Bloodied but Unbowed
The crowd's opinions were divided, yet one thing was clear: everyone was thoroughly enjoying the match.
How the hell is he still standing? He should have gone down by now. Are my fists really that weak?
Abey could not understand it. He had never once doubted the power of his own fists. Anyone who took a clean hit from him went down. The stories of him flattening every fighter under Basqun's command were no exaggeration. His fists were strong, hardened through relentless training. Torn, healed, and struck repeatedly until they were as solid as stone.
Why?
When faced with the incomprehensible, most people feel fear. That was exactly what Abey felt now. Facing an opponent he could not understand, cracks were forming in his resolve.
Abey had received proper technique from Basqun, but he had not yet been taught how to handle a situation like this. He was still too young, and his experience too limited.
So he made the worst possible choice. He abandoned Basqun's order to maintain distance.
When Abey closed the gap on his own, Basqun's voice rang out from the stands.
“No!”
But his shout was drowned beneath the roar of the crowd.
Abey stepped in closer and planted his feet, preparing to throw a punch with full power behind it.
Muslan saw it and smiled. Though his face was covered in blood, Abey could clearly see the grin.
He's smiling in this situation?
The bloodied, swollen face was definitely smiling, and it was not the smile of resignation.
That smile…
Abey sensed something was wrong and tried to pull back, but it was too late. They had already traded several punches, and the ones now flying toward him carried a different weight. Muslan had been saving his internal energy precisely for this moment.
Why did his punches suddenly get so heavy?
Until now, Muslan had used only the bare minimum of energy, just enough to endure Abey's blows. The instant he saw Abey plant his feet, he channeled his internal energy into his fists.
The crowd was in an uproar, but Muslan alone remained perfectly calm. With cold clarity he recalled the trajectory and timing of every punch Abey had thrown, searching for the perfect counter window.
The first few exchanges were not decisive. But gradually the timing began to align.
A full-scale slugfest erupted. The arena, already deafening from the crowd's cheers, exploded into an even greater frenzy as the two fighters battered each other without restraint.
Thud! Thud!
Abey's attacks grew duller while Muslan's grew sharper. Their faces told two different stories: one lightly bloodied, the other so swollen it was barely recognizable. Yet the balance was slowly shifting. Blood and swelling now marked Abey's face as well.
Human skin was never meant to be toughened like muscle. Its strength or weakness was decided at birth. Unlike beasts protected by thick hides, a few solid blows were enough to make flesh swell and split. And sometimes, a single lucky punch could end everything.
Thud!
“Aaaagh!”
Abey screamed in agony, a sharp, piercing cry unlike any before.
Trained fighters rarely screamed. When they did, it was usually the death rattle of a man on the verge of dying. Yet Abey screamed now because Muslan's fist, middle finger slightly extended, had driven straight into his left eye.
The eye was far more vulnerable than skin. Any living creature thrashed in pain when struck there.
Muslan smiled. He was grateful that Abey had planted his feet and traded punches. That stance had allowed him to land a clean hit and slow Abey down. It had also given him the opening to drive his finger into the eye.
In modern martial arts this would have been blatant foul play. Here, it was not. As long as the referee did not see it.
Timing the moment to slip past the referee's gaze was no difficult task for Muslan.
From the very beginning, their mindsets had been different. Abey had come to compete in a match. Muslan had come to survive. That difference in resolve had produced this result.
Whoosh!
Thud!
A fierce counter exploded. Abey's fist cut through empty air while Muslan's crashed into his nose. Then came the follow-up barrage.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Though the punches looked wild, every one landed with precision. Muslan exaggerated his movements only because the outcome was already decided.
It did not take long for Abey's face to resemble Muslan's.
Thud!
Abey collapsed to the ground, his ruined face staring blankly upward. The cheers grew louder still. He tried to rise, but his legs had already given out. On trembling limbs he staggered upright, only for Muslan to feint a jab, drop low, and drive a hook into his body from a bizarre angle.
A twisting, Russian hook.
Crack!
The fist connected cleanly behind the ear. Abey's eyes rolled back and he dropped, unconscious. He did not get up again.
After the match, Muslan walked away with a faint smile, even though his head was spinning so badly he could barely stay upright.
Liscal watched him stagger back and muttered, “Crazy bastard.”
Yet a strange smile lingered on Liscal's lips. He too had once been a gladiator before becoming a manager. He knew exactly how remarkable Muslan's performance had been.
He quickly escorted Muslan to the physician. The moment they arrived, Muslan collapsed.
“Is he dead?”
“No, just exhausted. His breathing is steady. But…”
“It was the match. Don't overthink it.”
“The noise outside… so that was his fight. What kind of opponent did he face to end up like this?”
The physician grumbled.
“He faced someone extraordinary.”
“And he won looking like that?”
“He won. It was magnificent.”
“Oh… for you to say that? So, treat him the usual way?”
“No. Do it properly this time.”
“I always do it properly.”
“Use medicine.”
“Huh?”
The physician stared at Liscal.
“Are you serious?”
“I am.”
“Wasn't he on special management?”
“He was.”
“Is this all right?”
“It was an extraordinary match. Truly extraordinary. It moved me.”
“Haha… so from now on we treat this friend the same way?”
“No. The favor ends here. I still have my duty to the master. When that madman wakes up, tell him I'll buy him a drink. Not the cheap stuff from Ruban, but proper wine from Airs.”
“Haha… you're not joking, are you?”
“I'm not.”
“Then may I use the Eyapul?”
“……”
At the mention of Eyapul, Liscal fell silent. It was an extremely expensive medicinal herb.
“You actually have something that costly?”
“I do. Never used it before, though.”
“Will it work?”
“That depends on him. His tongue isn't severed this time, but the wounds are severe. How many blows did he take?”
“After the first hundred, they got heavier. Probably around three hundred in total.”
“And he still won after taking that many?”
“He did.”
“Damn… you should have called me for a match like that.”
“How could I look away from something like that? Anyway, use the Eyapul. Go ahead.”
“I only half-joked about it. You're serious.”
“How much is it?”
“Probably about a month's wages for you.”
“Haa…”
“Still want to use it?”
“Use it. I already said it. But as I told you, from next time onward we go back to normal. Only the usual level of care.”
“Understood.”
“Damn it… this is why I should watch my mouth.”
Liscal grumbled as he left. The physician, Berto, merely chuckled at his retreating back.
Muslan spent two full days lying in the physician's room. He was conscious, yet his body refused to move properly. He had taken countless punches, and unlike previous matches where he had deflected damage, this time every blow had landed cleanly. Even his sturdy frame and internal energy could not prevent the damage.
Still, Muslan fought to stay awake and performed breathing exercises while lying down.
“Think you can walk?”
When word spread that he had awakened, Liscal appeared. Muslan looked at him.
The physician had told Muslan that Liscal had shown him special consideration by authorizing the use of an extremely expensive herb. Yet Liscal made no mention of it.
Maybe Isaac was right. He might actually be a decent manager.
“Not that way.”
Muslan had started toward his old room when Liscal stopped him.
“Then where?”
“Your room has changed. After three consecutive wins, you have earned at least that much.”
The room Liscal led him to was larger and cleaner than before. Inside were numerous bottles of alcohol.
“This is…”
“The other gladiators brought them. They were deeply impressed by your fight. Word got around that you're a heavy drinker, so they left these. The ones at the far end are from me. Better quality than the rest. Remember that.”
“……”