lifted the chin.
This is the end.
Muslan went down.
He can't get up from this.
Abey was certain. No matter how good his durability, he wouldn't be able to rise. Because it had landed properly. And hadn't considerable damage accumulated throughout the match?
Abey thought the match was over. But not even a few seconds later, his brows furrowed again. Because Muslan was getting back up without delay.
So the referee didn't stop the match either. Here, as long as one shows the will to fight, they can continue. Above all, in a match with such tremendous cheers pouring in, stopping it would mean being unable to handle the backlash.
He took that and still got up?
There had been clear sensation in his hand. Yet Muslan rose again and took his stance.
There had been shock, but not to the point he couldn't endure. He deliberately panted heavily. Hoping that at this point, Abey's movements would carry more force.
His internal energy hadn't run out yet. Still, it was true that it was a crisis. Internal energy wasn't omnipotent. No matter how solid the jaw, even minimizing brain shake by raising internal energy, there was shock. He didn't know when or how consciousness might cut off.
Thud!
Thud!
Abey twisted his body to the left and threw an uppercut. Muslan appropriately deflected it with an elbow guard and aimed for Abey's nose.
In the recent exchange, the one who gained was Muslan. Abey staggered briefly, and Muslan charged again.
Perhaps thanks to countless training, even though a proper hit landed on the nose, Abey nimbly stepped and regained mid-range, throwing jabs. Then, as if waiting for it, Muslan stepped forward even faster than before, lowering his body. And entering, he threw a punch to the abdomen. Seeing Abey flinch, the spectators cheered again.
It was still clearly a one-sided match. Abey had landed over 200 successful strikes, and Muslan, frankly, would be hard to count even 10 clean hits. If it were a modern match, the doctor stop would have been called ten times already. With significant blood loss, it was a situation where the fighter's life could be in danger.
Yet Muslan moved to the end. Like a flame burning life to fight. That flame was moving people's hearts.