Chapter 3: Aflame

As he sat in the waiting room, Parth couldn’t stop himself from fiddling with the gauntlets. The proving ground was supposed to test the adaptability of the voyagers. It hadn’t even been an hour since he’d bonded with the gauntlets and he was already being tested.

It greatly confused him why things were set up this way. The dungeon was forcing them to fight, and the D’Raacs were helping them out. The teams and advisors and whatnot made little sense to him. He understood that they were spending a lot to ensure that the victims had a leg up when entering the dungeon. Just making a spectacle out of it alone might have been enough—all other complications were unnecessary. Maybe others would be pissed at the spectacle portion of it alone. But that was an aspect of fighting he was used to. He ultimately blamed Roul for not telling him enough.

Roul was right about one thing, though—Parth had gotten an imprint of sorts when he’d bonded with the artifact. He didn’t have a manual or any step-by-step instructions, but he instinctively knew what it could do. Anything more than that was left for the training phase once a patron picked him.

He would be fighting in a few minutes. Against whom, he did not know. The element of surprise hadn’t been something he’d needed to deal with over the last few years. For his professional bouts, all opponents had been decided beforehand and he’d undergone intense training camps tailored specifically toward fighting particular foes.

An unknown matchup took him back to his amateur tournament days.

Unlike his boxing bouts, one aspect of the pre-match jitters was absent. There was no concept of victory or failure in this scenario. Win or lose, he would still be picked up by some patron. The stakes were geared more toward his performance. But could Parth really tolerate another loss?

Others might be fine with just lasting the bout. Parth was not. He remembered his last fight. His losses, both personal and professional, had already brought him to rock bottom by then. Parth had figured that he could only go up from there. Yet he had still lost in the end, proving that things could get worse.

The feeling he felt now was eerily similar, and he rejected it. He couldn’t afford to go into this fight thinking that he had nothing to lose. This was a clean slate. No losses, no wins, no draws. Tabula rasa. He couldn’t afford to tarnish this new record with a fresh loss. To him, this exhibition match was more than just an exhibition. It was personal.

One thing that people overlooked about combat sports was that fear was an integral component. No matter the aggression, no matter the skill level, almost every single fighter out there had a part of them that was afraid right before a fight. How much, and which part, depended on the fighter themselves. Sometimes it was the fear of failure while at other times it was the fear of getting hurt. The instinct for self-preservation was humanity’s constant companion. More so for a fighter. Yet they fought on.

The fear transitioned into confidence and determination as the fight drew closer. It differed from person to person. Mike Tyson had said that for him, that moment was when he stepped into the ring. For Parth, it was always when the fight started. His fear of humiliation had long since disappeared, since that was the only thing he had experienced in his professional bouts. He had grown numb to it. Fear of failure should have been eliminated in this instance, as failure didn’t have concrete repercussions, but his personal drive to win made it hard to ignore. The last thing that remained was the fear of pain. That didn’t matter to him anymore.

Despite the strangeness of this whole experience, Parth could now take solace in the fact that he was in familiar territory once more. He took deep breaths as his feet began tapping the floor in its usual rhythm. He closed his eyes and leaned back, wishing that he had access to his playlist. He should have downloaded the songs instead of relying completely on streaming services.

It felt weird sitting in the waiting room without his headphones. Some pre-fight rituals were sacred. Then again, what good were they? It wasn’t like any of those superstitions helped him win a professional match before this. Maybe it was time to change things up.

As if agreeing with his thoughts, the buzzer blared overhead, signaling his turn in the ring.

Parth took another look at the gauntlets covering his arms up to his elbows. Their elegant design was aesthetically pleasing, and they exuded a comfortable heat that made his whole body feel warm. From the outside, they looked heavy, but he couldn’t feel the weight at all. It was as if they were part of his arms.

Without dallying, he got up and exhaled a long breath that felt more like steam than ordinary air. He could feel the temperature rising in and around him, but it didn’t affect him in any way. All part and parcel of the gauntlets.

He couldn’t wait to see what his relic could do. As he banged the gauntlets together twice, a shower of sparks sprung from the metal and swirled around him in a mesmerizing pattern.

He cut an intimidating image as he strode with purpose, fiery sparks dancing behind him. The eerie glow from the gauntlets added to the gravitas. This might not be his dream fight, but it was one he was finally confident about. He wouldn’t settle for another abysmal performance. Not anymore.

Within a minute he passed the hallway and faced the door that stood between him and his opponent. With a deep breath, he centered himself. He was going to beat them. He was going to win. He kept reaffirming himself with that thought as he waited.

The heat exuding from him multiplied as he gave himself the ultimatum. The sparks flickered violently in response to his thoughts.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

The door opened with a hiss, and he promptly stepped into the room. It was a brightly lit gymnasium with plenty of maneuverable space—significantly larger than the tiny boxing rings he was used to. He frowned. Just peachy. Sometimes, large fighting arenas were more of a hindrance than they seemed. The floor was simple concrete. On the other hand, the walls and the ceiling looked like they were made out of reinforced metal.

He knew that the place was rigged with cameras and all sorts of devices to measure his performance. He had been told all about it while he was in the waiting room. There might be no live audience, but the recording of this fight would go to all the patrons and advisors.

As he walked towards the center of the arena, a crisp female voice began talking over the speakers.

“Voyager Parthasarathy, congratulations on successfully bonding with your artifact. We are glad to have the new Pygilist in our midst.”

Parth made a mental note to talk with whoever became his advisor about his name. He’d rather them not butcher it in every announcement. He had a shorter nickname for a reason.

“Your objective is to fight a sentry golem. The fight will be halted after ten minutes if no conclusion is reached. Your showing will begin in thirty seconds. We wish you success.”

An overhead screen began counting down. At the same time, the door on the far end opened.

Parth gulped as he saw the thing walking towards him from the open door. It was an eight-foot-tall anthropoid made out of stone. The golem—as they called it—was masterfully carved to look like an armored warrior. He briefly wondered whether they had magically animated the statue, or if it had complicated mechanical workings inside.

It didn’t stick completely to the rock motif. A powder-blue light emanated from the gaps in its armor. Parth was familiar with the light, as he had seen the same illumination in the magical weapons that the soldiers wielded. That meant that there was a crystal core somewhere inside powering the whole thing.

His heart rate elevated as he realized that he was in for a slog. This was no ordinary opponent. If he wasn’t careful, the golem would absolutely demolish him. All it would take was a good punch to crack some of his bones. He reevaluated his fight plan at once.

He was scared. He wouldn’t deny that. Yet, at the same time, a part of him was excited. The newfound heat of his mana surged within him once again, responding to his agitated state. He looked at his gauntlets and felt a reassurance that seemed foreign to him. It was as if whatever fear he felt was gradually being burned away.

Thankfully, the golem did not have a weapon, though it had a tail-like appendage on its back. At least it was smooth and without any spiky protrusions.

There were silver linings to this. It could have had six arms like the D’Raacs. That would have been a nightmare to fight. With a clear head, he sized up his opponent. It would be a tough fight. But it was not unsalvageable.

The countdown blared over the speakers, but matching that noise were the loud thumps that accompanied the golem’s footsteps. The thing was clearly heavy. Half-hearted hits wouldn’t do anything to it. He would need to pick and choose his shots carefully.

Right as the timer whittled down to the last ten seconds, the golem halted its approach and assumed a combat pose.

In response, Parth took his orthodox stance. Left foot forward, both hands up. His left hand was leading a bit while the right flexed closer to the body, which was angled slightly towards the right, blocking off any avenues of a direct hit to the torso. He bent his knees and got ready.

The sight of the black gauntlets covering his hands did little to ease his trepidation. He took a deep breath as his heart hammered in its cage. The countdown was almost over.

Three.

Two.

One.

There was no bell signaling the start of the fight.

Parth didn’t move. He stood still on his toes, waiting for the golem to take a step. He wasn’t going to rush or probe unnecessarily with this sort of a mismatch.

He barely scraped a respectable six feet in height, while the golem was approximately two feet taller than him. It had the bigger range, so he had to get closer. He had to go for counters. The only way to land solid hits would be to get inside its guard. His mind went through all these thoughts in a fraction of a second as he kept his eyes peeled for an opportunity.

A few seconds passed, and it didn’t look like the golem was going to make a move.

He took a step slowly, guard still up. There was no reaction from the thing. It was an artificial being. There were no emotions on its face for him to gauge. He even wondered for a second whether it had malfunctioned. Nonetheless, he took another careful step.

This time, the reaction was immediate. The moment Parth was in range, the golem swung its massive arm at him.

He ducked the hit and took another step forward, getting into range. The golem responded by swinging at him once more. He slipped past the punch and dashed in, finally within punching distance.

As he prepared to hit it with a right hook, his eyes bugged out and he leaned back at once, dodging the stony knee that almost took out his chin.

The unexpected move jarred his rhythm, and he didn’t hesitate to jump a few steps back. He was breathing faster, his adrenaline spiking due to the blow that he’d only dodged by inches. A stone knee to the chin would have knocked him out or disoriented him completely.

He expected the golem to capitalize on the opportunity and go on the offensive. But it seemed content standing its ground and waiting for him to come within its range.

Parth mentally cursed himself for unconsciously expecting his opponent to box. There were no rules to this fight. Everything was permitted. He hadn’t really thought about using his legs as weapons. He wouldn’t do it now—he wasn’t trained enough for that. Doing it half-cocked against a moving mass of rocks was asking for his bones to break. He would stick to what he knew, but he would be on the lookout for strategies he wasn’t familiar with.

Once he centered himself, he stepped back into its range and immediately weaved away from a sweeping punch. The golem kept the punch going and twisted its whole body with a speed belying its stature.

Parth instinctively put his guard up and was rewarded for it the next second. He could see the tail swipe in his peripheral vision right before it slammed onto his raised arms with full force.

The resounding clang of the clash was deafening and he was flung a good distance away. Despite the force of the blow, he wasn’t disoriented, and he managed to land on his feet. He had slid backward due to the force but was otherwise fine.

He expected his arms to have fallen off due to the sheer force of the hit, but nothing had happened. There was not a single scratch on the gauntlets. Even with the hard landing, neither his arms nor legs hurt. As he glared at the golem, he once again felt the wellspring of energy inside of him surging in tandem with his emotions. The mana saturated his entire being. He felt stronger, and if such a hit couldn’t hurt him, he could fight more confidently. This was a feeling he could get used to.

“Just gonna stand there and wait, eh?” he muttered as he watched the golem. It was rooted to its spot, waiting for him to approach once more.

That wouldn’t do. He aimed to at least move it out of that spot within the next minute.

He fell back into his stance, consciously trying to manipulate the wellspring of mana within him. He took a deep breath and exhaled. As the mana surged, sparks flew out of the gauntlets and swirled around him once more.