Myrkas kept light on his feet, his guard up. He easily settled into a basic stance. He moved as he had been taught, with instruction and muscle memory as his guides in lieu of fighting experience. The two opponents circled each other, waiting for an opening to strike. Aran seemed more relaxed than Myrkas as he lazily gauged his young opponent. Myrkas did not see the first hit coming. A quick jab struck his guard, almost passing through. He dodged the following right by a hair's breadth, and a high kick made Myrkas roll away. In retaliation, Myrkas attempted to swipe Aran's legs before standing back up, only to suffer a hard kick to his side for his effort.

Reeling from the hit, Myrkas still managed to stay upright. His breath short, he shuffled to the side while he gathered himself. Then, his anxiety lost and forgotten, the boy went on the offensive. He punched, and kicked, and struck at Aran, taking three hits for any one he connected to his foe. Myrkas shuffled away again and again, trying to make space between them, to be able to catch his breath and dodge at least some blows. He was being played with. It was obvious. Aran was chasing him slowly, like a leopard playing with his food.

Bruises started to accumulate on Myrkas' skin as the fight went on. Aran kept throwing Myrkas to the ground. Clad in the black pants, he didn't even bother to follow up with wrestling moves, preferring to wait for Myrkas to stand back up, and letting go of the presented opportunities. It was as if Aran preferred to keep from dirtying himself than to secure a fast victory. As if he was more afraid of sand getting stuck in "places" than of Myrkas himself. As soon as Myrkas was on his feet, the beating resumed, injuring the younger boy further. The ending was unavoidable, for no mouse stood to the cat for very long.

The sounds coming from the crowd were mixed. Half cheered every time Myrkas stood up, and half wished for Aran to quickly finish the fight, with some even screaming for the red fighter's permanent end. He was an easy prey to kill. Myrkas had no known backing, no protective Master to anger. No one had anything to lose from his death. No wasted investment to lament. Myrkas was alone, subject to the ambient, unrestrained blood thirst. He could feel it like a tingling haze on his skin, making his guts clench with trepidation.

For a heartbeat, Aran's eyes shifted, lingering on the side. Immediately, Myrkas tried to take advantage of his foe's brief distraction. He took a risk, putting his full weight in a devastating right hook to Aran's spleen. It partially worked. Myrkas connected his punch but was hit with a counter to his face. Myrkas fell back, dazed, and landed on his butt. As he regained focus, he heard Aran speak for the first time in their match.

"Sorry kid, but you are not walking out of here. Try your best to survive or your body will finish in a ditch somewhere. No one here will pay for your funeral."

Taunting done, Aran pounced. He rained hits on Myrkas, leaving him no opportunity to escape the onslaught. The training wheels were off and buried. Aran had unleashed. He was breaking ribs left and right. Pummeling Myrkas' internal organs as if the boy's inner flesh had personally offended Aran's dear mother. All the while, Aran smiled: a vicious expression worthy of any ruthless villain.

A brutal kick landed Myrkas on his back. His entire self was in pain, each nerve screaming from accumulated damage. Breathing hurt. Blood and sweat blinded Myrkas, the drops too numerous to be kept away from his eyes. His mind was blank. Pain and adrenaline had made him forget why he was there. Any thoughts of Qi or mystical revelation had fled his brain. The fight had become his all: his foe the only barrier to his ongoing survival.

In the background, Myrkas was vaguely aware he could have taken the easy way out. Surrender and rest, defeated, hoping for mercy from his adversary. His mousy self could have tried to bargain with the figurative feline. But Myrkas refused. Without knowing why, he instinctively chose to fight on. He did not know if it stemmed from foolishness, recklessness, or if Myrkas was just plain stubborn, but the boy was unable to give up, to surrender to his fate. A blaze raged within him, burning away any hints of surrender. Myrkas would win, prevail, and crush his opponent. He would stand back up as many times as needed. He would survive and stride onwards, one agonizing breath at a time, as always.

Myrkas' reach was shorter than Aran's. He needed to close the distance between them to have a chance at winning. He aimed to destabilize the taller boy by entering his guard. It was all or nothing. This time, when Aran attacked, Myrkas lunged towards him. As he did, Myrkas rotated a little, changing Aran's devastating blow into a grazing one. Surprised, the more experienced fighter hesitated, taken aback by the change in Myrkas' behaviour. With resolve suffused into his body, Myrkas punched in turn, landing a straight in Aran's solar plexus.

All air exited Aran's lungs in the immediate aftermath. And Myrkas kept on hitting, connecting punch after punch with some kicks in between. He gave back the hurt he had received, reaching deep inside his core being, to this bundled-up rage lying in his belly, for added strength. He was almost mindless in his frenzy. His entire being was solely focused on his foe, on inflicting as much damage as he could. Myrkas' will was set. It was fusing with his body, using his flesh to deliver his intent. Violence and rage were mixed with his stubborn desire to survive, to thrive.

Myrkas felt Aran weakening a little. More of the black pants fighter's moves missed. His jabs weren't as lightning fast, his kicks veered on unsteady. The sand was wet with their blood and sweat, with some of the coarse grains sticking to their skin and cuts. The cheers had risen to unprecedented levels along with Myrkas' renewed aggressivity. The deafening ruckus ebbed and flowed with the battle. It formed a primal pulse that resonated throughout the hidden cave.

Myrkas danced to the violent beat. It pulsed along in his lower belly. All had been reduced to blows, and giving more than he received. Something was pushing inside the boy, fed by the air of the Underground. Then, the world flipped. Myrkas suddenly saw the ceiling, with its colorful banners and lights. He had slipped, stumbled in the sand. He did not even have time to fall to the floor before Aran pounced on the opportunity.

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With fury in his eyes, the three-time winner lept on Myrkas and released his frustration on the smaller boy. Hits after hit landed. Myrkas was on the back foot, barely holding on, suffering from the raining blows. Still, he resisted. The smaller boy fought back like a wounded beast, not caring about blood spat or spilled. Myrkas held on, managing to cut his opponent's right eyebrow with a well-placed punch. Aran shortly paused after being half-blinded. It lasted a fraction of a second, just enough for Myrkas to catch a breath. Until Aran resumed his fury, with total disregard for the blood flowing into his eye. Myrkas moved until his vision swam and his body went numb, willing but unable to keep up.

Myrkas believed nonetheless. He hungered for victory. This was his moment, the point where he changed his fate. The start of his story. He gritted his teeth, ignoring the injuries he had sustained. Persevering through exhaustion. As was the way of Champions: peak cultivators and martial artists from fantastic stories. A faint smile tugged at Myrkas' lips despite his sorry state. This was the beginning of greatness.

The young boy used that trickle of bubbling power in his belly to last and retaliate. Few of his hits connected, but some did. The rush and satisfying "thump" was enough to keep Myrkas going. They fought. Again and again, they fought, with Myrkas revelling in each new bruise and cut he caused. A mouse he may be, but a mouse with teeth and claws.

One more second, then another, the boy fought. One more second, then everything went black as Myrkas' body fell forward, listless as a chiffon doll.

Silence dropped with his fall. It did not last long. The underground stadium soon erupted in cheers, Aran's name being chanted across the room.

It was done, and Myrkas had lost.

***

Suna Ranil examined the boy lying at his feet. The runt had lasted much longer than he had expected. Myrkas had surprised him. And his adversary. Aran had received a lot more hits than anyone would have wagered. Even now, post-battle, Chafu's latest pupil kept glancing at Myrkas' unconscious form. And every time, the bout's victor frowned a little, a feint change in expression from his usual stoic face. Undoubtedly, Aran had grown some grudging respect for the skinny but tenacious kid.

The youngling had shown he had guts, unlike his useless, late father. Myrkas had fought well, considering. Especially that last part. Suna had thought the kid would give up when Aran stopped holding back so much. Get hit for a few seconds then surrender on his knees, utterly humiliated. After all, the son of a coward was usually a coward, despite said progenitor being of the cunning type. Suna had even bet on the battle taking half the time it actually did. Though he wasn't so mad he had lost that bet. This outcome was vastly more entertaining.

It did, however, put Suna's plans sideways. Initially, all Suna had intended was to scare Myrkas, make him pee his pants a little, and drag him home to his uncle. Even better if the kid was crying and sporting a fresh black eye. A good lesson to save the boy from future foolish, ill-planned endeavours. To keep the baby snake corralled, less Suna needed to cull it. The scarred man hoped he would not have to shorten the kid's life. Myrkas could still turn into a useful serpent instead of a venomous one. Maybe even turn into a mythical winged snake, rising from his mud-filled bloodline, as unlikely as it was. His uncle, while definitely another cowardly one, was still a great alchemist.

But Myrkas had had a glint in his eyes in that damned alley. Something more than youth's stupidity guided his path, Suna was sure of it. That sense—and Suna's untamable desire to continue to hold and pet this incredibly soft and cuddly fur ball—had made him bring the kid here. Just to see if Suna might have a possible baby dragon in his hands. Barely hatched, of course, but a potential dragon nonetheless... And with the right guidance...

Suna shook his head on his musings. He should not get involved. The smart thing to do was to bring Myrkas home and walk away. Stay in Koriss' goodish graces. To not antagonize his main supplier and kind of friend. Suna did not need the headache. He was busy enough. Had responsibilities he somewhat cared about. Better not to rock the boat, even if he might leave this city to seek new adventures.

The kid was entertaining though... And Myrkas' rabbit was a delight. The way it wiggled its nose was so darn adorable. It did something to Suna's soul. Brought a peace he had seldom experienced in his thirty-seven years of life.

It would be a shame to let Myrkas waste his willpower on subpar techniques and Masters. The kid obviously needed a little bit of pushing to achieve greatness. The right kind of ordeals. Just enough to toe the line between grit and despair. With great discipline and a strong foundation, Suna sensed the kid could soar above The Heavens. Ascent to Godhood even. And bring his beloved Martial Master along. Not that Suna truly thought Myrkas could make it. The man was bored, that was all. With Kalor Hakhmir's death, town politics had quieted down. Suna missed the constant challenges and schemes to thwart. It was too peaceful. He had no excuse not to cultivate in his courtyard. What a boring state his life was in.

But the idea kept nagging Suna's mind. How delightfully ironic would it be if the Great Suna Ranil turned that piece of shit Kalor Hakhmir's "talentless" second son into a cultivator legend? The most amazing "fuck you," that's what. The tree growing from Kalor's ashes in the temple's garden would rot with resentment. It would be the decisive proof Suna was the superior man and cultivator. Add on father figure on top, why not?

Old Koriss would not mind much. The alchemist did not seem particularly attached to his orphaned nephew. Koriss hadn't taught Myrkas any alchemy or cultivation so far, from what Suna could gather. The old hermit was a careful sort, but even he would try something if he considered the boy his heir. Start his apprenticeship sooner than later. And if Koriss did want to teach Myrkas, Suna could still find ways around it. Lure the kid out at night with promises of unfathomable strength. A fire blade always did wonders on impressionable children...

The more Suna thought about it, the more the idea of taking his first disciple ever—the son of his late rival to boot—pleased him. A fresh pupil, spared from erroneous ideas about cultivation. Clay to mould to Suna's liking and likeness. Not one of his lazy-ass city guards, doing the bare minimum for their coins and to keep out of the Imperial military.

Suna would turn the kid into a killer. A vicious beast like his father, but brave and crafty–like Suna himself. And the man would enjoy torturing the young Hakhmir through the process. Not enough to maim or kill him, of course, Koriss would not let that pass. Just enough suffering to temper the forming steel and sharpen the blade.

Silently, Suna Ranil smiled an unusually wide and wicked grin. Its ominous air was not helped by its crookedness, brought on by the vertical scar on Suna's left cheek and jawline. Suna's right fang-like canine glinted in the low light of the cave. The white rabbit in his arms froze momentarily, triggered by her prey instinct. Minutes passed and Snow shivered in Suna's hold. Nevertheless, she stayed put.