The Spinning Strike
Muslan landed several more heavy blows on the slowed Benzol.
Benzol’s guard had dropped noticeably. It was an instinctive attempt to protect his midsection.
As Benzol slowed and Muslan pressed forward, several spectators who had been watching quietly began to stand. They had sensed the momentum shifting.
- No way. Again?
- Benzol’s gotten way too slow.
- That crown prince guy looks fine, though.
- Did he wear himself out punching?
- Looks like it.
- Even so…
Whoosh!
Muslan lost his balance against Benzol’s sharp jab and spun once in a fluid circle. The motion looked like a drunkard suddenly twirling. It resembled a ballet’s single-foot turn. Completing the rotation, Muslan extended his arm and struck Benzol’s jaw with the back of his hand.
Crack!
A dull impact echoed as Benzol’s head whipped around and snapped back into place. In the modern world, this was called a spinning back fist. With body weight and centrifugal force combined, it was a one-hit technique when landed cleanly.
It connected perfectly. Clean enough that nothing could have been more precise.
Muslan hadn’t formed a proper fist, striking with his wrist instead, but it didn’t matter. He had channeled internal energy into it, making the blow rock-solid.
Benzol collapsed completely. He had lost consciousness so thoroughly that his ankle twisted at an unnatural angle when he hit the ground.
- What the hell was that!
- What do you think? He’s done!
- Get up, you worthless bastard, Benzol! Get up!
- Insane!
- Whoa, another one-hit finish?
- That crown prince looks scrawny, but he’s got a strong frame, huh?
- Must be. Otherwise he wouldn’t still be standing.
- That hit was solid.
- Being royalty, he probably ate well growing up.
- How can anyone be that lucky? He dodged, got clipped, and just walked it off.
- Benzol must’ve been caught off guard.
- Forget Benzol—look at the Basqun crew’s faces. They look like they just bit into shit.
- Whoa. It’s over just like that? This isn’t right. Seriously, get up.
- I bet on the crown prince. Guess I’m throwing my garland away—catch it if you can!
Many spectators shouted for Benzol to rise, but he never would. He had been perfectly knocked out. Seeing Benzol completely unconscious, the referee called the match.
The crowd erupted in thunderous cheers—louder than after the previous fight.
The money raining down into the arena was substantial—more than after the last match. To the spectators, this had been a dramatic comeback victory, so the coins poured in.
A full twenty-seven garlands. Muslan had earned that much from his second bout. Had he not been in the youth division, he would surely have taken in over a hundred garlands from this fight alone.
Even so, twenty-seven garlands was a large sum—money only veteran gladiators usually received. It could buy twenty-seven bottles of liquor. Muslan bought ten bottles with part of it. That would last until the next match.
With abundant internal energy he could have handled ten bottles easily, but his dantian had only just formed, so he couldn’t process that much.
He spent ten garlands on liquor and the rest on meat. Meat was cheaper than drink. There was no delivery system to his room, and since it wasn’t part of the standard rations, he had to go to the dining hall himself.
Though not as critical as liquor, he still needed to watch his food intake. His body was so thin that his muscles were barely visible, so he had to eat properly. Too much muscle had its limits, but none at all was a disadvantage in combat.
The dining hall was crowded. Interestingly, slaves and staff ate in the same space, though their menus differed.
“Just order whatever you want. Prices vary and you pay on the spot.”
A menu was conveniently posted on the wall. Unlike the dismal room, the dining hall was clean and offered a wide selection.
“If you want something not on the menu, you have to place a special order. Most dishes take a day or two, but some require up to a week. So I recommend sticking to what’s listed. Why?”
Without waiting for an answer, Liscal supplied it himself.
“Because plenty of men die before their order arrives.”
Liscal gave a chilling smile.
Ignoring the unnecessary information, Muslan ordered: onion soup and beef-rib steak. It was an expensive choice, but that didn’t matter.
Muslan felt he had chosen well. Steak was hard to ruin as long as the meat itself was fresh. Looking around, he saw many others eating steak, and it looked high quality. Though it had been a long time, he still remembered his modern life. Judging meat quality at a glance was no difficulty.
He hadn’t eaten much, yet he wasn’t particularly hungry. Still, the food tasted good—far better than anything from the Central Plains. Compared to modern cuisine it was inferior in quality, but that didn’t mean it lacked flavor.
The onion soup had a pleasant balance of sweet and salty, and the steak’s meat was excellent. The lack of a special sauce was a minor disappointment. Another small flaw was that it had been cooked a touch too long, making it slightly tough.
Muslan ate slowly, savoring each bite. There was no time limit.
While he was eating, someone approached.
‘He’s huge.’
Even seated, the man’s size was imposing. He stood nearly two meters tall, all muscle, with a neatly trimmed beard and clean clothes. He spoke without preamble.
“You’ve got a strong frame. But your technique is sloppy. For ten garlands I can teach you proper boxing until the next match. I’ll make sure you win for certain. Ten garlands. If you’re interested, come find me at the training ground after you finish eating. My name is Dus.”
“……”
Muslan gave no reply. Before he could decide how to refuse, Dus had already walked away.
Right after Dus left, two more men appeared. Carrying their own meals, they sat across from Muslan. They didn’t offer the same deal; instead they gave different advice.
One was missing a hand, the other an eye. Their appearance was rougher than Dus’s.
“You should think twice about Dus’s offer.”
“……”
“You could go. He does know his way around a fist.”
The one-eyed man spoke first, then the one-armed man, who had been chewing bread. He swallowed and continued.
“Still, even if you go, don’t pay him upfront.”
“Why not?”
Muslan finally spoke. Half his steak remained.
“Dus isn’t short on money. He earns the most among all the gladiator slaves under Roccom.”
“?”
“He likes men. That’s why he approached you.”
The one-eyed man and the one-armed man ate at an astonishing pace. Muslan didn’t fully trust their words. He had already experienced a strange new world; he knew how dangerous it was to trust strangers lightly.
“And if you want to survive the next match, you should stop drinking. If you can’t quit, at least cut back.”
That was the one-eyed man again.
“Yeah. Drink too much and you end up like me.”
The one-armed man raised his stump and laughed.
“I don’t know where that strength and toughness come from, but you’ve got talent. Once you get through the next fight you’ll have some breathing room, so try to ease off until then. I just wanted to say that. It’s a shame to see talented fighters go down for nothing.”
“Does something change if I make it to the next match?”
“……”
“See? I told you he wouldn’t know.”
The one-armed man grinned.
“Liscal didn’t explain anything, did he?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Slaves under Roccom get certain privileges after three consecutive wins. You’ve won twice now. One more victory and you’ll be able to refuse a match once.”
“Refuse a match?”
“Yeah. You can avoid fights against ridiculously strong opponents.”
“And you won’t be forced into unreasonable schedules either. Exercising that right lets you rest for at least a month.”
“Ah…”
“Liscal probably didn’t mention any of this.”
“He didn’t.”
“So come to the training ground. Even if you don’t take private lessons, you’ll hear plenty of useful talk there. The slaves share information among themselves.”
“Aren’t we all competitors?”
“Slaves under Roccom don’t fight each other much. Same goes for other arenas. Especially fighters who are starting to gain popularity, like you. That way the audience doesn’t get suspicious.”
“Then the previous matches…”
“Those were either independent gladiators or slaves brought in by other slave traders. Roccom owns the arena, so the fights happen here.”
In short: Roccom was also a slave trader. Because he owned the arena, other traders brought their slaves to fight there.
Muslan began to trust the one-eyed man and the one-armed man to some degree. Their advice about moderating his drinking was sound and practical. At least they didn’t know the source of his martial arts. He wasn’t the type to treat people coldly when they showed goodwill.
He still didn’t fully trust them, but the information they had shared today seemed genuinely useful. Much of it overlapped with what the odd-eyed girl had told him, so he felt it was safe to accept at least some of it.
The two men ate quickly. Even while talking, they finished faster than Muslan. Once done, they stood and left. Muslan remained to finish the rest of his steak.
After eating, he returned to Liscal. A young man stood beside him.
“This is Kenon. He’ll be in charge of you from now on. If you need anything, just tell him.”
Liscal said that and walked away.