Chapter 1

Shouts, deafening, roared like thunder. The battlefield was desolate, empty. Generals barked their commands, their lungs burned, their throats shattered. Mage artillery recited their incantations to unleash hell over the land. One explosion. Then another. The rancid sulfur hung in the air; the stench of blood clung to the back of the throat. Cries of men, all used to be brave, reverberated in his ears.

Zander Kelly took a deep breath and suddenly, he was no longer there. His nose welcomed the sour scent of alcohol and tobacco. The thunderous voices no longer belonged to soldiers but rather to drunkards and gamblers who flaunted their money. And the battlefield turned into a small circle of dirt and mud, surrounded by makeshift chairs of stone and wood. An arena where two fighters satiate the bloodlust of a ravenous crowd.

Zander Kelly was an oddity among this crowd. He was an olive skin among the sea of dirt-covered whites, a thin frame among the fat and beer-bellied, a full dark raven hair among patches of bald and balding, and piercing blue eyes among foggy and drunken gazes.

Facing him was a much older but stocky gentleman. Shaved head paired with a thick red beard, obviously curated to be more intimidating. He was charismatic. Enough for the crowd to roar his name in response to his waves and theatrics.

"Philip!"

"We bet on you today, Philip! You better not lose."

The cheers for Philip were loud. However, among the clamor, someone cheered a different name.

"Zander, buddy. Please win today!"

Zander glanced at the source of the voice and smirked. It was a man he knew well. Guavier Sealbach. Disheveled brown hair, an equally disheveled tunic, and a handlebar mustache that moved with every word he shouted.

He was the local troublemaker, a man who has swindled almost everyone in this place. And, he was Zander's long-term friend. Despite his whimsical habits, his resourcefulness allowed Zander to enter fights and earn money without trouble. He trusted friend to whom he owed much.

"I bet everything on you! If you lose, I'll die and haunt you forever!"

In response to the man's pleas, Zander gave him a thumbs up, a gesture of reassurance. He was confident, or maybe it was the spirits in the bottle he just drank. Nevertheless, while he had all the confidence in the world, his opponent would prove to be difficult.

Philip, a miner who lived just outside of the city walls, was a popular figure in town, particularly in taverns. He was big and muscular, and wherever he drank, a brawl would occur. Needless to say, he was no stranger to fights. This opponent could easily hit him once and knock him out. His mind raced, trying to find some way to defeat him, or at least make it a satisfying fight for the audience so the money would flow in more easily.

As he and Philip prepared themselves, someone else stepped into the arena. It was the announcer. His job was to supply the entertainment of these drunks and low lives with a pinch of dramatic narrative. With wrinkly pale skin and thin hair, it was clear that he was an elderly gentleman. However, he was an old man who still had a bounce in his step. As he walked to the middle of the muddy pit, the crowd grew quiet, waiting for the man's next words.

"Gentlemen of the night! I welcome you to tonight's festivities. I sure hope your wives don't know where you are right now. The Brawling Pits won't take responsibility for any marital strife your bad decisions might cause."

The men laughed in unison. Clearly, most of them have families to care for. As to why they would spend their hard-earned money in this place was a mystery to even the wisest sage.

"Well, let's not wait shall we! On my left here is a crowd favorite. Whenever he goes near a tavern, they immediately close their doors! A man who paid more for property damages than for his drinks, Philip Reiker!"

"Wooo! Philip!"

"Kick his ass!"

The crowd unified their cheers. Like a temple choir, they sung their praise to their fighter.

"Now on my right is someone who clearly doesn't belong here. We don't know where he came from, but we know that he can fight! The man who drinks like a fish, Zander Kelly!"

"You're our literal dark horse, mate!"

"Go back to your country, boy."

His name was mostly met with jeers, and the cheers were mostly from those who decided that tonight was the night to bet on the foreigner. He scoffed. The thought of making some wretched folks a little bit richer tonight amused him a bit.

"Alright, alright, calm down we don't want to call out the guards too soon," he chuckled. "Now, if the two fighters are ready..." He continued and raised an eyebrow to the both of them.

Understanding the gesture, Zander and Philip made their way to the center of the arena. There, the difference in their builds was made clear when Zander literally looked up just to lock eyes with his opponent.

Philip chuckled. "I'll try not to break anything, boy," he said as he took off his tunic, revealing his meaty arms and stout torso. "But if you're too scared, it's not too late to throw the match."

Without uttering a single word, Zander followed suit, revealing his lean and muscular build. Some in the crowd murmured in curiosity, while some mocked the difference in size.

Finding his taunts unanswered, Philip scoffed. "Show off," he muttered.

"Alright, you two remember the rules, yeah?" the announcer interjected. "No killing! A corpse's gonna leave a bad taste in our mouths. Other than that, anything goes."

The two nodded.

"Alright, on my signal, we'll start the fight. Three!"

Philip lowered his knees, preparing to strike.

"Two!"

Zander narrowed his eyes and waited. With deep breaths, he calmed his heart. The buzzing voices of the crowd steadily turned mute.

"One!"

Movement. Almost too fast for the eyes to see. The announcer barely evaded the sudden rush.

Philip launched himself towards Zander, head first. A tackle. But Zander saw it and rotated just in time, letting Philip's huge body to brush past him. The hair on his neck stood as the wind from Philip's strike called onto his natural instinct to run.

Philip recovered and rushed for Zander again. A mistake. This time, instead of evading, Zander slid under the charging bull. Then, using Philip's momentum, he flung the beast on his back with one fluid kick to the stomach. The mud squished as his heavy body plopped on it, the air in his lungs escaped from the blow. The crowd cheered and groaned in unison at the result of the first exchange.

"Damn, boy," Philip winced as he wobbled back up. "You got some moves."

Zander smiled slightly. "Not bad yourself old man. Believe it or not but I was shitting my pants when I did that."

Philip chuckled and readied himself again. This time, he didn't take a charging position. Instead, he raised his fists, two cannons that easily sent many teeth to the dirt.

Zander furrowed his brow. One hit from those and his memory of this night would be forever erased from his mind. But again, he was confident. In response to the new threat, he raised his fists as well. However, unlike Philip, his palms were open and loose.

Philip raised an eyebrow, then smiled. A man who wasn't even half his size wanted to have a contest of strikes? He'd gladly take that offer. He inched closer. Zander did the same. Soon, the two circled each other. Like two predators, hungry for blood, eyeing the distance to strike the other.

The crowd bated its breath as the two danced.

Then, a blur.

Philip was the first to unleash a barrage of quick jabs at his opponent. Like a tiger's paws, each strike was filled with power and speed. But again, Zander was ready. With his loose palms, Zander deflected them. His hands were serpents, quick and precise in their parries.

The exchange continued with Zander barely deflecting the strength of Philip's strikes. But soon, Philip's barrage slowed. It was a brief moment of tiredness, but to Zander, it was an opportunity. Quickly, he bared his fangs and threw a quick jab at Philip's exposed throat. At that moment, it should have been over. But, call it wild instinct or intuition, Philip immediately tucked his chin, effectively nullifying Zander's precise strike.

Zander was the one exposed now. That last strike left his lower body unguarded. And surely enough, Philip took advantage of it. Using the entire weight of his body, he tackled Zander onto the ground. Their bodies fell onto the mud with a loud splash. Then, the two wrestled. One attempting to dominate the other.

A punch here.

A kick there.

Zander tried to pry himself from Philip's grasp but it proved to be too difficult. Just like Philip wanted, the fight has turned into a wrestling match on the soft earth. But by no means has he already won. Both knew that their opponent won't be that easily pinned down, nor would the other give up quickly. So, they struggled. They struggled until their breath turned ragged. They knew that whoever rested for even a second would be the loser.

One slip.

One mistake.

That was all it took.

The crowd roared as blood, sweat, and dirt splattered all over the arena. With every punch, kick, and choke, their blood boiled even more.

The struggle must have lasted only a few moments but for Zander, it felt like an eternity. But he was vigilant. As he writhed in the mud, he waited, watched. Something will happen that will turn the tables. A brief moment of error. Another moment of tiredness.

Then, as if to meet his expectations, he saw something. A mistake as fast as a bolt of lightning. Philip weakened his hold slightly as he exhaled, a costly breath. So Zander struck. He slithered his way out of Philip's grip and coiled his arms around his neck. Then, he anchored his legs around his torso, further solidifying his grasp. Now, Philip needed to make a choice: continue and possibly choke or give up. For him, the answer was obvious.

"I give up!" Philip yelled.

The crowd gasped as Philip tapped on Zander's shoulder, further signifying his surrender.

"Hey, it's over!"

"Zander won... What the hell?"

The crowd murmured in anger and celebration. A mix bag of emotions for an otherwise drunk crowd.

The announcer stepped forward and addressed the crowd once more.

"Alright, everyone! That's it for tonight's festivities," he said. "Make sure to get your winnings before leaving. George there's a thief so count your crowns too."

"This's bullshit!"

"That monkey cheated!"

The murmurs evolved into explosions of curses and accusations. Many even threw leftovers onto the arena. Pieces of half-eaten meat and half-empty cups flew. One, a slimy piece of tomato, platted onto the announcer's face. He grimaced, then slowly wiped it away from his face and flicked it onto the mud.

"HEY!" he shouted. The once mellow and professional announcer glared death onto the crowd. It silenced them. "You drunk pieces of shit! Stop complaining and go home! Bet better next time if you don't wanna lose your money!"

"Yeah, fuck you guys! The fight's done!"

"What'd you say you little shit?"

Bloodlust. An all too familiar scent for Zander hung in the air. As expected one outburst of anger escalated the situation instead of diffusing it.

"I won't be talked back like this!" a man with broken teeth, dirty clothes, and slight slur in his words pushed another.

"Did you just push me?"

"And what if I did?"

Then, like every other time a crowd got electrified with rage, words turned to fists. The first strike was all it took. Like a spark in a powder keg, one punch spiraled the entire arena into chaos.

The announcer, experienced in his ways, immediately ran as the crowd spilled into the mud of the fighting pit.

"I'm outta here! I'm too old to deal with the guards!" he said and flew as fast as his legs took him.

Pandemonium. With all reason thrown to the wayside, half-minded people committed acts of violence to anyone who caught their eyes. In particular, some unhappy gamblers fastened their wild eyes onto Zander.

"You're gonna die today, monkey!"

Four people surrounded him. Men who stunk of alcohol and rancid body odor. A fair fight. But before he could get the chance to fight off his assailants, the clanging of metal and rough shouts demanding surrender burst into the chaos.

"BY THE ORDER OF THE CROWN, YOU'RE ALL UNDER ARREST FOR ILLEGAL GAMBLING AND DISTURBING THE PEACE!"

Right on cue. Ustaad's Shield. It was an organization made by King Edward Ustaad that consisted of warriors ranked from trained foot soldiers to elite special forces. They were tasked to enforce the law and protect the citizens from all levels of threats. To Zander, they were a nuisance that infringed on his freedom. And, as usual, they were quick to respond to a slight disturbance.

This massive brawl fell onto the purview of the local guards. They wore simple uniforms: chainmail, greaves, gauntlets, and swords. Among the sea of dirty drunkards, each of them stuck out like maggots in rotten food. And even though they were at the bottom of the ranks, any criminal that had half a mind would be wise to not start anything with them.

In their presence, the crowd began to scatter. Some were caught. Some, wounded. And Zander, with his experience with the law, did not intend to stay long enough to find out how he would end up this time. Mixing in with the fleeing crowd, he made his way towards the exit.

"STOP WHERE YOU ARE!"

He winced.

It was a voice he knew. He turned towards the voice and there he was, using one of the makeshift chairs as a vantage point, an elite soldier of Ustaad's Shield. Captain Bertrand Hartwin. He was a silver fox in half plate armor, too expensive for his rugged look. Draped over his shoulders was a gray cape that swayed with the passing crowd and on his chest was a crest of a wolf that signified the Hartwin family pedigree.

"DON'T YOU THINK OF RUNNING AWAY!"

At that moment, Zander's heart desired exactly the opposite of that. With all the intent to disappear, he smirked, flipped off the captain, and dashed off. However, before he could get far, a large body loomed over him. It was Philip. He wore a mischievous grin as he cracked his knuckles.

"And who said you could get out of this, boy?" he said.

The situation has turned a little sour, but he could still escape if he could dodge his first strike. So he watched. Having fought him just recently, his habits were fresh in his mind. Philip pulled back his arm for a heavy hit. For him, it was as if time as slowed down. The punch was easy to dodge. Zander grinned. But as he prepared to duck, a stray drunk tumbled onto him, destroying his balance.

"Fuck," Zander muttered.

With that hit, his face was thrust on a collision path with Philip's fist. Time was still slowed down for him, but all he could do was close his eyes and brace himself for impact.

Crack. A loud one, rang in his ears. His world swung, his vision blurred, his body flopped on the mud. With all the consciousness he had left, he shrunk himself, careful to protect his head from the dozens of boots and sandals that rushed past him. Then there was darkness. And pain.

"Hey, buddy!" Guavier's voice cut through his murky mind. "Oh shit, you're nose's bleeding. Uh... you know what, imma just go. Very sorry!"

And with that, his last hope for help disappeared with hurried footsteps.

Now in pain and delirious, his mind went back to that place. The voice of the panicked crowd turned into shouts of men in battle. He was hurt. Immobile. Helpless. A singular scent hung at the back of his throat.

Death.

The scent of moist and rotting earth. A familiar scent that came from one person. A terrifying scent.

"Kelly!"

A voice. Not from the past nor from the friend who just left him.

"Kelly, are you ok?"

It was Hartwin's. He wanted to run but he was too tired. The voice called out to him but sleep called even louder.

"I need help here! Kelly, stay with me."

Then, nothingness.