The Bloodied Reversal
It’s fortunate that headbutts are forbidden.
The fact that his opponent wasn’t using them suggested he was at least trying to maintain some semblance of boxing form. Or perhaps headbutts were allowed but simply beyond Bebo’s skill.
No one bothered to explain the rules. That means they never expected much from me in the first place. I’ll have to look into this properly once the match ends.
Thud! Thud! Crack! Thwack!
Bebo kept throwing hooks with both hands. They looked somewhat clumsy, yet his weight shifted properly with each strike.
Even when the blows landed on Muslan’s guard, his upper body swayed violently. Was he simply reeling from the impact? No. At the exact moment his body rocked from the hook, Muslan’s hand shot out and drove into Bebo’s abdomen.
Tap! Tap!
The strikes were light, but damage to the midsection accumulated steadily. Precise hits built up far more effectively than powerful ones. Repeated blows to the same spot would eventually cause problems no matter how tough the target.
Muslan focused on the liver—one of the hardest areas to condition. The first few strikes might not feel like much, but the effects would inevitably rise.
Whoosh!
For the first time, Muslan slipped an attack. He had feigned a heavy sway only to evade the real punch. Bebo was beginning to feel uneasy.
Damn it. Why the hell won’t he go down?
In the youth division, Bebo’s physicality had been overwhelming. Whenever fists flew, he was always the last one standing. Yet the man before him was different. He looked like one solid hit would drop him, but he refused to fall.
Was he dodging everything? No—punches were landing. His frail body simply swayed dramatically with each impact. His half-lidded eyes and ragged breathing made it seem as though he might collapse at any moment.
Then why isn’t he dropping?
A strange feeling crept over Bebo, but he stopped thinking. The supposed former royal still looked far too weak.
Thud!
Bebo threw another punch. It was blocked again.
This time, however, something felt different. Instead of swaying back to deflect the blow, Muslan had stepped forward into the guard.
Urgh!
Bebo’s face twisted in pain.
Muslan had used an elbow guard, jamming his forearm against the opponent’s knuckles. Done correctly, it could break fingers.
Feeling the sharp pain in his hand, Bebo retreated. Muslan seized the opening and drove his palm into Bebo’s body once more—harder than before.
Bebo’s expression contorted visibly. Muslan immediately resumed his swaying, feigning a groggy state.
His martial school was the Drunken Fist sect. Practitioners of the Drunken Fist did not fight while truly intoxicated; they pretended to be drunk in order to deceive and dismantle their opponents. The more convincing the act, the deeper the confusion it sowed. For Muslan, who had grown up in the murim, faking a groggy state was trivial. From the very beginning of the fight until now, he had never once been in real danger, yet everyone watching believed he was on the verge of death.
Lesser fighters grew excited when they felt pain. Bebo was no exception. He charged in, enraged. Muslan lowered his stance further, protecting his face as much as possible.
Bebo began swinging upward from below, no longer caring about the pain in his fists.
Thud! Thud!
Everything was proceeding exactly as planned. With accumulated damage to the abdomen and no control over his breathing, Bebo would tire rapidly if he kept throwing wild punches. This arena had no rounds, no rest periods, and no time limit. Without recovery time, exhaustion would come even faster. Moreover, Muslan was deliberately absorbing the attacks while remaining clinched.
To escape this place, he needed popularity. He recalled the odd-eyed girl’s advice.
The crowd goes wild for blood. Even in boxing matches, the betting odds shift once blood starts flowing.
Crunch!
Muslan bit down hard on his tongue until blood flowed freely.
Biting one’s tongue caused considerable pain, though the old saying about biting it to commit suicide was nonsense. The amount of blood from the tongue was never enough to kill a person. Muslan needed that blood for the performance. He kept his head tucked low while Bebo continued hammering at his face.
Muslan let a trickle of blood coat Bebo’s fist, then smeared it across his own face as the punches passed. When his bloodied features finally became visible, the crowd erupted.
The sight of blood always excited them. Muslan spat out the blood he had been holding in his mouth.
Ptoo!
A spray of crimson burst outward. Gasps and cheers rose from the stands that had been watching in silence. This was the blood they had come to see.
“You son of a bitch!”
Bebo cursed as blood got into his eyes. It could have been called a dirty trick, but under the arena’s rules it was not a foul. To any observer, it looked as though Muslan had simply been beaten until he involuntarily spat blood.
Bebo pressed the attack again, his vision partially cleared, but his movements had clearly slowed.
One of the most effective ways to overcome a size disadvantage was to use the opponent’s own power against him—through counters. Muslan had been waiting for the perfect opening.
He swayed with Bebo’s next punch, offering bait while measuring the angle. To hide his true intent, he avoided taking any strikes directly to the face.
Muslan chose to catch the punch on his forehead instead. Pain shot up Bebo’s arm once more, twisting his expression.
Thud!
From that position, Muslan dipped his upper body slightly and drove a perfect body shot into Bebo’s liver.
A liver shot. A liver counter. A technique often compared to the pains of hell.
Bebo collapsed and never rose again. He rolled on the ground, clutching his stomach and writhing in agony.
The arena fell silent at the unexpected outcome, then exploded into thunderous cheers.
The crowd’s reaction was explosive, just as expected. An upset victory no one had foreseen had just occurred.
Those who had casually bet on Muslan for fun shouted in disbelief and began flinging coins into the arena.
One-slan coins rained down into the arena.
Eight galands and 780 slans. That was the profit Muslan had earned from his very first match.
Gladiator slaves could not keep the money they earned from fighting. As property, they had to keep battling until they won their freedom. Poor food, harsh conditions, brutal training—surviving all of it and winning was the only way to stay alive. Because of these conditions, most gladiator slaves did not live long.
Yet among them, a rare few lived in genuine comfort. They were the popular fighters whose matches drew hundreds of galands in thrown coins each time.
The arena followed an unspoken rule: no one touched the money spectators threw into the ring. It was considered sacred. Not slave managers, not owners, not even nobles or royalty could claim it.
That was why popular gladiators could afford better lives—better food, better clothes, better sleeping quarters—while ordinary slaves remained trapped in poverty.
Creak!
The moment the match ended, Muslan received treatment. The arena’s resident physician examined his tongue.
The medical facilities were predictably crude. There was no anesthesia. The only small mercy was that the needles had been heated over a flame to reduce the risk of infection.
“You endured that well. You’re tougher than you look.”
The physician chuckled as he spoke.
“How is he?”
Liscal asked.
“I stopped the bleeding and stitched it. If he’s lucky, it’ll heal.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“What do you think? He’ll die.”
“What about his face? Will there be swelling?”
“It’s fine. Heh. His skin is tougher than that pretty face suggests. He took a hell of a beating, yet he doesn’t even look like it. Was Bebo using wet fists or something?”
“With that build? Bebo’s punches were heavy enough.”
“Then this one’s just got thick hide.”
“So what happens to his face?”
“Why? Planning to eat it?”
“The master wants to know. He told me to ask.”
“It’ll look normal once he washes the blood off.”
“Tch… that won’t do.”
“You wanted him injured?”
“Might be better for the kid that way. So how does he survive?”
The physician gave Liscal a pitying look.
“Your questions don’t make sense. Do you want him dead or not?”
“Just answer. How does he stay alive?”
“I already did.”
“When…?”
“If he’s lucky! If he’s lucky, he lives!”
The physician shouted in exasperation.