In the center of the Arena, Isak overlooks the make-shift stage and examines his opponent. The man is a good head taller than him; harshly breathing, eyes unfocused and at times rolled back, showing signs that he might lose consciousness at any moment.

The crowd is cheering, shouting a few exclamations of annoyance and orders to get them already started at the fight. A queue already forms at the betting booth, people observing the change of odds and making some careful decisions. A few bet large amounts on the underdog — a man with a wounded face — in order to get some unexpected payoff.

Yet, regardless of the man’s wounds and afflictions, Isak doesn’t risk being careless. Ynneb is of a strong enough disposition to damage someone’s knuckles and get out of strikes relatively unscathed, safe from the deteriorating appearance of his face.

After a while, Isak notices that the man doesn’t move or even attempt to make a step — just stands there in a half-crouched and exhausted stance, waiting for his move. There’s no point in wasting precious time, Isak decides.

He finally comes closer. Throws a few blows to the left and right. And as quickly jumps away.

The power of jabs was light, Isak being cautious to not inflict the same harm to his hand as the defeated man had suffered before. Ynneb hardly moved or even reacted. In his world of daze, he probably couldn't even understand what grazed his face at that moment.

As that test of reaction proved to be a success, Isak attempts to try once again. Now, with more power.

To the left.

And to the righ—

Isak coughs.

Bents over, holding his stomach as it uncomfortably pulses and spasms inside.

Regaining his senses, albeit not momentarily, he steps away.

Ynneb in front of him sways in his place, trying to find the balance.

A knee kick. That’s what it was, Isak figures. Being completely focused on some arbitrary rules, he forgot to be cautious of any other moves.

The crowd rages, welcoming the change of scenery from fist-fight to anything-goes. The conductor behind shows a half-smile, happy at the turn of events. Perhaps, it won’t end as it should. Or as it did. Long before.

Isak tries to gain control of the surroundings. The man opposite him is so close to dropping down that it would be unthinkable to lose at this point. Now, one more go at the offensive but with a better feel for range.

The creature of a juggler closes one eye and squints with the other, being scared of the possible scenarios of the current match. It watches as Isak strikes the opponent again, this time with a larger force. The head of the man wobbles back and he loses a bit of footing before being able to counter and react with any kind of unexpected move. The creature bites its tongue.

So, the man is still standing, Isak concludes. His knuckles sting a bit, but it’s tolerable.

He goes again.

And then again.

The same few moves and blows to the face, each having a considerable power. Isak isn’t of a fragile build and the guard training didn't leave him without any skills either, even though he hasn’t been on duty to maintain his form for some time now. There was no doubt that he could do some damage.

Yet, the man is still on foot. The face as bloated as ever. Sometimes, Ynebb would even smirk, his smile hidden under inflamed and irritated skin.

It isn’t right. Someone without training can’t take so much — nose bleeding, eyes bloodshot, skin rupturing at the brows, teeth broken.

Suddenly as Isak shooks his hands, ready to go for one more time, some familiar sense reaches him.

A sense of scent.

A smell of alcohol in the dampened autumn air.

Putrid and unpleasant.

He quickly looks around, trying to locate it. Yet, as if it doesn't have a location. It’s everywhere and nowhere. Or it’s only in his mind.

His breath quickens as his head feels muddled from the foul enclosure of that scent.

He looks at his hands, unclenching the fists and clenching them again, trying to gain control back. He overlooks his attire — it is soiled with his opponent’s drops of blood.

Ynebb doesn’t move.

In an instant, Isak remembers — his palms with drops of blood.

Stained clothes.

The fresh uniform and white blouse that got stained with red.

A night air in the dampened atmosphere after the rain.

Shouts in the nearest tavern as Isak followed his patrol.

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The yells of drunken fishermen and sailors.

Isak gulps and forces himself to get steady. He knows what to do. He knows how that night ended.

And how it resulted in losing his job as a town guard.

He just has to repeat it, is that it? He suspects.

Isak looks directly at the man, his gaze firm. He lowers his right hand just a bit. Ynebb sees the slightest change in Isak’s expression through the bloodshot eyes. It’s done now. A quick grimace of inevitable disaster flashed across the man’s unrecognizable face. But he doesn’t have the power to run. His legs are tied with exhaustion and hampered by the loss of balance.

And then—

The power of alcohol starts to wear out. The man won’t take it anymore.

The phantom of a juggler closes its eyes with both hands, whispering quietly among the crowd, “Oh no.”

Isak charges. And before a man takes a step back, a blow reaches the center of his chest passing through the man’s unstable and wobbling hand-guard stance. The nerves feel irritated from such a direct strike — it's as if he felt an explosion. A whole blast of confetti inside of him.

Ynebb steps back, losing balance. A few spectators almost get swept over before getting away from the man’s last stride. He comes short of the edge of the tent before falling on his back and rolling to the side in his spasms, gripping at his chest and not realizing what he witnessed and what just occurred.

Instead of a reddened skin at the chest of his disheveled and unlaced linen shirt — there is blood. And a deep, sharp wound.

It couldn’t be done by anything but a sword. Or a dagger. Or a knife.

But not a fist.

The crowd speaks in coarse whispers, seeing the finale. The hanging lamp on top of the tent draws an orange light upon the scene of the last minutes of this bout.

Ynebb clutches his shirt and rubs his wound, not believing that he sees so much red. Reveling in pain and only after a few moments certainly understanding — that yes, this is where it ends.

He beams through his bloated face, limbs already feeling numb.

“Tell my wife I left the stash in the sole of my boot,” he chuckles, showing missing and rotting teeth then lays his head back, slowly.

The crowd snickers at his final words. They were thoroughly satisfied — a great conclusion, ending in a permanent knockout and bringing some piece of tragicomedy at the very end.

Yet, for Isak, those words were not a laughing matter. They belong to the disturbed memory, a recent one but buried in order to forget and never look back on. Yet, he has to. He remembers that voice echoing through the night, with that same satisfied grin and expression as the dirt around painted in dark red under the lifeless body of a drunk fisherman.

* * *

It was a night patrol at the street of the closely stacked taverns. More than a week ago. A special kind of a night — Sea Bounty Celebration — an annual event when fishermen and the like would relish in this professional affair and say thanks to the presents out of the bodies of water, by which they earn their living. As the town of Evuitt is close to a large bank of river, there was no shortage of men involved.

And the celebration means — a night of drinks and commotion. That is exactly what Isak was in charge of observing and keeping watch as he walked in rounds across the street, hearing yelps, shouts, swears, curses and laughter from inside the taverns and inns. The fishermen were having a relatively good time, by the sound of it.

So far, there were no troubles. Except for a sudden large-scale fight in the inn called Hop’s Gift. The visitors turned to a sudden struggle over an argument about the best bait for the Julie-fish. A small fish with white stripes at the shallow waters, rare enough to be quite a delicacy.

Isak moved closer to the scene of uproar, if some serious trouble arose and the innkeeper would call for help — he would be there in no time.

Though, the fight just paused and came to a halt. The red faces of fishermen were glistening with sweat after that sudden physical activity out of pettiness and hollow anger.

One sailor came out of the inn, his face swollen after a few direct punches in aforementioned argument. Yet, from the amount of consumed rum and other mixes — the man could barely feel it. He regarded Isak with some hazy look before going away to relieve himself in the closest streak of bushes while humming some song about the romance of a pretty mermaid and an old fisherman.

After finishing, he pulled his breeches. Stopped his gaze on Isak once again, this time squinting his eyes at some kind of approaching — probably bad — idea.

“Hey, guard!” he shouts.

Isak turned around, the smell of the man’s breath reaching him. That of tons of alcohol on an empty stomach. He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m kind of… You know,” he hiccups, “out of resources…” He pulls his hands into the pockets of his pants, turning them inside out to prove his point.

“And…?” Isak specifies.

“Give the old man a coin… Just for one… or two drinks!” his voice fluctuates in tone. “Today is a holy day!”

Isak hesitated. After rummaging a bit in his pockets, he found one forgotten copper in the inner pocket of his coat and threw it at the drunk man.

Surprisingly, the man caught it. Turned it around, giving his eyes some time to focus on the object in the dark. “No, no, no…” he mumbled. “You seem like a nice boy, but that doesn't cut it. I mayhaps… need some… more.”

The drunk man went forward and trid to reach the purse at Isak’s belt. Startled by the unexpected movement, Isak managed to step back just at the right time.

“Please, just one more…” the drunk man pleaded again as he charged for one more attempt at the purse.

Isak shoved him back, not aware of what he might expect next from the drunk fisherman, “Enough already.”

The man wouldn’t stop, grinning and thinking it was some game of cat and mouse, trying to pull the belt as Isak stepped back further and further. One time, after feinting another pull at the belt, the drunk man kicked him with the knee, trying to get the purse away as Isak bent to clasp his stomach. Still, it was unsuccessful. A few times, Isak struck him in the already-wounded face, yet the man didn’t move and hardly reacted to it.

Isak was annoyed and wished for the situation to end already, yet the drunken man stirred some odd mutiny and fear inside of him. The same he once felt, when he saw the sights of his drunk father in days of early childhood. Due to that, he never liked dealing with the night strolls around the taverns.

“Oh, well…” the man said, looking somewhere far behind Isak. “I asked you nice… I’m not a person like that… but… didn’t want to do it on such a sacred day, but…” He draws a folding knife from his back pocket. Isak could see a few glistening fish’ scales were still stuck to the blade. The fisherman launched at him.

What next — Isak barely remembers.

The man lay on the grass, Isak’s sword through his chest. The drunk man was mumbling and saying something about his wife and a stash. Isak couldn’t hear as his temples were thumping, ears ringing, heart erratic.

The knife fell out of the man’s hand, revealing in the moonlight the hastily and untidy scrapped inscription on the handle — that of the name Benny.