"The next fight is also certain to be intense! Hal and Mason, two of the most sought-after mercenaries!" the announcer's voice echoed through the arena, charging the air with anticipation. I swiped my hand to the side, signaling my readiness to leave, and made my way toward the locker room exit, my boots scuffing against the tiled floor with each step. The muscles in my arms flexed as I cracked my knuckles. It seems like we won’t fight anyone in our rooms. All our opponents are in a different place." I muttered, smirking as I glanced over at Vellin. "It'd be fun to destroy you in the finals, Vellin." He didn’t even flinch, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance, refusing to give me the satisfaction of a reaction. My smirk deepened, the tension building in the small space thick enough to cut. Just then, Ryan entered, moving quickly and nearly bumping into me as he crossed the threshold.

"Watch where you're going." I snapped. Ryan’s head shot up, and his eyes met mine with a glare so fierce, it frightened me. His jaw was set, and his face was hardened into a look I'd never seen before. The playful insults that had been on the tip of my tongue melted away. He was in the zone—a place even I wouldn’t want to disrupt. I ducked under his arm and continued down the narrow corridor that led to the arena. The closer I got, the louder the crowd grew, their excitement a wave that crested as I approached. I'll finish this quickly. The lights overhead blazed to life as I stepped into the open space, temporarily blinding me. I winced, blinking rapidly to adjust, and soon the blurry forms of the audience and my opponent sharpened into focus.

"Look at how wide his shoulders are! His arms are thick too!" The crowd sat in hushed silence. My opponent, Mason, strode out onto the sand. His hands raised in a tight guard as his eyes locked onto mine. Even though he was smaller, he was second ranked. "And there's Mason!" the announcer continued, as though reading the crowd's minds. "Now that they have both entered the arena, let me introduce them both!" His voice gathering their attention. "Hal," he declared, nodding towards me, "is the top-ranked mercenary associated with the Athal Mercenary Association. He has escorted and protected more than a few hundred clients, with none having been killed."

The crowd murmured, hanging on the announcer’s every word as he painted a picture of my victories. "He saved his employer from a hundred bandits at once. Let me drive this home—he protected his client, not allowing them to be scratched. He is known as the Wrecker." He paused for emphasis, the title seeming to roll off his tongue with weight. "His bets return one and a half." He then shifted his gaze toward Mason. "Then, Mason, the Horse." I watched Mason’s eyes narrow in response to the title, his body language speaking to his hardened battlefield experience. "The second-ranked mercenary with the same association. He partakes in fewer escort and protection jobs, but has amazing battlefield experience. He has fought for days at a time. His bets return twice. The slight underdog." The announcer raised his hands, a questioning look sweeping over the audience. "Mason is only five six, with Hal towering at six four. Can he overcome such a weight difference?"

The referee, standing firm in the center of the arena, looked between the two of us, his expression as steely as the fighters he was addressing. He raised his voice to ensure even the furthest rows could hear, "There are no rules. Killing is allowed. If you do not want to die, yell that you surrender." He paused, letting the gravity of his words settle over us and the crowd. Then he raised his arm high, signaling the beginning of the match. "Three... two... one... begin!"

I let my arms drop, relaxing them as I gave a slight wiggle, letting the tension slip away. Let's let the beast feast! Without another thought, I lunged toward Mason, my head lowered and shoulders angled forward, ready to plow through him. Mason shifted quickly into a Silat stance, his open palms facing forward, his body composed and guarded. The moment before impact, he sidestepped smoothly, pivoting with fluidity and keeping his gaze trained on me. My momentum carried me forward, and I skidded across the sand, planting my foot to dig into the ground and regain my balance.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Gritting my teeth, I curled my fingers into a tight fist, feeling the tension build through my forearm. I closed the distance between us in a flash, this time aiming a powerful left straight toward his guard. Mason’s arm lifted in a well-practiced roll, deflecting my punch with the forearm, absorbing the blow. Even through his guard, I felt the impact land solidly, and a faint bruise began to form where my fist had connected. Nobody can deflect my punches! But he’d managed, at least partially, to redirect it. His eyes flicked down briefly to the bruise, assessing the damage with a momentary glance.

I spun into a right kick, slicing through the air with intent—but my foot met nothing but open space. A miss. He’s slippery. I raised my arm high above my head and launched it down in a crushing hammer fist. This will hit him! The force of my attack drove my fist downward with brutal speed.

His arm snapped up, perfectly perpendicular to the ground, catching my hammer fist in a solid block. The impact sent shockwaves through his stance, causing his feet to sink into the sand and form small craters beneath them. I heard a faint crack—a bone shifting or worse. Yet, he didn’t flinch. Instead, his eyes darkened, and he looked up with a devilish grin, his voice low and taunting. "Thanks for underestimating me." Then, in an instant, his fist shot toward my abdomen, fast and sure. But at the last second, it stopped, hovering just an inch away from my body. Instinct took over, and I twisted out of the way, barely escaping the blow. His fist packed a raw force that sent a powerful gust of wind through the arena, rippling through the sand and reaching the crowd. The sheer force left me momentarily stunned. He absorbed my power... My Beast Instinct had saved me.

Seizing the moment, I reached out, and my hand closed around his face. His eyes flickered, but he retaliated instantly, driving his knee into my stomach in a rapid, brutal sequence of Muay Thai strikes. He fired knee after knee into my core, his strikes continuous. That tickles. I was focused, locked onto my target. With a final surge of strength, I propelled him back, carrying him through the air until his face slammed into the solid marble wall surrounding the arena. His head collided with a sickening force, the marble cracking. His face contorted against the wall. He was absolutely done for.

I slowly withdrew my hand, letting Mason’s head rest against the fractured wall, holding him there almost like a pin in place. His eyes never left mine, defiant and intense even in his defeat. I felt the adrenaline pulse through me, and I grasped my forearm tightly, activating Reinforced Fist to heighten the blood flow. A rush of heat surged down my arm, amplifying my strength. I met his gaze and said firmly, "My power has beaten your technique." His resolve wavered. Finally, in a voice edged with desperation, Mason shouted, "I surrender!" The referee stepped forward, raising his voice to seal the victory. "Mason has surrendered! Winner... Hal!"

The crowd remained silent, a quiet, almost wary tension settling over them. I could feel the weight of their stares, unenthusiastic, judging. I guessed they saw my strength as excessive or barbaric. They couldn't understand the world of a mercenary. They didn’t know what it took to survive. Still, as I looked at Mason, I felt a flicker of respect. Despite his smaller frame, his power had nearly rivaled mine, and that was no small feat. I stepped back and extended my fist in a gesture of respect. "I'm sorry for underestimating you," I said. "you showed me power that surpassed mine despite your small stature. You deserve the respect you've earned." Mason, still partially lodged in the cracked wall, glanced at my fist with a smirk. "I’m still halfway in the wall, asshole."

With a faint chuckle, I turned and walked away, letting the moment end. That's enough pleasantries. The announcer punctuated the moment with a professional analysis. "A very quick fight for Hal," he began, "but we all saw that one-inch punch. This came down to a very small margin, despite what the visible damage would suggest."