Drunken Reversal
He stood at the entrance of the arena.
The bottle still held about a third of its contents. That was the maximum Muslan could process at once through Chwihyeon-gyeong in his current state.
“Get in there. Hey! Don’t tell me you’re—”
The order came with an attempt to snatch the bottle, but Muslan moved faster. He stepped into the arena and drained the remaining liquor in one motion.
Gulp. Gulp.
Alcohol spilled down his chin as he drank too quickly. The crowd noticed the strange sight immediately. Every eye turned toward him.
“Is he drinking water?”
“That’s alcohol, isn’t it?”
“He’s drinking before the match?”
“Is he protesting so no one bets on him?”
“Can’t be alcohol.”
“Drinking water like that… he must be nervous as hell.”
Speculation rippled through the stands, but proof arrived quickly. Muslan hurled the empty bottle into the crowd.
Crash!
Spectators ducked as glass shattered against the seats and a sharp stench of liquor spread through the air.
“It’s alcohol!”
“That crazy bastard actually drank!”
“He can barely walk straight!”
“He’s lost his mind.”
Muslan deliberately staggered forward. He knew exactly what the crowd wanted to see.
He already possessed a compelling character: the former crown prince of the Maran Kingdom, now a slave. In his previous bout he had endured over ten minutes of punishment before turning the fight around. Today he intended to win while completely drunk.
The intoxication was real. His senses had dulled, yet that was only the beginning.
By the time he reached the center of the arena, half the drunken haze had already burned away. Power surged through his entire body.
Chwihyeon-gyeong was the Heat Yang Technique. It converted intoxication into heat energy that enhanced physical ability. With more than half the alcohol metabolized, his dulled senses sharpened beyond their normal state.
What kind of match is this?
Benzol’s face flushed crimson as he watched Muslan stumble toward him. He hadn’t touched a drop, yet rage had turned his skin bright red.
He’s really angry.
Excitement before a fight revealed inexperience. Even when excited, a fighter should conceal it. Showing it so openly proved Benzol was both green and young. He might be considered a veteran inside Catterphil, but that reputation ended at the arena walls.
With burning eyes, Benzol growled, “I’ll make you beg for your life.”
The threat was vicious, but Muslan ignored it.
Benzol possessed exceptionally long arms—ideal for boxing. They nearly reached his knees, giving him a dangerous reach advantage if he controlled distance well. His physique was solid and well-trained, his weight class similar to Bebo’s.
His stance differed from Bebo’s upright posture. One foot was forward, showing he understood footwork. An upright stance allowed easy side-to-side movement but hindered forward and backward motion. True fighting required mobility in all directions, so the staggered stance was correct.
Martial arts exist in this world as well… I wonder how refined they are?
The combat posture revealed much. The slight forward lean and lowered center of gravity showed Benzol did not rely solely on raw physical power like Bebo.
“No strikes below the waist!” the referee shouted.
This time the official was female. She wore armor, a sixty-centimeter sword at her hip, and carried a whip. She repeated the warning loudly.
“Zakru!”
* * *
Muslan continued his sharp analysis while maintaining the appearance of a man barely able to stand.
The crowd grew excited at the sight. Some spectators openly cursed.
“Damn it, I bet on that crown prince brat!”
“I never thought he’d come in drunk. Is he really this pathetic?”
“I bet too, you bastard!”
“This is infuriating. I should’ve waited to place my bet.”
“Benzol! Kill him!”
“Don’t count him out. He might land one punch like last time. The guy who bet on him before made a fortune.”
“That was only because Bebo was an idiot.”
“Exactly. Bebo and Benzol are different. Benzol learned real punching from Bascoon!”
The insults reached him, but Muslan paid them little attention. He had already read the arena’s mood and knew what the spectators craved.
Once the match began, the noisy crowd would fall silent. Unlike modern sports, these spectators watched quietly and repaid a good fight with thunderous cheers and money.
Most threw slans, though some occasionally tossed galands. The odd-eyed girl had mentioned rare cases of silver coins being thrown, but only in life-or-death matches between true gladiators. Such rewards were unlikely in the youth division.
Whoosh!
Benzol’s punch was clumsy for someone who had supposedly learned proper technique. It was better than Bebo’s wild swings, yet still rough in many ways.
The first rule of boxing was measuring distance. Despite his long reach, Benzol made no attempt to gauge it. Without proper distance control, reach became useless.
His weight transfer, however, was accurate. If the punch landed, it would carry his full mass behind it. The problem was the oversized motion. So much power was loaded into the shoulders that the trajectory became obvious before the fist even moved.
Easy to read.
Thud! Thud!
Muslan needed no large movements. He simply staggered as if drunk and absorbed the blows.
Bare-knuckle boxing in this world had no protective equipment. Skin tore easily. While bones and flesh took damage, brain trauma was less common, so fights often continued until both fighters were drenched in blood.
Even in Catterphil, fierce matches frequently left fighters’ faces ruined. Benzol bore the marks: a repeatedly broken and reset nose, and missing teeth.
Muslan’s face remained untouched. It did not look like the face that had endured ten minutes of punishment in the previous fight.
The same held true now. Benzol’s attacks were sharper than Bebo’s, yet they inflicted less damage. Muslan’s condition had improved far beyond the previous match.
Because he had formed a rudimentary dantian, his body moved with freedom. Minimal shifts could dissipate impact.
One-two straight…
A jab followed by a rear-hand finish. Landed cleanly, it could end a fight instantly. But Benzol’s version carried too much tension in the shoulders. Stiff preparation made the motion large and telegraphed.
Muslan read it perfectly and slipped his head back.
Thud!
At the same moment he drove a long counter into Benzol’s abdomen. The touch was light, yet carried weight. Unlike the fight against Bebo, this strike contained a trace of internal energy.
Why is that so heavy? It barely touched me.
Benzol’s expression tightened briefly, then he dismissed the doubt. The man in front of him was still staggering. He felt the solid contact on his fist and began hammering Muslan harder, ignoring the growing pain in his own stomach.
* * *
Most Catterphil matches ended within minutes, yet this one had already lasted over twenty.
Benzol’s stamina remained. Muslan recalled the spectators’ earlier words.
They said he learned real punching from Bascoon.
The true difference from Bebo was not the one-two straight. It was tempo control. Bebo had swung without regard for endurance; Benzol regulated his breathing. Even after twenty minutes he still moved with energy.
But limits approached.
To the crowd it appeared Muslan had only taken punishment. A closer look revealed otherwise. He had methodically damaged Benzol’s abdomen. The pain was becoming impossible to ignore.
Benzol tried to protect his midsection, yet every attack he launched invited a counter to the same spot.
Is this bastard really drunk? I can smell the alcohol… but his counters are landing clean.
By the time Benzol realized something was wrong, it was far too late.
After roughly twenty-five minutes the spectators also sensed the shift.
“That crown prince is ridiculously tough.”
“Not just tough—he’s incredible. He’s still moving after all that.”
“Was Benzol’s punching always this weak?”
“Benzol hits hard. He knocked out a barbarian bigger than himself last match.”
“Beating Bebo wasn’t luck after all.”
“He just has insane durability.”
“He looked ready to drop, yet he’s holding up. If he keeps this up, people will start cheering for him.”
“So what? He still can’t land a clean hit!”
“Who knows? He might turn it around with one punch like against Bebo!”
“You think that’s easy? If he does, I’ll throw a galand this time!”
The moment those words faded, Benzol’s movements visibly slowed.
The time Muslan had been waiting for had arrived.
He began preparing his counterattack—to deliver the reversal exactly as planned.
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