That day, the arena roared like thunder. Thousands of spectators stood cheering, shouting over one another, filling the air with the scent of sweat, dust, and a wild kind of exhilaration. At the royal balcony, Nicolo stood with his chest puffed out, a smug grin spreading across his face. His sharp eyes flicked toward Lord Rius, who sat calmly across the arena.
"So you really believe in your little lutador, Rius?" Nicolo boomed, deliberately projecting his voice across the amphitheater. "You're going to lose, and lose big. Prepare to hand over 500 wit! Hahaha!"
His mocking laughter rang loud and sharp, prompting chuckles from the nobles seated around him.
Lord Tois, sitting beside Nicolo, sneered. "This is laughable. It's not even a match—it's an execution. Anyone can see who's going to win."
But Rius simply smiled. He turned slowly toward them and replied in a calm voice, "I'm not hoping for a miracle from Hans. But I made a promise. If he wins today, he'll earn his freedom. Not just from this fight… but from life itself."
A brief silence followed. A few nobles exchanged glances.
Tois scoffed. "A slave will always be a slave. Even if you free him, his fate won't change."
Laughter rippled from the upper tribunes. But across the way, Magnoli rose from his seat, stretching his neck toward the row of other princes.
"Well then, who dares place a wager with me today? Dorges? Brisena?" he called out playfully. "Come on, don't just sit there like boring spectators."
Prince Dorges, the fourth son, stood at once to accept the challenge. "I'll take that bet, Magnoli. Naturally, I'm betting on Boidol. Only a fool would side with a scrawny guy like Hans."
Prince Brisena, the sixth, crossed his arms and chuckled. "You're too quick to judge, Dorges."
"Are you calling me a fool?" Dorges snapped.
"I'm just saying your judgment is… questionable," Brisena replied smoothly.
Magnoli grinned. "You two are a riot. Alright—300 wit. Deal?"
Dorges raised an eyebrow. "You sure, Magnoli? Don't come crying later."
"I've never regretted betting on the underestimated," Magnoli said confidently.
Brisena nodded. "Since you both picked sides, I'll take Hans. Someone here has to trust their instincts."
In the imperial tribune, royal guards stood alert. At the front of the second gallery, Rogg stood tall beside Magnoli as his personal guard. He said nothing, but his eyes were locked on the arena below.
Suddenly, the gong rang. The crowd erupted.
Two figures entered the arena. Boidol, massive and imposing, his scarred dark skin glistening with oil, slowly spun his enormous flail. Cheers thundered through the air like a hero's welcome.
Moments later, Hans emerged. Much smaller in stature, his lean frame was compact and sinewy. In his hands, he held a simple double-headed axe. Gasps and jeers rose from the audience—some mocked, others watched with growing curiosity.
Without much warning, the match began.
Hans moved first, darting left, then right. Boidol swung at his head—missed. Hans leapt back, then lunged for Boidol's legs. Boidol blocked the strike and shoved Hans hard, sending him sprawling across the sand.
The crowd roared. Dorges burst into laughter. "Told you!"
But Hans rose quickly. He began circling Boidol, waiting for an opening while Boidol spun his flail with violent force.
"He's nimble," Magnoli muttered.
Strike after strike followed. Hans never stopped moving—dodging, countering, slashing Boidol's arm, then his thigh. Boidol's flail finally connected, slamming into Hans's back and sending a spray of blood—but Hans endured.
The fight descended into a brutal brawl. Hans's axe tore into Boidol's arm, while Boidol's fist slammed into Hans's jaw.
Both men staggered, breathing hard. The crowd screamed wildly.
"Finish him!"
"Kill!"
"Bring me his head!"
Hans clenched his jaw. He waited—then, with a fierce cry, launched himself at Boidol and buried his axe into the man's chest.
Crack!
Boidol staggered.
Hans yanked his axe free and swung again—this time at Boidol's neck.
In one blow, the giant collapsed. Blood soaked the sand.
Silence fell over the arena.
Then… an explosion of cheers erupted. Shouts of victory, disbelief, and awe thundered from every corner.
Dorges froze. Magnoli simply smiled. "Looks like I won the bet."
He stood and raised his arm. "Now that... is a true fighter!"
The arena exploded in a deafening ovation. Hans's victory over Boidol had brought the entire stadium to its feet. Cheers, clapping, and whistles erupted from every tier. Hans hadn't just survived—he had won smartly, exploiting his opponent's weaknesses instead of matching brute strength.
Lord Rius stood slowly in the royal gallery. A faint smile touched his lips. He said nothing, but the satisfaction in his eyes was undeniable.
"The winner of our first bout—Hans! Lutador of Lord Rius!" cried the announcer, his voice echoing to the highest tier. "And now, as Lord Rius is third on the official registry, Hans shall proceed to his second battle… against the lutador of Lord Tois!"
The crowd's mood shifted instantly. Applause gave way to outrage.
"What? That's not fair!"
"He just fought!"
"This is insane!"
Brisena rose from his seat. "What nonsense is this?! Hans just defeated the most brutal fighter in the arena! And now you want him to fight again?!"
Dorges added, "This isn't a contest—it's cruelty!"
In the midst of the chaos, the announcer stood firm, raising his voice to calm the crowd.
"Please, everyone! Let us explain! Yes, Hans has emerged victorious, and his strength has been nothing short of extraordinary. But let's not forget… he's a slave. Though in the process of earning his freedom, this second battle is the final proof! The question is: does a former slave deserve to be called a true champion? Tonight—we will find out!"
The murmuring crowd slowly quieted. Some sat back down, still fuming, but intrigued. This second bout could be the one that changed everything.
"And now," the announcer roared, "please welcome… Modolak, the Green Venom! Lutador of Lord Tois!"
Cheers boomed once more. Modolak stepped into the arena with confident strides. His bright green hair gleamed under the torchlight. His muscular frame was covered in tattoos and scars, showing he was no novice.
Modolak raised his hand and smirked. "That little slave's about to learn what fear really means," he said, pointing at Hans.
Across the arena, Hans stood tall. His breathing was heavy, his body bruised and bloodied—but his eyes were still sharp. He said nothing. He simply gripped his axe tighter… and stepped forward.
From the general spectator stands, a loud voice broke through the noise.
"Hans! You have to win! We're going home to Migase!"
Hans froze. He turned slowly, his eyes searching for the voice.
"Nakhsa...?" he whispered. "I know it's you… but I can't see you."
The war drums sounded. The battle began.
Modolak didn't waste a second. He pulled out a small pouch and threw a fine powder toward Hans. In an instant, Hans's eyes burned. The world around him blurred into blackness.
He was blind.
"Hahaha! What can you do now, Hans?" Modolak taunted, moving nimbly around him. He jabbed, kicked, and struck while Hans swung his axe wildly into the air.
Hans fell. Gasping, disoriented, he tried to listen. But the roar of the crowd made everything a blur. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and remembered Damerius's words:
"You have an antidote. But if the poison hits your eyes, your only weapon left is your ears. Listen to his steps. Listen to the sand."
Hans stilled. He controlled his breathing.
Then—deliberately—he threw his axe far away.
Gasps filled the arena.
"What's he doing?!"
Modolak grinned. "Giving up already?"
He lunged toward Hans, ready to strike again. But the moment his foot landed—Hans moved.
In one swift motion, Hans grabbed a handful of sand and flung it into Modolak's face.
"AARGH!" Modolak screamed.
Hans didn't hesitate. He pounced, taking Modolak down and locking him in a chokehold. He pinned Modolak's arms, slammed him onto the ground, and drove his forearm against his neck with every ounce of strength he had left.
Modolak thrashed. He punched, bit, kicked—but Hans wouldn't let go. Slowly, Modolak's strength began to fade. His breath shortened.
Hans clenched his jaw, eyes shut tight, and with one final push—choked the life out of his opponent until his body went limp.
Silence.
Then—the sound of the gong.
The announcer roared,
"Winner of the second match—Hans! Once a slave, now a true champion of the arena!"
The stadium erupted. A tidal wave of cheers surged through the stands. Those who had once scoffed now looked on with awe. Hans rose slowly, his body trembling, blood dripping from his temple—but his fist raised high.
From the crowd of commoners, the Migase people wept.
"That's our Hans!"
"He proved we're not slaves forever!"
"The Hero of Migase!"
Rogg stood tall in the guards' gallery, his face grim. He didn't yet know who Hans truly was—but one thing was certain: that man was no ordinary fighter.
In the merchant stands, Nakhsa watched the arena, eyes glistening. Master Balin turned to him.
"Are you proud of him?" Balin asked quietly.
Nakhsa nodded. "Very much, Master. But I'm not finished here yet. There's still work to be done."