Thamuz got back into the carriage, along with the sack full of food. He sat next to his father, and Armesto gave him a look of disbelief.

“Did you really give that girl a red pamtan? Just for that sack of food?” Armesto asked.

“Yes, I liked the taste,” Thamuz replied innocently.

“Well, I'm not against people spending their money on whatever they want, but that red pamtan was worth enough to live three lives in abundance,” questioned Armesto.

“Oh, really?” Thamuz asked, uninterested.

“You're not paying attention to me,” Armesto said in a grave tone.

“In a way, I'm not. I don’t see much importance in some pieces of metal that have colors on them. Besides, I can get back that precious piece for you all in the next shamonak fight,” Thamuz protested, his eyes beginning to shine.

“Fine, I like your lack of concern for this world's economy,” Armesto said, reclining in his chair.

The journey continued silently, with Thamuz pulling out some bhotmon and giving them to everyone in the carriage to try. They were immediately enchanted by the different flavors they tasted.

The carriage arrived at the combat arena, where once again the large crowd could be seen entering the stadium, this time with some holding a flag with a doodle of Thamuz’s face.

“Look, son, you're becoming popular,” Aolani said, pointing at one of the people carrying the flags.

Thamuz looked at the crowd, impressed by the sudden fanaticism they had for him. He firmly grabbed his sack and, with a leap, jumped out of the carriage. He covered his forehead with his hand against the blazing sun, watching as people entered the stadium while some turned to look at him, cheering and approaching him.

A large group surrounded him, chanting his name. Some children in the front touched his legs or hands.

“What you did yesterday was amazing,” said one of the children.

“Yeah, you’re my favorite fighter now,” added another.

“Thanks?” Thamuz said nervously.

A child approached with a stone container holding a burning flame inside. He extended it towards Thamuz, who was puzzled by this.

“What are they doing?” Thamuz whispered in his father’s ear.

“They want you to mark them with your thumb, like a signature,” Tawnylon explained.

“Well, I can’t break the kids’ dreams,” Thamuz said, trying to appear confident.

He dipped his finger into the container, feeling a searing heat that slowly diminished to a warm, comforting sensation. Thamuz took out his finger and saw it was very red. He looked at it for a moment and asked, “Alright, where do you want me to mark you?”

“Here, sir,” said a child, pointing to his forehead.

“Mark me here,” said another child, pointing to his forearm.

Thamuz complied with the children’s requests and began placing his thumb on the spots they indicated: hands, forearms, foreheads, legs. None of the children screamed from the searing sensation of their skin being burned, delighting in the mark left by their idol.

“I think that’s all,” Thamuz said, blowing air on his thumb.

“Thank you, sir,” all the children said, quickly moving away from Thamuz.

“Sir?” Thamuz said to himself, thoughtfully. “I’m only six years old.”

A hand grabbed Thamuz’s shoulder; it was Aolani, who had been watching the entire scene with Thamuz’s admirers.

“You may only be six years old, but look at you, you’re as big and strong as your father, even much more so than the fighters I’ve seen enter,” Aolani said, trying to motivate Thamuz.

“Yes, I see that, though sometimes I’d like to look like a child my age, to have that kind of fanaticism for someone, as if they were a star,” Thamuz said, holding his mother’s hand.

“Of course, you can be like a child your age, only others are not able to accept it, but in time they will,” Aolani said, squeezing Thamuz’s hand affectionately.

“Thank you for your words, mother,” Thamuz said, kissing his mother’s hand.

“Don’t forget your sack, you left it on the ground,” Aolani said, pointing at the sack.

“I almost forgot,” Thamuz said, grabbing the sack, “tell father to be ready to see the best fight of his life.”

Aolani nodded at Thamuz’s words, going to Tawnylon and holding his hand tightly, interlacing their fingers.

“I hope Thamuz comes out unscathed from this battle,” she said.

“I hope so too, though he’s too strong to get hurt,” Tawnylon replied, trying to calm Aolani.

Thamuz walked towards the entrance of the battle quarters, guarded by two guards, who looked surprised at seeing him.

“Isn’t that the fighter who defeated Bhogtan with just two moves?” one asked the other.

“Yes, don’t you remember? We took him to the quarters yesterday,” the other guard replied.

Thamuz stood in front of them, holding the sack in one hand, towering over them thanks to his great height.

“So, you have to fight again?” one of the guards asked.

“Supposedly, yes,” Thamuz replied.

“Well, follow us, like we did yesterday,” the other guard said.

The guards turned around, opening the door that led to the quarters, heading inside with Thamuz behind them.

The doors closed behind them, plunging them into darkness until one of the guards lit a candle lantern, raising it in front of him.

“We asked for oil for the lanterns months ago,” he said in frustration.

They walked through the darkness briefly illuminated by the flickering light of the lantern, passing by the cells of the great beasts Zarakel kept for entertainment, until they reached the cells of the slaves and the homeless.

“Alright, we’re here. Wait sitting in that chair, soon we’ll bring the one who will paint your body,” said the guard, pointing to a chair for Thamuz.

Thamuz went to the chair, sitting in it and placing the sack beside him, while the guards laughed at how Thamuz couldn’t fit in such a small chair.

“What a big body,” they laughed in unison.

Thamuz paid no attention to their incessant laughter until it stopped and the guards walked away, their laughter replaced by slow, resonant footsteps.

He looked back, seeing the same female figure covered in cloth. This time, a slight tear in her garments revealed the harshness of her situation. She was limping, carrying a wooden container with her.

"Hey, friend! Did you bring some food?" a voice whispered from the shadows.

Thamuz turned his head, searching for the source of the sound. It was the same emaciated prisoner who had begged for food the first time he arrived in this gloomy place.

"Yes, I brought some. I hope you like it," Thamuz replied, getting up from his improvised seat and taking his sack.

He carefully began to take out several pamtan, handing them to each of the prisoners who extended their bony hands.

"It tastes like meat," said one of them with a hoarse voice, devouring the content eagerly.

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"Mine seems to have vegetables," commented another, savoring each bite with gratitude.

The prisoners devoured the food fervently, thanking Thamuz in whispers between bites.

The woman covered in cloth approached Thamuz quietly. Noticing her, he turned his head to look at her. His eyes fell on the bruises that marked her face, visible despite the dungeon's gloom.

Worried, Thamuz immediately dropped the sack and crouched to get a better look at the woman.

"What happened to you?" he asked firmly.

"Nothing, I just fell and hit my face on the ground," she replied evasively, lowering her gaze.

"Those bruises aren't from a simple fall. Tell me the truth," Thamuz insisted, his voice tinged with seriousness.

"Don't worry about it, child. It's nothing important," she replied, trying to move away.

Thamuz looked into her eyes, searching for the truth in her evasive gaze. Although he couldn't force her to speak, his intuition told him something darker was hidden behind her words.

Without further delay, he took the sack and placed it at her feet.

"Here’s enough food for you and your child to eat well. Hide it carefully when you leave," Thamuz said determinedly.

"Thank you, thank you very much," she responded with a choked voice, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

Thamuz returned to his seat, silently watching as the woman approached with a wooden container in her hands. She dipped her fingers into the paints, mixing an intense orange hue.

"Does that color have any special meaning?" Thamuz asked curiously, as he watched the woman begin to paint his body.

"A lot," she replied firmly. "It represents the skill and hard work a shamonak fighter must endure to perfect their techniques. The circular shapes I paint symbolize the cycle and repetition, essential elements in our training," she explained, as her fingers traced precise lines on Thamuz's skin.

"I see, I think I’ve heard something about my opponent’s technique," Thamuz said, reclining in the chair confidently.

"Really? And who is it?" the woman asked, her voice laden with intrigue.

"According to a friend, his name is Khabixan, the fighter with the best techniques on the entire planet," Thamuz replied, watching as Gharta traced the last figure on his body with admirable precision.

A murmur of anticipation swept through the dungeon. The mention of Khabixan stirred a torrent of memories and emotions in the prisoners, who had witnessed his mastery in combat.

"I think I’ve seen him fight," one of the prisoners interjected, raising his hand to devour the last piece of pamtan. "I’m not sure if it was him, but the way he executed the holds was something out of the ordinary."

"Really?" Thamuz exclaimed, his interest piqued.

"Yes, he’s smaller than you," the prisoner continued, mimicking Khabixan's movements with enthusiastic gestures. "But I saw him throw a rival twice his size without any effort, almost as if he hadn’t touched him."

"Just like Narek said," Thamuz whispered to himself, recalling his friend’s words.

A deafening roar filled the room as the ramp opened suddenly, bathing the dungeon in blinding light. Most of the prisoners covered their eyes to protect themselves from the blazing sun, while Thamuz stood with a defiant look.

"It’s your time to fight, boy," the woman said, her voice resonating with authority as she stood up and directed her gaze towards the ramp.

Thamuz rose from his seat, stretching his muscles with precise and controlled movements. A crack echoed from his shoulder as he rotated it in circles, warming up for the impending battle.

"By the way, what’s your name?" Thamuz asked, directing a curious look at the woman.

"My name is Gharta," she replied, adjusting her hair with an elegant gesture.

"Gharta? A name as fascinating as you," Thamuz said with an enigmatic smile.

With firm and determined steps, Thamuz ascended the ramp, leaving the dungeon's darkness behind and entering the combat arena. The roar of the crowd intensified, enveloping him in a wave of energy as he searched for his family among the sea of expectant faces.

Thamuz spotted his family sitting in the same place, next to Zarakel. The latter wore a new gray tunic that covered almost his entire body, except for his head, which was painted with black spots. Sitting in a large chair, he examined a knife intently.

Thamuz directed his gaze towards the ramp that was opening, watching as two figures, one large and one small, blurred in the distance.

"Don’t overdo it with him, dear. Remember it’s only his second fight," said the smaller figure to the other in a worried tone.

"Don’t worry, I’ll finish him in one hold. I won’t extend his suffering," the larger figure replied confidently.

From the ramp emerged the imposing figure of Khabixan. Though not as tall as Thamuz (Khabixan stood approximately two meters), his body was slender and toned, contrasting with the average shamonak fighter’s musculature. His two frontal horns were of considerable size, with their tips pointing forward. His wavy hair framed his green eyes, and he walked with a nonchalant stride, moving his arms almost playfully.

Thamuz also began to walk, this time with firm and determined steps, until he reached the center of the arena, where he stood face-to-face with Khabixan. The latter barely reached Thamuz’s chest, but his gaze crossed Thamuz’s with an intimidating intensity.

The hooded figure reappeared, holding an even longer scroll than the previous one. His face, marked by scars, was glimpsed under the hood. In a grave voice, he proclaimed:

"Welcome to the second day of the shamonak to death. Today, we will witness an epic battle. On the right side, we have Thamuz, who defeated one of the strongest shamonak fighters with just two moves. And on the left side, we have Khabixan, the fighter with the best techniques on this planet. May Yhamataw and Azhamat decide the course of this fight!"

After the hooded figure’s retreat, a sepulchral silence took over the coliseum. The drums resounded loudly, and the crowd erupted into chants and indistinguishable shouts for Thamuz.

"Aren’t you going to dance like your opponent did yesterday?" Thamuz asked with some intrigue.

"I don't think it's necessary," Khabixan replied calmly, adjusting his hair with a nonchalant gesture.

"Whatever you say," said Thamuz, getting into a fighting stance.

Khabixan did not adopt a fighting stance, keeping his arms low and without a guard, staring at Thamuz with a defiant look.

"Come on, the fight has started, get into guard," Thamuz demanded impatiently.

Khabixan did not say a word; he just kept looking at him fixedly, with a slight mocking smile on his lips. Thamuz felt puzzled by this, taking some precautions.

"Don't say I didn't warn you later," Thamuz said, lunging at Khabixan with a battle cry.

A palm strike was the plan he had in mind, right at Khabixan's exposed chest. Just centimeters away from executing his plan, he felt a great force coming from his arm, lifting him into the air and slamming him into the ground with a deafening crash, causing the entire stadium to shake and some stones to fall from the stands.

Khabixan had grabbed Thamuz's arm just as he was about to land his palm strike with almost superhuman speed. He caught him by the forearm and, with his own overwhelming strength, smashed him into the ground like a rag doll.

Thamuz's head was embedded in the ground, with his body falling seconds later, lying on his back and motionless. Khabixan squatted down to get a better look at Thamuz, with a serene and confident expression. Noticing no response, he stood up and turned his back, ready to leave the arena.

"End this fight, he's unconscious," he said loudly, walking toward the ramp he had come from.

But he heard something behind him, the sound of stones moving and a guttural growl. He turned his head to see what was moving: it was Thamuz, his eyes open and a look of indescribable fury on his bloodied face.

With a quick movement, Thamuz lifted a leg, stomping it on the ground before rising quickly, as if propelled by a supernatural force. His arms were in a low position next to his head, which was looking at the ground, blood dripping onto the sand.

"Well, it seems you're quite resilient," said Khabixan, turning his body to get a better view of Thamuz and adopting a defensive stance.

Thamuz slowly raised his head, locking eyes with Khabixan. With a swift motion, he lunged at Khabixan again with a bloodcurdling roar, this time trying to execute a deadly grapple.

Khabixan stepped back, completely evading Thamuz's attempt to grab him with feline agility, taking advantage of the moment to deliver a palm strike to Thamuz's face with such force that a chilling crack was heard. Thamuz staggered back, holding his face, which was bleeding profusely.

"That was enough to break your face," said Khabixan in a serious tone of voice, making small jumps while keeping his left fist against his cheek, preparing for the next attack.

The audience, which had been silent until then, began to murmur and cheer. Some spectators seemed impressed by Thamuz's tenacity, while others debated Khabixan's skill with admiration. In the stands, among the crowd, a hooded figure watched with special interest, taking notes in a small notebook with a feather quill, their eyes shining with a mystical glow.

"Come on, son, don't lunge like that, be patient!" shouted Aolani from the stands with an anguished voice.

Thamuz heard his mother's shouts, turning his head to see her. Blood ran into his eyes, blinding his vision. His face was disfigured by the blows, and his skin was covered in wounds.

"Surrender, you have several mortal wounds on your body," said Khabixan in a disinterested tone of voice, this time lowering his hands, mimicking Thamuz's fighting stance in a mocking gesture.

"No, not yet," Thamuz replied hoarsely, coughing and spitting out a thick spurt of blood.

"I warned you," Khabixan said, shaking his head.

Khabixan lunged at Thamuz with lightning speed, grabbing his waist with a grip of steel. Thamuz tried to wrestle against him, but it was like trying to move an entire mountain. Khabixan's overwhelming strength was crushing.

Khabixan lifted Thamuz with immense power, as if he weighed nothing, and threw him with great force to his right side, making the combat arena tremble again and some cracks appear in the ground.

Thamuz lay on the ground again, gasping for air, trying to get up, but his battered and bruised body wouldn't allow it. A trickle of blood flowed from his slightly open mouth.

"See? Just give up," said Khabixan disdainfully, placing a foot on Thamuz's chest, pinning him to the ground.

"No, never," Thamuz replied weakly, trembling with immense pain.

"You are very stubborn," Khabixan said, with a look of anger and impatience on his face.

Khabixan took a great leap, reaching up to four meters in height, positioning his foot to land a brutal, dry blow right on Thamuz's head, breaking the ground beneath him and raising a cloud of dust.

Everyone in the stadium watched in horror as Khabixan had apparently crushed Thamuz's head with his foot. The fighter stood victorious over Thamuz's lifeless body, while Aolani broke into heart-wrenching sobs, and Tawnylon looked on in bewilderment at the fatal outcome.

"Well, you managed to withstand four of my techniques, I respect that a lot," Khabixan said in a low tone of voice, still with his foot on Thamuz's head, "but it was decided from the beginning who the winner would be."

Khabixan was about to head to his quarters to rest after an easy victory, but he felt something on his foot, a great force holding and immobilizing him.

He looked down, incredulous to see Thamuz grabbing his leg with his large, bloody hand, with superhuman strength. In his shattered face shone a look of indomitable determination.

"What the hell..." Khabixan said, unable to believe his eyes.

Thamuz immediately stood up with a guttural roar, gripping his opponent's leg tightly, lifting him into the air with a brusque movement and smashing him into the ground with brutal violence that made the entire stadium tremble.

Khabixan lay on the ground, gasping in unbearable pain, looking wide-eyed at Thamuz standing before him, imposing despite his mortal wounds. A sepulchral silence reigned in the stands.

"Do you surrender?" Thamuz asked in a voice that seemed to come from the depths of the underworld.