“Now for your next bout!” the gypsy announcer boomed toward the crowd.

A wrinkled hand rose in to the air, stopping the announcer. The old gypsy walked onto the ring where Red was ready to depart from. Uncertain of the circumstances and the elder's unexpected entrance into the ring, the audience broke into a clamor of murmurs.

“Red Rumble, my boy,” the old gypsy said, smiling a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Old man?” Red said, stopping in his tracks at the sight of the withered gypsy’s approach.

“You’ve won your prize!” the old man cheered, a feigned delight sewn in the old gypsy’s words.

“I did, didn’t I? Well, it’s to be expected from the best boxer in the world, no?” Red said matter-of-factly while smirking, making the old gypsy grind his few teeth some more.

“You did, you did! But such meager crupels aren’t enough for a man such as you. No, why not make more?”

“Crupels? I want cold hard cash?” Red said with the thoughts of his boxers intruding once again in his mind, but then switched suddenly, and said, “I can make more crupels?” The currency used in this kingdom was what confused the boxer’s memories but made Red jump for joy.

The old man paused for a minute at the strange display, but decided to press on. “Yes, yes, Red. All you have to do is keep fighting for more prizes!”

Red was taken in completely.

His boxer memories became thrilled to keep fighting and Red himself, ready to make more money to live on. This was why his mother told him not talk to strangers. He wouldn’t be able to differentiate someone who was trying to help him and, like this old man, someone who was trying to hurt him.

The old gypsy grinned malignantly, “You got it,” he spoke softly back to Red.

The old man walked over to the announcer whose eyes widened at what the old gypsy relayed to him, but then smiled deviously in return. A smile similar to the smile of the old gypsy grew from the bald announcer's lips, his sausage like finger brushing his long moustache.

“Honored guests! We have had a change of plans,” the booming voice of the announcer’s words washed over those in attendance. “This boy before you is an up and comer, and with courage and conviction has decided to take on all challengers!”

The crowd became restless with anticipation at the announcement. How could a boy so young think he can fight each and every gypsy fighter and come out victorious? They were more doubtful than hopeful that they would be able to see a grand spectacle, especially from someone so young. The talented individuals of society were born and lived in high affluent places. Places like a gypsy bareknuckle brawls isn’t somewhere a special individual could be found.

“For Red Rumble’s next opponent: coming all the way from the hinterlands of the Herdon Alliance, please clap your hands for the gypsy with more muscles than you all have combined, Violent Vanderbelt!”

A blonde man with long curly hair and a thick, wide chin, walked out from the staging area where the gypsy fighters were placed to await their upcoming bouts. A confused look was painted on Vanderbelt’s face in his walk towards the stage.

“What’s this all about?” he whispered to the announcer as he got closer to the stage.

“We have a change in the schedule,” the announcer remarked back to him while grinning.

With a shrug and moving his head around for a few neck cracks to get ready, Vanderbelt jumped past the line in the dirt that marked the ring, landing and standing tall in the center with his arms raised. The crowd applauded rigorously at the sight of a familiar face coming out for the fight. They had seen this particular brawler fight numerous times in the past.

“That’s Violent Vanderbelt!” exuded a young man from the crowd, his fists clenched in anticipation, “He’s the man among the gypsy fighters that is known to have the strongest body!”

“I feel sorry for that youth,” an older audience member commented, gazing upon the young, tall and skinny Red standing across from Vanderbelt, “The boy has height to him, but that’s about it.”

“Yea, if it wasn’t for that, Frawt probably wouldn’t have lost!” another spectator spoke up, "Everyone knows Frawt is weak to tall folk."

Red heard their comments, but didn’t waver in his demeanor. He began to shadowbox in place to prepare for what was about to happen. His strange movements took some of the attention of the audience off of Vanderbelt. The curly haired gypsy’s eyebrow twitched in irritation at some of his shine being stolen.

“That boy said he could beat all of our fighters…” the announcer said only loud enough for Vanderbelt to hear.

“He did? Such an arrogant brat needs to be disciplined,” Vanderbelt responded, frowning while flexing his muscles, making them dance.

Satisfied by the fire he saw in Vanderbelt’s eyes, the announcer knew the old man’s wishes for beating down this upstart to be as certain as tomorrow coming after today.

“Begin!” he bellowed.

Red went on the offense as soon as he heard the announcer’s voice. Vanderbelt was ready as well, seeing Red make a straight line for him. He brought up a large hand into the air above his curly head, ready to drop it when Red got close enough.

When the distance between them grew short enough, he swung his big, hairy arm towards Red's head. With footwork, the young guy swerved his body to the side, allowing the strike to graze him before countering with a straight punch from his dominant hand. The fist landed squarely on Vanderbelt’s chin, but he was unfazed.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

“That’s all? With so much talk about beating all us brawlers, you don’t bring enough oomph to back it up!” Yelled the large man, he swung another punch in a looping fashion which was easily dodged by Red who countered again, this time with an upper cut.

As the fight wore on, Vanderbelt swung again and again, only to miss and be countered each and every time. Infuriated by the unusual movements from Red, he stood tall and stopped swinging punches altogether.

I’ll tire the brat out, he thought.

Red didn’t need any more of an invitation than his opponent opening his guard to start swinging hard and more rapidly in response. It was like an enemy army opening the front gates of their fortress, yelling for the opposing army to walk in, so Red could only oblige.

Red landed a series of rapid, consecutive punches on the same spot on the chin that he had been hitting the whole match. The chin was wide as a boot is long, making it was hard to miss. The giant gypsy raised his arms up in defiance to indicate that the punches didn’t affect him one bit, which brought on cheers from the crowd.

“Violence Vanderbelt isn’t human!” someone from the crowd shouted with shock and amazement.

“That boy is in trouble now,” another said, “He bit off more than he can chew!”

“Violence! Take his dumb head off!”

Vanderbelt stood there like a hairy statue while taking hits, smiling at the attention he was getting.

This is what you call showmanship, Mister Fola, his thoughts journeyed to the top gypsy fighter that once walked among them. Mister Fola was all skill with no pizazz, Vanderbelt was the opposite. Luckily for Vanderbelt, he had a strong body to compensate for his lack of fighting skill.

Vanderbelt was about to shout out words of ridicule toward Red when he suddenly felt his eyesight blur.

Wait a moment, he thought, am I being knocked unconscious?

He swayed to his side, almost falling down, but managed to balance himself before hitting the dirt floor. The crowd fell silent when they saw the giant gypsy teetering, not fully aware of the situation but certain that something was wrong with Violent Vanderbelt.

The curly haired gypsy covered his face in case there were more punches that were on their way to his glorious and heavy chin. But even with his arms glued to the sides of his face, a punch found its way from underneath and hit his chin again.

“Oomph!” grunted the giant gypsy loudly.

But these punches were so weak a moment ago!

Vanderbelt repositioned his arms in attempt to prevent blows coming from under him, like the last fist had done. Another punch hit his chin from the side through an opening his arm had left, and the world before the gypsy fighter became even blurrier.

What? Vanderbelt thought in disbelief.

No one can take that many shots unanswered, Red thought. The brain is rattled after every hit, no matter the amount of force. If that damage is accumulated in succession, the brain will be shook around enough inside the skull that it starts to lose focus, and then eventually, loses consciousness. And that’s science. The sweet science!

The foreign thoughts were teaching and explaining to Red why the man before him was beginning to falter. Red had no clue whose thoughts were whose any longer.

Vanderbelt, now panicked, simply ignored the rest of his face and placed both his meaty hands on his chin as he stumbled backwards, nearly collapsing dizzy. Red didn’t let up for a moment as he charged forward toward the lumbering giant. A swift one-two hit both blue eyes of the gypsy, causing him to bring his hands up to cover his eyes. In that split second, Red's looping punch arched across the air and landed squarely on the gypsy's over-sized chin.

No thoughts were left inside Vanderbelt’s head as he fell backward. He was already asleep, knocked unconscious by Red’s last blow. His muscular body landed in the dirt with a deep thud. The crowd hadn’t made a sound since they saw that Vanderbelt was in trouble, but after seeing the giant gypsy finally fall, they erupted with the sound of applause and cheers.

“He dropped him! The young boy dropped that big guy like a sack of rice!” A voice cheered.

“What a monster this young man is, and to think he has so many more years to come as a bare-knuckle brawler!” Another commented.

“My money’s on him in the next match, who’s willing to bet?” Some else said while waving a jingling purse around.

Red answered the cheers with one hand in the air, the sign of victory from the boxer in the foreign memories, which compelled Red to use the gesture.

The old gypsy running the event was pulsing with fury now.

Vanderbelt lost to a boy half his age? This cannot be! The thoughts in his liver-spotted bald head were frantic with disbelief and anger.

The announcer whistled in appreciation at Red as he spoke to the people around him, “That folks, is what we call here in the gypsy camp: a one-sided beat down.”

The announcer quickly straightened up and quieted when he saw the old man looking over at him with reproach.

“Send in the next fighter!” The old man shouted at the announcer whilst spittle shot out of his mouth.

“Do we give the boy some time to recover first?” the announcer asked, but didn’t say anything else as the old gypsy gave him another murderous stare, silencing him.

“Now, onto our next challenger!” He announced to the raucous crowd, still consumed by the recent fight.

They soon quieted after hearing the announcer, but some of them began to voice their concerns on Red’s behalf.

“Hey now, that boy just finished fighting but moments ago, let him have a rest,” spoke one man from the audience.

“Yea, give the boy a well-deserved rest!” agreed another sitting in the crowd.

“Let someone else fight for the time being!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” said the announcer being compelled by stares from the old gypsy to put up a counter against the people in the crowd trying to ruin their plans. “If you look here,” he gestured with both hands to Red, “You can see that he isn’t at all tired and ready to give it another whirl, ain’t ya boy? Are you ready to fight again?”

Red began to bounce on the tips of his toes while throwing out punches in the air. “I’ve been ready since birth,” he announced to the onlookers. The crowd clapped loudly once more at the young man that showed so much brass, tenacity and self-assuredness.

“This kid’s got stuff!”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Ya know, stuff!”

“There you have it! Now,” the announcer began again, “onto our next challenger!”

The night went on as each gypsy that was brought before Red was knocked unconscious into the dirt, one after the other. The crowd was completely sold on the young fighter now. None of them said another critical thing about the youth. Something about a young man with the strength to handle any and all challengers created a sort of heroic aura around him. The people in attendance set Red’s name into their hearts, feeling this to be the beginning of a bare knuckle brawling legend.

The old gypsy with a grudge against Red was no longer to be seen, and the announcer found himself a bit lost without the old man's instruction. He wasn't sure whether he should carry on as planned or declare Red the victor of the impromptu tournament that the elderly gypsy had set up with the sole intention of taking Red out.

He had no idea what to do.

When another gypsy fell, the announcer eventually decided to call the show off and award Red with a hard-fought victory as well as his well-deserved prize. There was no point in prolonging the brawls since the youth had already beat most of their top fighters.

With a flourish, the announcer began to end the show, “Good people of Soalde! It saddens me to announce the ending to our humble show by awarding our new star a well-deserved…”

But before he could complete the announcement, a croaking and aged voice spoke out from the midst of a clutter of caravans, “Hold it a moment, dear announcer.”

Out of the dusk and shadows the torches cast, the old gypsy that had made it a point to teach Red a lesson in humility walked out alongside a brawny man of medium height. The well-built man was masked with leather and metal, and in his exposed eyes showed that they were heavily veined and held within them a tinge of madness. If you listened closely, you might hear a low growl coming from the mask.