CHAPTER 23
TOURNAMENT (PART II)
Mark stepped onto the arena floor once again, facing his second opponent of the night. This time, it was Li Cheng, a tall, wiry man wrapped in a flowing blue silk robe, gripping a long wooden pole. The crowd’s energy buzzed as the referee entered, standing between the two fighters and reciting his usual grim mantra about the duel being to the death. The crowd roared, and the referee darted out of the way, leaving Mark and Cheng to settle things.
Cheng didn’t waste a second. He lunged, his pole whistling through the air as it aimed straight for Mark’s chest. Mark raised his sword just in time to parry, the clash sending a shock down his arm. But Cheng’s pole was long, keeping Mark at a frustrating distance. Every time he tried to close the gap, Cheng’s pole would sweep down or stab forward, forcing him back again. The crowd gasped with each blow, the relentless pace thrilling them.
Mark changed tactics, darting to the side to throw off Cheng’s rhythm. With a swift sidestep, he slipped past one of Cheng’s jabs, swinging his sword in a quick arc. His blade slashed across Cheng’s chest, leaving a crimson line in its wake. Cheng grunted, a flash of pain in his eyes, but he didn’t back down. Instead, he tightened his grip on the pole, his expression hardening. He spun the pole in a sudden, vicious arc, and Mark barely ducked in time, feeling the pole skim his hair.
Cheng struck again, this time ramming the pole hard into Mark’s stomach. The impact sent a jolt through his core, forcing a gasp of pain from his lips as he staggered backward, clutching his side. Mark kept his stance, his eyes locked on Cheng. With a fierce roar, he lunged forward, evaded his opponent’s pole, and his blade sliced across Cheng’s face, drawing blood that trickled down his opponent’s cheek. Cheng stumbled back.
The two men stood still, locked in a tense stare, each waiting for the other to make a move. Suddenly, Cheng struck, swinging his pole with deadly force. Mark sidestepped to the left just in time, and before Cheng could react, Mark’s blade sliced cleanly through both of Cheng’s wrists. The severed hands fell to the dirt floor, still clutching the pole. Unarmed and bleeding, Cheng let out a scream of agony. Mark wasted no time – he slashed his blade across Cheng's throat in one swift motion. Blood sprayed from the wound as Cheng choked and collapsed onto the ground, lifeless.
The referee returned to the arena and raised Mark’s hand, declaring him the victor. The crowd went wild, chanting Mark’s name over and over. But Mark barely reacted. This wasn’t glory to him; it was just another job, a way to earn his pay.
He left the arena and spotted Connor, who was grinning ear to ear. “Another win! Well done!” Connor said, clapping him on the back. “This qualifies you for the semi-finals.”
Mark nodded. “I’m going to rest,” he replied, too drained to celebrate. Exhausted and covered in sweat, he headed to the nearby resting quarters for the fighters. Taking a seat, he gratefully accepted a cool glass of water from a server and downed it in one gulp, savoring the brief moment of relief.
Twenty minutes later, Mark was back on the arena floor. His next opponent: Vrathas, a towering, muscular man with a shaved head and a massive sword in hand. The referee stepped out of the way, and the fight was on. Vrathas immediately unleashed a flurry of heavy slashes, which Mark parried skillfully. But each swing grew more powerful, each blow filled with raw strength instead of finesse. Mark’s arms strained under the pressure, one hit nearly tearing his sword from his grip. When Vrathas swung again, Mark switched tactics – he dodged to the left, avoiding the strike, then countered with a quick jab at Vrathas’s side. Vrathas managed to turn just in time to block the attack.
Mark stepped back, but Vrathas charged at him, swinging his sword wildly from side to side. One powerful swing knocked Mark’s sword out of his hand, sending it clattering to the ground. Vrathas brought his sword down for a killing blow, but Mark rolled out of the way just in time, missing the deadly blade by inches.
As Vrathas charged again, Mark grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and threw it into Vrathas’s eyes. Vrathas instinctively closed his eyes, giving Mark the chance he needed. He lunged for his sword, gripped it tightly, and in one swift motion, swung it at Vrathas’s neck. The blade sliced cleanly through, and Vrathas’s head tumbled to the dirt as his body crumpled, blood pooling around him.
The referee strode over, raising Mark’s hand high. “THE WINNER IS MARK!” he shouted, and the crowd erupted in cheers, chanting Mark’s name with pure excitement.
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Mark stepped off the arena floor and spotted Connor waiting at the exit.
Connor was grinning wide. "You've made it to the final match," he said, practically buzzing. "With that show, everyone’s betting on you. The crowd can’t get enough!"
Mark sighed. "I’m not in this for the glory. Just the coin."
Connor’s grin shifted into something sly. "You must be beat. Look, I’ve got a little trick up my sleeve. A magic potion that gives insane stamina. If you drink it, you’re bound to crush the next guy. Not only will you stay alive, but you’ll rake in a whole load of cash."
Mark frowned. "I don’t know… it wouldn’t feel right. I’ve got my own code, and using magic to get an edge crosses the line."
"Suit yourself," Connor snapped, annoyed. "Just hope you can win without it."
Mark left for the resting area nearby and sank into a chair, completely worn out. Vrathas had nearly taken him out back there. If he hadn’t thrown that dirt in his eyes, he’d probably be dead. And now he was up against someone even tougher in the finals. Drained and sweating, he stubbornly refused to consider Connor’s potion. Tricks like the dirt throw? Fine. But magic potions? That went against everything he stood for.
Just then, a server brought him a juice. "I didn’t order this," Mark said, looking up.
"Our treat," the server replied with a smile. "For making it to the finals."
Parched, Mark gulped it down. It tasted strange, but it did the job. He sat back, hoping he’d have enough in him for one more fight.
Time flew by, and soon Mark was back on the arena floor, facing his final opponent: Harold. The man was towering, all muscle, even bulkier than Vrathas had been, and he wielded a massive hammer in both hands. The referee stepped between them. “Now for the final battle of the night!” he roared. “A! FIGHT! TO! THE! DEATH!”
The referee darted out of the way, and Mark readied his sword, shifting into a defensive stance. But then, a sudden sharp pain gripped his stomach, and his head throbbed like it was being pounded by a drum. His vision blurred, and it was hard to focus. Exhaustion, maybe? Then, it hit him like a slap. That slimy snake Connor had done it. Since Mark wouldn’t take the potion willingly, Connor must’ve tricked him with the server’s help. But wait – wasn’t the potion supposed to boost his stamina? Then Mark remembered Connor’s smug words about everyone betting on him after his wins. What better way for Connor to cash in than to poison him and bet against him? The potion wasn’t a booster; it was a trap.
Mark barely had time to process this because Harold charged, swinging his hammer. The air whooshed as the heavy weapon came his way, and Mark just managed to sidestep. Under normal circumstances, he’d have dodged easily, but now, with his head pounding and stomach in knots, every movement felt like a monumental effort. Another swing came down, and Mark blocked it with his sword, but the force nearly knocked the weapon from his grip, forcing him backward. Blocking this powerhouse’s attacks was hard enough on a good day – poisoned like this, it felt near impossible.
Mark gritted his teeth. There was no way he’d let himself die in this cursed arena. As Harold lunged at him, the hammer whistling through the air, Mark forced himself to sidestep, despite the gut-wrenching pain and the pounding in his head. He swung his sword at Harold’s arm; on a good day, he might have taken it clean off. Today, he only managed a shallow cut, but it drew blood. Not perfect, but it was a start, he thought.
Harold roared in rage and swung the hammer again. Mark ducked just in time, then drove his sword into Harold’s left knee. The blade sank deep, and when he pulled it free, it dripped with blood. Harold, furious and howling, swung his hammer straight at Mark’s face. Mark barely managed to jump back, the hammer missing by inches as he felt a rush of air graze his cheek.
The headache was unbearable now, and the stomach pain was getting worse by the second. Mark clamped down on his teeth so hard it hurt, clutching his sword with all his strength, afraid that if he loosened his grip, the agony would make him drop it. Harold charged again, hammer raised, ready to crush him. Mark took a shaky breath. He wasn’t going to die here – no way, not in this pit! He would push through this! His hands shook, cold sweat ran down his face, his heart pounded wildly. His head throbbed, his focus blurred, but he held on, refusing to give in.
As Harold charged, Mark mustered every ounce of strength he had left. He sidestepped left, then, before Harold could react, plunged his sword deep into Harold’s side, the blade piercing clean through and poking out the other side. Mark pulled the sword free, slick with blood, and Harold dropped to his knees. Gritting his teeth through his own agony, Mark drove the blade straight into Harold’s chest. When he pulled it back, Harold collapsed in a growing pool of blood.
The referee stepped forward, raising Mark’s hand. “THIS YEAR’S CHAMPION OF MAVROSIA IS MARK!” he announced. The crowd went wild, standing and shouting his name, whistling and cheering with all they had.
But Mark barely noticed the applause – his mind was set on Connor. Storming off the arena floor, he found the rat crying over his lost money. “You poisoned me!” Mark snarled.
“I–”
“Hand over my winnings and throw in a hundred gold coins for compensation, or we settle this right now.”
Connor knew better than to argue. He handed over a pouch of coins, but the second it was in Mark’s hand, Mark drew his sword and slashed across Connor’s throat in one swift motion. The weasel gurgled, crumpling to the ground, dead. The tournament guards kept their distance, well aware of what he’d done to his opponents in the ring.
With the pouch of coins in hand, Mark left the arena behind him, heading back to the inn for a well-deserved rest. Tomorrow, he’d be back at it – just another day in the life of a swordsman for hire.