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8.2 Arc 1: Freshly Isekai’d

Large rats scattered at their approach. Snow bit a too-curious one, marring her pristine white fur with a hint of red. She was quite aggressive for a fluffy, emotional support bunny. Reminded of her presence, Ranil took her in his free hand. She stayed still, unusually calm for the situation.

Ranil's steel-gray eyes slowly observed the two of them. His gaze was weighted, heavy, as if their fates hanged on Ranil's sole judgement. The air was thick with unseen tension. Then, rising laughter cleared it, mercilessly.

Bending over, the Great Master Suna Ranil could hold it no longer. The large man was defeated by a bought of unhinged, thunderous laughter.

"You even brought your pet rabbit you stupid, stupid brat! Is it a special guard rabbit? A hidden spirit beast trained to attack your enemies? A bunny guardian! Next, he'll get a sneaky assassin cow!"

Ranil's roaring laughter resounded into the quiet night. Not long after, three men exited the building to investigate the unexpected noise. They looked, perplexed, at the scene. A solidly built man, plainly dressed, laughing freely in the middle of the street, all the while effortlessly holding a rabbit and a frazzled boy. For no apparent reason. They dared not interfere.

A good while later, Ranil was able to calm down. He finally released Myrkas but kept Snow in his arms. The man distractedly petted her henceforth. Snow visibly enjoyed the attention, the unfaithful hare. Stuck, as he was unwilling to abandon his beloved pet, Myrkas stood at attention, awaiting his fate.

"You've got guts kid, I'll give you that. Come, let's see how long it'll last."

On that note, the group entered the building. The three potential henchmen followed closely behind. Inside, dim lights revealed a run-down tavern. The few customers seated were oddly sober for the late hour. The barman nodded upon their entry. He turned around and opened a trap door hidden in the floor. No words were exchanged.

A rough but worn stone staircase was found behind the trap, headed downwards. Ranil descended, expecting Myrkas to follow. Which the boy did, the three lackeys blocking any other way.

Once Myrkas passed a certain threshold, he was hit by a wall of sounds. Screams and shouts, hits and whistles deafened him. Names were chanted as feet pounded the floor in rhythm. The newcomers turned a corner and the view opened at once. The underground space in sight was much larger than the above establishment. A large cave—half-natural, half man-made—lay before them, filled with people. Men made up the great majority of them, standing, drinking, and chanting.

They surrounded a sunken, circular arena with straw mats buried under sand as its floor. In the circle, two stout men were fighting, one wearing red pants and the other black ones. Blood flew abundantly though stayed within the arena's bounds, as if by magic—likely by magic, upon consideration.

The fighter in red was breathing heavily. He was half-blinded, his blood dripping from a cut below his right eyebrow. The one in black was not in a much better shape. He favoured his left leg, his ankle red and swollen. Bruises bloomed on their naked chests.

The two ignored the pain, focused on their adversary. They circled each other, waiting for an opportunity to deliver the final blow. As if spurned by a silent bell, they both lunged. The red's fist collided with the black one's jaw. Rolling with the hit, Black Pants repositioned himself to the side of the red fighter. The man in red had overextended, putting too much weight on his right leg. The counterattack arrived, a black-clad leg meeting with an unprotected head.

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The red fighter fell, slamming the floor. He stayed down, barely twitching, mouth opened and eyes unfocused. The crowd went wild. Primal roars rose from over a thousand throats. Through the noise, faint wind chimes could be heard, activated by the rising thrum.

The standing fighter raised both arms in celebration and fell to his knees, exhausted. He soaked in his glory for a moment then joined the crowd with his own roar, a bestial cry from the core of his being.

Young Myrkas was transfixed, taken in by the intensity. He stood immobile, mid-stairs, breathing fast in his shocked state. As if hit by stray lightning. Myrkas' blood pounded in his ears. A raw, pulsing violence surrounded him. It stroked the boy's skin, enticing but not insistent; the surrounding energy somewhat sated for now.

Myrkas was caught by the wave. He pulsed with it, entranced by its lurking promises. He felt on the edge of something. The sheer power running through the room had put the youth on the brink, waiting for him to jump, either to ascend or to crash down.

Myrkas did not understand it with his mind though. The feeling resonated with his core being, with a pulsing sensation in his lower belly. The boy could see this mirrored all around him, most powerful in the winner's eyes.

A large hand slapping his shoulder cut his trance-like state. Myrkas' face must have been an open book, for Ranil was looking down at him with a bright, crooked smile on his hard, scarred face.

"This, my young friend, is Piercing Jade Valley's very own Underground fighting ring. Open only to a select few. A place where the rich and the future destitute mingle. Where fortunes change hands through the flows of blood. Where names are made and broken. A temple to the Glory of the Mortal Realm!

"All in the age-old tradition of ruthless unarmed combat. With very few rules. Low-blows allowed. Tricks encouraged. With carved formations and enchantments to keep it from the populace. And the imperial tax men. At least, those we didn't bribe," Ranil explained.

"Only one judge and arbiter matter here," the man continued, smiling throughout with a mix of affected nonchalance and badly hidden excitement. "You see the old man in white robes and a black kaftan? With the simple light-gray belt. Yes, that one. That's Old Man Chafu, the Boss, the one in whose hands all decisions rest.

"He's supposed to be two-hundreds-and-fifty-year old. They say he has trained the best fighters in this city.

"Anyway, matches are to surrender, knock-out or death. We try to avoid death or permanent injuries. It's bad business: a waste of good fighters. Unless the crowd is extra bloodthirsty, like tonight. Also, you know, accidents happen. It's why we got a doctor. See there? The guy in faded blue and green, the one with cranes on his robes and frayed edges. He's pretty good for a drunkard."

Master Ranil paused as they arrived at the end of the stairs, on the highest platform surrounding the arena. Despite his diminutive stature, Myrkas could clearly see the combat circle. The two fighters had exited and were back with their respective team. The medicine man gave the fighters only a cursory exam, as if the man in blue could not bother with the inconvenience of having patients. A lanky teenager was raking the sand. The surface had to be evened before the next bout began. Meanwhile, a few waitresses hurried between levels and platforms, selling as much food and drinks as they could in the temporarily subdued cacophony.

Looking closer, Myrkas examined this old Man Chafu. The bent, wrinkled elder was half-hidden by staff members, easily recognizable by their dark gray uniform and bored expression amongst the general enthusiasm.

The old man fitted the stereotypical image of an old master to a T. His balding white hair was tied neatly at the top of his head with a simple wooden ornament. Old Man Chafu even had the long, classic goatee associated with hidden martial masters.

Myrkas' anticipation grew as he looked at the old man. This was undoubtedly his chance to secure his key to unfathomable power: the tutelage of a hidden monster—ie old Man Chafu. Myrkas was ready to brave whatever quirky demands the old master had to test his prospective disciples. This was his chance, his opportunity. With a clear path to power in sight, Myrkas could not help but smile widely.

But before the boy could plan how to approach the old man, Ranil started to speak again.

"So, you like it, kid? Feeling excited?"

"Yes!" answered Myrkas, still envisioning his soon-to-be training sequence with the guidance of the Underground Master.

"Great! 'Cause it's your turn!"