The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the arena's cracked stone surface, turning the compacted sand into a furnace. The air shimmered with heat and the stench of sweat and blood. Qiang Ming stood at the center once more, chest heaving, muscles still humming from yesterday's triumph. Around the pit, the crowd swelled like a festering wave—faces painted with expectation, voices hoarse from cheering, hands slick with spilled ale and fresh coin.
Across from him stood his newest challenger: Korik "Ironhide" Maraz, a veteran pit fighter known throughout Slaughter Barony for his unbreakable defense and brutal finishing moves. In his mid-thirties, Korik's body was a living armor of old scars and tattooed baronial sigils. His squared shoulders and thick forearms belied raw power; his eyes—blackened by soot and malice—tracked Qiang Ming with the predator's focus of a wolf stalking its prey.
A jagged iron gong clanged somewhere in the shadows, its reverberation sinking into every bone. The Barons' pavilion—dripping crimson banners above—fell silent as Korik lunged first, boots churning sand. He bore down like an avalanche, gauntleted fists aimed to crush Qiang Ming's guard.
Qiang Ming sidestepped, muscles coiling like springs. He let Korik's momentum carry him forward, then spun, elbow smashing into Korik's kidney. A grunt escaped the veteran, but he didn't slow. Instead, he pivoted, driving his shoulder into Qiang Ming's chest—an iron ram that sent Qiang Ming skidding back, sand spitting.
A roar erupted from the crowd. Qiang Ming's jaw set. This fight would be different.
Korik advanced with a growl, fists banging like hammers. Qiang Ming raised his arms to block, the impact rattling his forearms. Each collision sent tremors up his skeleton. He answered with precise counters: a rapid knee to the ribs, a quick palm to the throat, forcing Korik's head back.
But Korik adapted. He shifted low, hooks snapping at Qiang Ming's knees, tripping him twice before the youth regained balance. Then, feinting left, Korik unleashed a brutal combination—uppercut, crushing cross, and a final hammer fist intended to finish Qiang Ming in two blows.
Qiang Ming ducked under the cross, rolled sideways, and sprang back to his feet in one fluid motion. He drew a deep breath, eyes flicking to the pavilion. The Barons' faces were stone-cold. No mercy here.
Emboldened, Korik roared, fury igniting his veins. He grabbed Qiang Ming's arm in a vice-like grip and swung him into the wall, head first. The impact cracked like a branch under weight. Qiang Ming collapsed in a heap, stars exploding behind his eyelids.
Korik approached, hammer fist raised for the coup de grâce. Qiang Ming's pulse thundered, each beat promising oblivion. Pain flared across his vision, but a single thought shone through: I will not die here.
He twisted, exploited the gauntlet's momentary imbalance, and snapped Korik's arm behind him. The veteran howled, stumbling forward. Qiang Ming seized his opportunity—he vaulted onto Korik's back, locked his arms around the older man's neck, and squeezed with the force of a strangler's hug.
Korik's eyes bulged in shock. He clawed at the sand, at Qiang Ming's grip, but it only tightened. Within seconds, Korik's struggles slowed; his body sagged limp, and he crumpled to the earth—dead before he hit the ground.
Silence stretched for a heartbeat—then, pandemonium.
The crowd erupted in a frenzy, chanting "Die! Die! Die!" as blood pooled beneath Korik's corpse. Coins flew like hailstones into the pit.
Qiang Ming staggered back, face pale, chest heaving. The weight of Korik's death pressed on him—a heavy stone of guilt and shock. For a moment, he froze, haunted by the veteran's final glare.
Then the roar washed over him like a tidal wave. The crowd's bloodlust, the Barons' applause, the clang of armor in the stands—all urged him forward.
He allowed himself a small, savage smile—lips wet with sand and sweat. The smile cut across his bruised face like a blade.
Xi Wo's voice boomed through the tunnel as laborers dragged Korik's body away: "Five more pints, Hammer Kid! You made them bleed good!"
Qiang Ming gathered the coins with shaking fingers and let the laborers haul him out of the pit on a makeshift stretcher. Each step was heavy, every breath ragged. He had won—but at what cost?
As he crossed the threshold back into the tavern's haze, he glanced back at the arena, where Quick-Scar Leitai knelt to retrieve his scattered weapons. The boy's eyes met his for a moment—equal parts fear and respect—before Leitai vanished behind the wall.
Qiang Ming swallowed bile, tucked the coins into his pouch, and stepped forward into the smoky haze of the Black Column.
Tonight, he would drink to Korik's memory—and to the savage path he had chosen. The appalling cheers of the crowd echoed in his ears: "Die, motherfucker, die!"—a chant that would ring in his soul long after the scars had healed.