Explosive Strike truly lived up to his name.
Every time he lunged at me with a punch or a kick, it felt like his muscles exploded forward with unstoppable force.
I ducked and dodged every attack he threw my way, but I had no real opportunity to counter.
The Painbound and Cruel Sigil spells prevented me from attacking—any strike I landed would reflect the pain back at me even stronger.
"What's the matter, Alen? Too scared to fight back? I thought you wanted to teach me a lesson!" Pesculo yelled sarcastically as I struggled to evade each blow.
His punches inched closer to hitting me with every passing second.
"!!!" I managed to duck under his next punch.
Now!
I threw a punch at his side, taking advantage of the opening.
"Hughk!" I gasped as I felt the strike echoed back onto my own ribs.
"Hehe..." Explosive Strike grinned grotesquely before grabbing me with both hands.
I tried to break free, but he lifted me effortlessly and began crushing my arms.
In desperation, I kicked him under the chin.
His head snapped back from the impact—and so did mine.
He still didn't let go. Instead, his grip tightened further.
Because of the shared pain from my kick, my vision blurred for a split second.
Still holding me in one hand, Explosive Strike began charging a punch with the other.
This was my chance.
"[Pocket Sand]!" I shouted, flinging sand I'd scooped from the ground into his eyes.
"Agck!" he groaned, closing his eyes—but that didn't stop the punch.
His arm muscles exploded forward.
"Blurgh!"
His fist slammed into my face with devastating force, sending me flying.
I bounced along the ground before coming to a stop on the far side of the ring.
Blood dripped from my mouth and nose as I struggled to my knees.
I turned to look at him.
He wasn't approaching. Instead, he was rubbing his eyes. The sand had done more than I expected.
I also felt the sting of sand in my own eyes, thanks to Painbound. And the Cruel Sigil should have made the blinding effect worse. But thanks to my class passives, my vision remained as sharp as ever.
I had tested both spells—wanted to understand how much pain I'd receive when I attacked.
To be honest, it wasn't too bad. If I pulled my punches, I could chip away at him slowly.
The problem? If I slipped up for even a second, I'd get caught—and that meant heavy damage.
If I were stronger, maybe I could knock him out in one blow. But I'm not that guy.
How about...
"Still overthinkig things? You truly deserve to get beaten up if you took none of my advice I gave you" Pesculo scoffed as he chugged from his mug, beer drops stayed on his beard as he yanked the mug away.
!!!
My thoughts were interrupted as Explosive Strike finally recovered and closed the distance.
I rolled aside and leapt up, trying to create space.
"Is that all you can do? Just run and dodge? And you're the one trying to steal my title as a lord?" Pesculo laughed maniacally, taking a swig from his mug.
Once again, the fight reset—he launched explosive attacks while I dodged and defended.
"Sixteen minutes passed, Alen. Tick, tock," Pesculo sneered, reminding me of the time limit.
I needed a plan. Fast.
Chip damage would work—if I didn't have a timer.
What could I use against him? His clothes?
Was there something in the game mechanics I could exploit?
Wait.
Painbound and Cruel Sigil—they're a deadly combo, whether used by players or enemies. If the bonded unit dies, the other dies too.
But... I don't care about sacrificing the unit fighting right now—because that unit is me.
I can afford to flirt with death—because I trust Zagressa to save me. Hopefully.
She might be a meathead. She might be a fool with a warped idea of what makes a warrior. But she wouldn't let a student die.
And if I can push myself that close to death, my options widen.
What's the craziest tactic I can pull off, then?
"I hope you're watching this, damn teacher," I muttered, narrowing my eyes at what he was wearing.
Using everything I learned from the [Crescent Moon], I focused on a single metallic button on his jacket.
After dodging one of his punches, I stayed close a moment too long—long enough to snatch the button.
I retreated a few steps and shoved the button into my pocket. Then I pulled out more sand.
"[Pocket Sand]!" I yelled again, throwing it in his eyes.
He roared, blinded once more, but still swung at where I stood.
This time, I didn't dodge. I blocked.
His punch landed squarely on my arms. The pain was so intense, it felt like they shattered.
I forced myself to fall face-first—my passive abilities made it harder for me to collapse, but I faked it.
"Spiritual winds… bless my weapon," I whispered the incantation for a wind infusion spell—just loud enough to activate it, not to be heard.
I reserved the spell, ready to use at the right moment.
"If you want to play dirty, Pesculo… I'll play filthier," I muttered, standing.
I had to choke him until he passed out. But with Cruel Sigil, I'd faint before he did.
That's why I needed a backup.
If my windpipe closed, I'd force it open—by infusing the metallic button with wind to slice a breathing path into my throat.
I tied the button to a string and gripped it between my teeth, making sure it wouldn't go down too far.
My legs trembled, hands shook, breath ragged.
Still, I ran.
Explosive Strike had just recovered from the blinding.
Before he could react, I wrapped my arms around his neck and locked my grip.
I kicked his knee from behind, making him fall.
He thrashed, trying to break free. But I didn't let go.
Despite the escalating pain, I held firm—twisting my body, locking my legs around him.
My throat began to close in response, mimicking his.
Breathing became agony.
"[Wind Infusion],"
I whispered so softly no one could hear.
I closed my mouth as the button began to slice through my tongue.
Before it could do more damage, I swallowed it, holding the string tight with my teeth.
The winds tore open my throat—just enough to breathe. Blood flowed, but air came with it.
"A choke? I give that brat ten seconds before he lets go," Pesculo scoffed to his men.
But I didn't hear them.
The world around me faded. The only thing that mattered was this hold.
I could breathe—barely—but my vision blurred from blood loss.
Still, I didn't stop choking him. My grip only tightened.
Seconds passed. Or minutes. I lost track.
Pain blurred everything. I didn't know if it was working.
For all I knew, I'd already died. This could be my final dream.
But I kept thinking. That meant I was alive.
I thought about how I could've attacked Pesculo instead, damn the consequences. But innocents might've been hurt.
I could've abused my silent spellcasting, using things like Wind Hammer, but the pain reflection might've overwhelmed me.
Strategizing now won't help me... I just... have to keep... doing what I need to do... and... maybe...
W-why is... why did he suddenly stop moving...?
This feeling... it's the same as when I forced myself to stay awake through pain to skip tiers. The same pain I felt when I used that necklace against the lich.
I'm staying alive—awake—purely because of the constant pain I'm inflicting on myself. If not for that, I would've lost consciousness long ago.
---
The arena fell into silence as Alen held Explosive Strike down.
Pesculo's predicted ten seconds had long since passed.
Explosive Strike had stopped moving. And yet, Alen still held him in a death grip.
"Little man..." Little Bear whispered, eyes fixed on the boy lying on the ground.
He wasn't the only one watching. Snap, the Lord of the South, the Lord of the East—everyone was present in the western arena, bearing witness to the fight.
They all knew the rules West had put in place. But none of them could act.
Stepping in now would ignite a territory war no lord could afford, and no fighter would want to be part of.
Snap's fists clenched at the sight of the boy attempting such a reckless, impossible tactic. No one in their right mind would have gone for a choke in those conditions—it was a battle no one was supposed to win.
Yet there was Alen, betting everything on a madman's plan.
The silence shattered with a sharp tch from one of the lords.
"Such a barbaric way to fight. I made the right call not choosing either of those kids," East muttered, shaking his head slowly.
"What now, West?" Lady South asked firmly. "Both your fighter and the challenger are down. What happens next?"
West flinched, glaring at both lords with a mixture of hatred and desperation.
"Do you doubt my strongest fighter?" he snapped. "You know how he is. The man can barely manage walking and breathing at the same time. He's brain-dead, trained to follow orders. That's how I raised him."
He spoke with venom, trying to justify the fact that his so-called champion now lay motionless on the arena floor.
Pesculo entered the ring and slowly approached the two fighters.
Neither had moved for a while.
He couldn't believe what he was seeing—his fighter, defeated by a kid who dared defy him.
He refused to accept it.
"Get up, you worthless sack of meat!" Pesculo shouted, stomping on Explosive Strike's stomach.
The fighter's body gave a small flinch—but he didn't move.
He wasn't breathing. Eyes shut. Completely still.
"No! This can't be happening! You didn't lose to some brat!" Pesculo howled, kicking his fighter again. And again.
Then he turned his fury on Alen.
"And you..." he snarled, locking eyes with the boy. "You've ruined this night for me!"
Little Bear and Snap readied themselves to jump into the ring and protect the boy.
But—
"Hurghk!"
Pesculo suddenly doubled over, the air ripped from his lungs.
He had been punched in the gut—by none other than the boy who'd ruined his night.
Alen.
Pesculo fell to his knees, clutching his stomach.
"Blergh—" Alen vomited blood onto the arena floor, the sound grotesque and wet.
"You... shitty old man... I... I won..." he muttered.
Gasps echoed through the crowd—lords, fighters, spectators, even Pesculo's own men—all stared, wide-eyed.
They had just watched a bloodied kid rise from what looked like certain death to strike down a lord.
"No way..." Lady South whispered in disbelief.
"No... you..." Pesculo stammered, his words failing him. The shock had hit him harder than the punch.
"I won... I knocked that guy out... won the bet... I... am the new lord..." Alen said, every breath labored.
He looked like he might pass out at any second—but the will to prove himself to Pesculo kept him going.
"No... NO! You cheated! There's no way a brat like y—"
He didn't finish.
Alen collapsed forward.
His body hit the arena floor like a lifeless corpse. If not for the faint, almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest, anyone watching would have assumed he had died.