The First Grappling Match
Roccom's words had been true. Isaac and the others were training right in front of Muslan.
Muslan had become their teacher.
Anyone who saw these veterans—men who had rolled through the arena long enough to be treated as such—receiving instruction from a boy who had not even shed his caterpillar status would have laughed.
Yet Isaac and Obben were deadly serious. They questioned Muslan about everything from the basics to the finer points as they trained.
After one round of training, they settled down. Muslan sat sipping wine straight from the bottle.
“The match is set.”
“Really? Who this time? There probably aren’t any fighters left who want to face you.”
“Well… starting next match, I’ll be in grappling bouts.”
“What?”
Isaac shot to his feet.
“No. You must have misheard. Caterpillars can only fight in boxing matches. At least that’s the rule in Airs.”
“That’s what I was told. Liscal has no reason to lie.”
“No…!”
Obben and Isaac stared at each other, faces hardening.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine!”
Isaac shouted.
“Grappling is nothing like boxing. It’s bare-handed gladiatorial combat. Most fighters die. Even if you go down, the referee won’t step in. It’s a match where they tell you to kill each other with your hands.”
“I know. It’s not as soft as boxing.”
“It’s far crueler and more dangerous than you think. Sometimes barbarians from the military islands even appear.”
“Still, I said it’s fine.”
“Among those barbarians there are some who eat people. If you lose…”
“Will I get eaten?”
“…Yes.”
Calm lingered on Muslan’s face. He continued speaking, and Isaac and Obben gradually settled.
“Then…”
“I’m better suited to grappling than boxing. Watch the next match. It’ll be more entertaining.”
Because the words came from Muslan and no one else, Obben and Isaac could only believe him.
More than a month had passed since they began learning proper techniques from him. Too many things had changed in that time. Their conditioning had improved, and even their physical abilities had grown beyond what they were before.
And that was not all.
Other gladiator slaves had begun remarking that they looked healthier. They themselves could feel they had grown stronger. Isaac and Obben had even wondered whether Muslan possessed an innate gift for teaching.
But that was not it.
Muslan was not merely gifted at instruction—he was strong. Extremely so. And he would only grow stronger still, for his internal energy was steadily accumulating into something meaningful.
“Liscal must be under heavy pressure from above. This kind of underhanded move isn’t like him…”
Obben muttered.
“I know. And it isn’t necessarily bad. In fact, it’s good. I heard quite a few nobles begin watching from the grappling matches. They throw silver coins from the start because of their pride.”
“That’s true. Most only attend the main events, but some do come early for the grappling bouts. That’s fortunate. They spend generously.”
“That’s why I think it’s good. I’ll earn more than before. As you know, my body price is very high.”
Muslan’s body price had been set far above that of ordinary slaves.
Gladiator slaves were already sold at high prices simply for possessing bodies strong enough to survive the arena. When the status of a fallen kingdom’s crown prince was added on top, the price soared beyond reason.
Even so, the current sum was not impossible to repay. If he kept fighting at this pace, he could clear his debt and shed his slave status whenever he wished.
Rumors spread that a major event was being held in the third district.
A grappling league for fighters under twenty was opening—grappling, not boxing.
While boxing matches ended when one fighter knocked the other’s upper body down with fists, grappling was far crueler. Any part of the body could be used. Even biting was permitted.
Only one rule remained.
Kicking the groin was forbidden. Not for the fighters’ protection. Matches had once allowed groin kicks, but they ended too quickly, so the rule was changed.
Still, telling men locked in a fight to the death not to strike the groin was meaningless. Therefore, steel groin protectors were issued for every grappling bout.
‘What did they put inside? The fit is surprisingly comfortable.’
Muslan wore the protector.
It closely resembled the modern version, except this one was forged from steel. When he tapped it, a clear metallic ring sounded. The design ensured that a misplaced strike would injure the attacker more than the target.
The added weight shifted his center of gravity slightly, but Muslan adapted at once.
Other slaves worried about his first grappling match, yet he felt no concern. In truth, he was more confident in grappling than in boxing.
“Muslan! It’s time!”
Muslan followed Liscal into the arena, still holding the wine bottle that was two-thirds full. By now, throwing the bottle upon entry had become his signature.
Clang!
When Muslan stepped onto the sand, drained the last of the wine, and hurled the bottle away, the stands erupted once more.
The introductions began through the amplification magic.
“The star gladiator of Dian Arena! Fists faster than lightning—Speas! And his opponent, the drinking boxer! The gladiator slave Muslan, former crown prince of a fallen kingdom! Today marks Muslan’s first grappling match! Enjoy the show!”
He had risen high enough to be placed in the main card, which usually featured only six matches. His introductions grew more extravagant with each appearance.
Speas fought in a state of mounting frustration. He had heard rumors of a mad caterpillar who fought after downing strong liquor.
Grapplers had dismissed the stories as jokes. Boxing and grappling were entirely different domains.
To them, boxing was little more than child’s play. Deaths occurred occasionally, but they were rare.
Grappling was different. Even if not as lethal as sword fighting, casualties were common. A fallen opponent could be struck, and every technique—chokes, joint locks—was allowed. Injury was expected; killing or being killed came easily.
So Speas laughed when Muslan drank and struck a pose.
He intended to teach the rookie that grappling was not the same. After all, he was a proper boxer who had already competed in adult divisions.
He had felt no tension from the start. Though only eighteen, he had fought more than thirty boxing matches and over twenty grappling bouts. Yet he remained whole, without a single lasting injury. That spoke to his skill.
Now, however, the situation unfolding before him was enough to shake that confidence.
Thud!
Another counter. A kick slammed into Speas’s abdomen. The blow itself was not heavy, but it carried a sharp, piercing sensation—like being stabbed with an awl.
It was only natural.
Muslan had driven internal energy to the tips of his toes. If it had not hurt, something would have been wrong. Later, a small bruise shaped like a toe would mark Speas’s stomach. That was how precisely the force had been focused.
Concentrated power was terrifying.
A human could die from a single misplaced needle. Though this could not pierce flesh like a needle, the damage still accumulated.
—Fuck! What the hell is Speas doing!
—See? Even in grappling, Muslan is still Muslan. I told you to bet on him! He’s about to finish it in one shot!
—Land a hit already, Speas! How can you not connect even once?
—You didn’t drink with him too, did you?
—What did you do yesterday? Why are you so sluggish?
Amid the jeers, Speas clenched his teeth. It was no easy task. Whenever he attacked, Muslan twisted away in an unexpected direction. If Speas pressed forward, Muslan simply dropped to the ground.
Speas specialized in standing combat, especially with his fists. He excelled at every range—long, medium, and close. His signature was dirty boxing: seizing an opponent’s arm or the back of the neck and pounding them until they fell. Once caught, the fight was over. He trusted his strength to finish anyone he grabbed.
Yet this opponent was unlike any he had faced. Muslan refused to stand upright. He swayed, dropped, rolled, and adopted bizarre postures that drove Speas to the brink of madness.
Drunken Fist.
Freed from boxing’s restrictions, Muslan unleashed the drunken fist techniques he had learned as fundamentals. To the untrained eye, he looked like a man truly drunk and brawling.
“Damn it!”
Unable to endure any longer, Speas made the worst possible choice.
He abandoned his distance and lunged in to seize Muslan.
Dirty boxing worked best when distance closed naturally during exchanges. Charging openly from long range made the intent obvious. Since Speas was no grappling specialist, the attempt was read instantly and countered.
He reached for the back of Muslan’s neck and nearly succeeded.
Thwack!
The instant his fingers touched, a strange smile flickered across Speas’s face.
But as he had already realized, this was a fatal mistake. With his arm fully extended and gripping the neck, he presented Muslan with the perfect lever.
Muslan drove his straightened elbow upward from below, using leverage amplified by internal energy and perfect timing.
Until that moment he had appeared limp and unfocused, eyes glazed as though he were not truly fighting. The instant opportunity arrived, however, the sluggish movements vanished. His gaze sharpened like a blade.
Crack!
A dull snap rang out. The cleanly broken elbow bone tore through skin and jutted free.
Speas screamed—a sound of shock and terror.
The arena fell silent in an instant.
In a boxing match the bout would have ended. This was grappling. The referee saw the shattered arm yet made no move to intervene.
Muslan did not hesitate. He had learned in the murim world how dangerous half-hearted mercy toward an enemy could be.
Whoosh!
He launched himself forward and drove his forehead into Speas’s face.
Headbutt.
The human skull was both the most vulnerable and the hardest part of the body.
Thud!
With a heavy impact, Speas’s jaw snapped sideways. He collapsed limply, mouth hanging open as teeth spilled out in a bloody cascade. Not only were the teeth broken—his jaw had dislocated as well.
Speas lay on the sand with a ruined face.
It was a horrifying sight, yet after a brief flinch the crowd erupted into cheers once more.
That was Airs.
No matter who won, as long as the victory was flashy and brutal, the spectators roared their approval.
Then came the rain of coins—countless silver pieces pouring into the arena like a glittering downpour.