"Wait! Wait! Everyone will get their share!"
The announcer's voice cut through the chaos, hands raised in placation, his body language the practiced performance of a man who had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more. But his eyes told a different story. They gleamed with barely contained avarice, the particular hunger of a man who had been counting other men's coins for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to hold his own.
What a haul. He let the thought surface. Nesbet's side: a thousand bronze. Toric's side: five hundred. Fifteen hundred coins total! His face flushed with the sheer joy of it. "In all my years—in all this ring's history—no match has ever drawn this kind of blood money!"
"Listen up!" He paused for dramatic effect, letting the crowd's murmur build. "The total purse is fifteen hundred bronze coins!"
"WOOO!"
"HAHA! I KNEW IT!"
Those who had bet on Toric erupted—a small but vocal minority whose faith had just paid dividends beyond their wildest expectations. Those who had bet on Nesbet? Their eyes told a different story. Envy and disgust curdled in their gazes, fixed on the winners with barely restrained hostility.
"And as the Master's rule decrees—the house takes its twenty percent!" The announcer's voice took on a formal cadence. "Which means twelve hundred coins go to those who had the wisdom—and the stones—to bet on our new champion!"
The winners surged forward, hands outstretched, voices raised in triumph.
Toric stood apart from the chaos, arms crossed, expression calm.
Fifteen hundred. He let the number settle. And three hundred of it just... gone. To the Master. Just for hosting the fight. For letting men beat each other bloody on his dirt.
Is there anything I can get from this? Should I... take some? From the winners? They'd never know—
"Haha! There you are, Champion!"
The announcer materialized at his elbow, grinning like a man who had just discovered a new favorite toy. Before Toric could react, a leather pouch was pressed into his hands.
A gift for making this match what it was. The announcer's voice dropped, conspiratorial. "A hundred bronze. Barely a fraction of what you deserve, but—" He spread his hands in apology. "—all I can offer from my own cut. Consider it an investment in future entertainment."
A hundred!
Toric's face remained carved from stone. His voice, when it came, was deep and approving. "Good that you understand how things work."
The pouch vanished into his pocket with practiced speed.
He cleared his throat. The sound cut through the post-match chaos like a blade through fog. Every head turned. Every voice fell silent.
"All of you." His eyes swept the crowd, touching each face in turn. "You know I'm new here. Fresh meat, right? Just another fighter."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembled.
"But you also saw what I did to your champion. To Nesbet. You saw strength—real strength. Don't you want that?"
The murmuring shifted—uncertain, curious, suspicious.
"What's he selling?"
"Is this a scam?"
"Scam? Did you watch the fight, idiot? The man's got power."
Toric spread his arms wide, a showman's gesture, a brawler's invitation. The smirk that spread across his face was pure confidence. "How about it? Anyone here want money? Power? Status?" He paused. "Want to be among those who rule, not those who serve?"
The crowd's energy shifted. Coins forgotten, bets abandoned, they stared at this stranger who had just demolished their champion and now spoke of things that men whispered about in dark corners.
The announcer's mind raced. Is he... is he actually challenging both factions? But he's supposed to be Mistress's man—the rumors said so. Unless... unless the rumors were wrong. Or unless something bigger is coming.
Either way—a wave is building. And Ogefil is about to be swept up in it.
The silence stretched. No one stepped forward.
Then—movement.
"Bah!" A man shoved through the crowd, thick-necked and scarred, his fists clenched. "One win and you think you're king of the ring? You're nothing. Nothing."
Toric's smile widened. "Hey, announcer. You wanted a bigger match, right? Something exciting?"
The announcer's eyes went wide as realization dawned. No. He can't mean—
Toric's voice rose, arrogant and amused. "I see more of you back there. Why fight one at a time? Come on. All of you. Together."
The crowd erupted.
"HAHAHA! The newbie's lost his mind!"
"ONE AGAINST THREE? He's dead!"
"KILL HIM! Teach him the sea's depth!"
Three fighters pushed to the front—hard men, experienced, smelling blood.
"BY THE STORMS!" The announcer's voice hit a register no one had heard before. "ONE MAN! THREE CHALLENGERS! THIS HAS NEVER—IN ALL MY YEARS—"
The crowd surged toward the betting desk. Coins flew.
"Five bronze on the three!"
"Ten on the newbie—he's crazy enough to win!"
"IDIOT! He's dead and you're paying for his funeral!"
The bronze heap grew—smaller than before, the crowd's faith clearly leaning toward the three experienced fighters. But a few coins still fell on Toric's side. A few believers remained.
Toric yawned. It was theatrical. Deliberate. Infuriating.
"I'll even let you throw the first punches." He waved a lazy hand. "Hurry up. I'm thirsty."
The three fighters exchanged glances. Their formation shifted—a triangle of violence, practiced and deadly.
The first fighter lunged, fist extended. Toric's body rotated—just slightly, just enough. The punch grazed air.
The second fighter dropped low, leg sweeping—Toric jumped. Barely. The kick passed beneath his feet.
And the third fighter's arms wrapped around him from behind, locking tight, pinning his arms to his sides.
"NOW!" the third fighter roared. "POUND HIM!"
Toric chuckled. The sound was low, rumbling, utterly unconcerned.
He flexed. The locked arms creaked. The fighter squeezed tighter, desperate—Toric flexed again. The hold shattered. Arms flew wide.
"MY TURN."
His hand shot out, closing around the third fighter's head. In one motion—smooth as water, fast as striking snake—he hurled the man at his approaching comrades.
The first fighter ducked—barely. The second fighter did not. The airborne body slammed into him, sending both crashing to the earth in a tangle of limbs.
Prana surged through Toric's arms. He could feel it now—the newly opened channels on his right side singing with power, delivering strength he'd never possessed before.
He leaped. For one frozen moment, he hung in the air above the fallen fighters—a silhouette against the noon sun, fist drawn back, body coiled like a striking serpent.
Then he descended.
CRACK.
The sound was wet and final. His fist connected with the first fighter's forehead, driving head into ground with bone-breaking force. The man's eyes rolled back. His body went limp.
Toric rose. Turned.
The other two were struggling to stand, pain and fear warring on their faces.
"Stay down," Toric said.
They didn't listen.
His feet moved—once, twice. Stomp. Crack. Legs broke beneath his heels like dry branches.
"AHHH!"
"AAAAHHH!"
Their screams painted the air, beautiful and terrible.
Toric surveyed the crowd. Blood decorated his fists. Broken men lay at his feet. His chest rose and fell with easy breath.
"So." His voice was calm, conversational. "Anyone else want to challenge me?"
He let his gaze travel across the faces before him.
Fear. Respect. Hunger.
No one moved. No one spoke.
The silence was answer enough.