The Prince's Deception
The crowd's disappointment was plain as they watched Muslan. His frame looked utterly out of place in the arena.
"A fallen crown prince, they say. Maybe dying will set him apart. Who knows? He might even thrash around to avenge his country."
"Please. Look at that body. He'll be lucky if he doesn't beg for his life."
"That could be entertaining. With a face like his, plenty of women would enjoy seeing him cry."
"True. Where else can you watch a crown prince's tears?"
"Now that you mention it, the arena picked a fine match for the opening bout. Something this amusing before the main event."
"Exactly. When else will we see a fallen prince beaten to death? That alone will be worth watching."
"Bebo's a vicious one. After this, I doubt anyone will recognize his face."
Mockery and jeers erupted from the stands.
The Catterfil bout was merely the opener, staged to warm up the crowd before the main event. Arenas typically featured boys' boxing matches for the opening and saved gladiatorial or wrestling bouts for the main card. As a result, openers rarely drew large audiences.
Today was different. Word had spread that a fallen crown prince would fight, drawing a sizable crowd.
Muslan scanned his opponent as he approached.
Height around 172 centimeters. Weight near 80 kilograms. In fighting terms, somewhere between middleweight and welterweight. No weight-cutting involved, so this was his natural build.
At 172 centimeters and roughly 80 kilograms, the man possessed an enviable physique. In a real bout he could comfortably compete at featherweight or lightweight. His muscles lacked the sharp definition of modern fighters, carrying a modest layer of fat, yet he still looked every bit the brawler.
Muslan, by contrast, stood about 179 centimeters tall and weighed barely 60 kilograms. His frame was visibly gaunt.
If I'm not careful, one solid hit could end this.
A twenty-kilogram weight difference was difficult to overcome with skill alone. The saving grace was that this was a boxing match.
Had it been a full-contact bout allowing grapples and throws, Muslan would have been far more tense. Twenty kilograms in such a contest was nearly insurmountable.
How skilled is he?
This world's boxing differed greatly from the modern sport.
Gloves were not used. Gloves protected the hands while also making it easier to rattle the brain and produce knockouts. Striking the skull bare-knuckled was no simple task.
It was far easier to injure one's own fist against a hard skull. Even with gloves, fractured knuckles occurred regularly in combat sports.
Here, fighters wore nothing at all. Not even the common hand wraps. Pure bare-knuckle fighting.
Bebo claimed the center of the arena with a confident stance. He had not adopted a proper guard. His feet were not positioned in the modern fighting posture with one forward.
No footwork to speak of.
He stood square to his opponent. Some martial arts used that stance, yet almost none emphasized mobile footwork from it. With both feet level, shifting weight and stepping became awkward.
Muslan realized the local boxing might consist of little more than close-range slugfests. He could not be certain, however. Perhaps his opponent had never learned proper technique. Or perhaps Bebo simply viewed him as no threat.
"No strikes below the belt. Fight until one of you yields. Understood?"
After the announcement the referee raised his whip, cracked it sharply against the ground, and shouted.
"Zacr!"
The word drew laughter from some spectators. In Muslan's former world it meant "just right." Here it carried a different meaning.
It commanded a fair one-on-one duel, fought to the death if necessary.
Thud!
The moment the match began, Bebo swung wildly. Muslan tucked his body and raised his guard, absorbing the blow.
The impact felt wrong. It was not a fist. Bebo had struck with an open palm. The referee offered no reprimand.
Does "boxing" here simply mean striking the upper body?
No one had even explained the rules!
Irritation flickered through Muslan. Because no one expected him to fight properly, they had not bothered to inform him.
Bebo's indiscriminate assault continued. He slapped with both hands as though striking cheeks, then drove a fist into the abdomen.
Muslan timed his breathing perfectly, bracing his core to minimize the damage while slipping backward. Abdominal strikes lost much of their force when met with proper tension and exhalation, a technique used by seasoned martial artists. Combined with subtle deflection, the impact became surprisingly manageable.
The bout appeared completely one-sided. Bebo attacked relentlessly while Muslan kept his guard high and focused solely on defense.
Boos rained down from the stands. To the untrained eye, Muslan looked as though he were simply being pummeled.
"Fight properly!"
"A crown prince who can't even throw a punch?"
"The title's wasted on you!"
"Fight back already!"
"At least take the hits like a man!"
Coins flew into the arena. One-slan pieces, the empire's smallest denomination. When a match grew dull, spectators sometimes hurled money at the fighters. Several coins struck Muslan's head and body. The referee ignored it entirely. Such treatment was standard for gladiator slaves.
Even free fighters received the same if they bored the crowd.
Muslan had already heard about this from the odd-eyed girl and remained unfazed. What mattered now was creating a memorable performance. To leave a lasting impression, he still needed to keep his true abilities hidden.
Calmly absorbing and redirecting the attacks, he began the slow work of dismantling his opponent.
Whoosh!
Bebo continued swinging with full power, convinced one clean hit would finish the fight.
That single decisive blow never landed. Muslan read every attack. No feints meant every strike was predictable and therefore easy to neutralize.
Though Muslan's body belonged to an untrained youth, the mind within belonged to a reincarnated strategist who had survived countless battles. He felt no fear.
Whoosh!
He pretended to take the strike while deflecting it with his guard, simultaneously slapping Bebo's abdomen with an open palm. Because it was a palm rather than a fist, the motion looked like desperate flailing or an attempt to push away rather than a counterattack.
The arena's vast size proved advantageous. Far larger than a modern boxing ring or even an octagon, it reduced the danger of being cornered, a critical factor when facing a heavier opponent.
Yet the open space carried one drawback: clinching was permitted. Fighters could grab the neck, the head, or pin an arm and strike. When Muslan refused to fall, Bebo resorted to this tactic.
My strength is far inferior.
Bebo seized Muslan's left wrist and hammered him with his free hand. The dull impacts echoed loudly.
Even while held, Muslan slipped the strikes with precise timing, demonstrating how technique could overcome raw power. Unfortunately, no one watching recognized the significance of the movements.
When the arm could not be pulled free, he redirected the force sideways or stepped into the punch. Then, using a joint-release technique, he effortlessly broke Bebo's grip. Bebo, ignorant of such methods, could not understand how his hold had been broken.
Muslan reset his stance, guard still high like a turtle's shell. To Bebo it looked as though he were saying, "Your attacks still frighten me." The slight stagger Muslan added made him appear even more vulnerable.
Your punches are terrifying, and I look ready to collapse.
The message was clear without words. Bebo could not resist charging in again, unaware he was walking straight into a trap.