As he finished his sentence, Master Ranil grabbed Myrkas by his collar and lifted him off his feet. Then, feet dangling in the air, Ranil brought the tween down to the arena, to the circle's edge.

Brokers were already taking fresh bets, the audience eyeing the boy as he was unceremoniously carried to his doom.

Ranil dropped him on the rock floor, right at the sandy edge. Overwhelmed, Myrkas stood frozen, too stunned to even try to escape. He was handed a pair of red pants and ordered to change. Still in shock, Myrkas complied silently.

"What's your name, kid?" a gruff voice asked.

" ... Kas?"

"What?"

"Myrkas'"

"Kas? Okay, we'll say it's Kassim then. We don't have one of those yet," the announcer said before turning back to the crowd.

The burly master of ceremonies then put on a short necklace. The simple appearing ornament rested directly on his throat, a choker of some sort. The next time the man talked, his voice boomed across the space, piercing through the cacophony.

"Gentlemen and not-so-gentle ones, I present to you our next fighters! In the black pants, a young horse trained by famed Master Back-Hand, here for the third time only and currently undefeated. Here he is, the one and only Aran Strike-Hand! Will he make his illustrious Master proud or will he tuck tail home? Will he show us the might of a stallion or the meekness of a gelding?"

A communal roar rose from the audience. It seemed the mere mention of Master Chafu's Dao name was enough to put the crowd on fire. They expected a good fight from the old man's protege. The lithe young man, Aran, saluted the crowd with a martial bow at each of the four cardinal points, before taking his place on one side of the ring.

"In the red pants, a brand new face! Here to test his mettle, his blood infused with the recklessness of youth. Will he survive his first trial? Will he rise above the odds and secure his first victory? Will he come into glory or exit on his knees? The one and only, The Rookie Kassim!"

The announcer took a short pause, letting the audience welcome a stunned Myrkas to the ring. As if on automatic mode, Myrkas mimicked that Aran guy and bowed to the four corners. He stopped then, frozen in place, his heart beating wild. He felt like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, unable to keep the show going.

"Odds are currently 8:1 in favour of black, gentlemen. Place your bets. Who will prevail? Who will dear Fortune favour? Whose face will rise and fall? Fighters! In position."

Myrkas stood in front of his opponent, still taken aback. This was not how his evening had been supposed to progress. His simple plan of achieving a "moderately dangerous good deed" had gone to hell in a handbasket. His self-appointed hidden quest to acquire a renowned Old Martial Master was similarly getting off-track. Myrkas had expected to merely meet the old man, charm him with his... cuteness? endearing incompetence? vast hidden isekai potential? Maybe, hopefully?

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Myrkas had hoped for a classic "acquire mentor quest-line" with items collection, quirky aptitude tests, and some signs of fate. He had not expected to be sent straight to the slaughter without even meeting the elderly Master. How was Myrkas supposed to impress Old Man Chafu, the famed Back-Hand, while being pitted against the Master's dear disciple? Myrkas didn't even get the chance to let his desire to come under Master Chafu's tutelage be known before the bout. This was a disaster: catastrophic circumstances.

Dread filled him. His breath quickened, He was going to die, Myrkas knew it. Sure, the young boy had some experience with fighting. Myrkas had had hand-to-hand combat training as part of his mandatory education. However, he had enough self-awareness to acknowledge that he wasn't a particularly talented martial artist. All to say, he wasn't anywhere near ready to participate in any kind of underground– quite literally–fighting ring. Worse, his opponent had several years, centimetres, and kilos over him. In no universe was this a fair fight.

Myrkas had thought he would acquire magic powers before he had to defeat an obviously stronger opponent. This underdog setting needed more balance. Less underdog and more protagonist's cheats. Myrkas should at least get a hidden trump card or an ultimate weapon in compensation for his lacking talents. It was beyond unfair. He wanted a "transmigration refund!"

But it was too late now. No more time to reflect on the ill-advised plan that brought him there. Myrkas had to fight. There was no escape. He refused to surrender. Didn't even think of it as a possibility.

He could see the silver lining. This was a great opportunity to improve. Myrkas only needed to survive... To toe the line in a bloodthirsty arena against a slightly taller and, barely, older fighter. Aran was just a tiny bit more muscular than Myrkas, and better trained, and more experienced...

Myrkas had gained a precarious sense of calm when he heard some jackass betting against the "red pants" survival. Not just for the boy's defeat but for his straight-up death. And with good odds too! The gambler would not make that much money in the advent of Myrkas' demise. Barbaric. The whole thing was simply barbaric.

Myrkas restrained his rising panic. No good would come from losing his senses. He breathed deeply and centred himself with meditation, and his mantra. Harder, better, faster, stronger. He focused on the feeling of the sand between his toes, and he let the ruckus vanish into the background. The smell of sweat, beer, and blood stopped bothering him. Myrkas could do this. After all, he was–almost–a cultivator. His situation could be worse. He could have been pitted against the brute who caught him and dragged him here. At least he had a chance, small as it may be.

Myrkas did not detect the same overwhelming pressure from his adversary as the boy had from Suna Ranil. Earlier, in the alley, Myrkas had felt as if he stood at the edge of an enraged volcano. A volcano ready to erupt at a moment's notice to devastating results. Myrkas had been powerless, only able to wait to be burned to ashes. With no effort needed from the volcano. The boy would have been collateral damage to the eruption, nothing more.

In contrast, Aran seemed like a mere tiger stalking his prey. Deadly, sure, but with a higher possibility to fight back on the victim's side. As Myrkas would.

Keep calm and fight on.

Resolute, he tried to loosen his limbs a little. Made small jumps, some shadowboxing. The twelve-year-old tried to come up with a strategy. Keep moving, and try not to get hit summarized it quite well. Myrkas ought to work on better battle plans whenever he found the leisure...

The atmosphere changed all of a sudden. The center ring cleared, leaving only three people standing on the sand: Myrkas, Aran, and Old Man Chafu. The announcer had retreated behind a carved line. The runes and small flags forming it shimmered with power. It created a slight haze above the circle's limit, akin to the disruption caused by heat.

Once everyone was in place, the venerable Master looked at each young man in turn. They were face to face, staring at one another with determined expressions. Satisfied, Chafu raised his hand, and the match began.