"The offer's still open!"
Toric's voice cut through the stunned silence like a blade—casual, unconcerned, as if he hadn't just demolished three men in front of a thousand witnesses.
"By the storms! Did everyone see that?"
"Toric—the new fighter—he just destroyed them!"
"That wasn't a fight. That was domination!"
The announcer's voice climbed to registers no one had heard before. "THREE AGAINST ONE! AND THE ONE WINS WITHOUT BREAKING SWEAT!"
The crowd erupted.
"What in the actual hells did we just watch?!"
"Tell me you saw that! Tell me I'm not imagining!"
"One-sided! Completely one-sided!"
"Shit! There goes my coin! All of it!"
Shock. Grief. Amazement. The whispers wove together into a tapestry of disbelief, all of it centered on the blood-spattered man who stood tall above his fallen opponents.
The three fighters on the ground moaned, their broken bodies a testament more eloquent than any words. Arms bent at wrong angles. Legs that would never bear weight again without a bonesetter's care. Faces that would carry the memory of this beating in every scar.
Toric surveyed his work. Then he looked up, meeting the crowd's eyes one by one.
Fear. Respect. Amazement. The emotions flickered across their worn faces like candle flames in wind.
At the betting desk, the announcer worked with frantic speed. "Three thousand bronze coins! The largest purse in fighting ring history! The largest match! The largest upset! The largest—" He laughed, high and giddy. "Everything! The largest everything!"
His face was flushed crimson, his eyes gleaming with joy so pure it almost hurt to witness.
Nearby, other announcers watched with expressions of naked envy. "Lucky bastard. Getting those matches." "I lost my entire hidden purse on this. My entire purse." "You still owe me twenty from last month's bout." "Not now. Not now."
Huff.
Toric's internal voice was calm, calculating, utterly at odds with his external image of effortless dominance. Good show. The storms witnessed it. Now let's see if any fools take the bait.
I can't keep this up much longer. Yes, I'm stronger—much stronger—but I'm not invincible. Push too hard, and something breaks. And broken is useless to the Captain.
The crowd began to thin. People trickled away, back to their lives, their ships, their shadows. Toric's demonstration had been impressive—but impressive only went so far. Enthusiasm warred with pragmatism. Pragmatism won. It always did.
Toric approached the announcer's desk.
"Haha! Champion!" The announcer beamed, reaching beneath his table. "A gift! Five hundred bronze—on the house!"
Another pouch flew through the air. Toric caught it one-handed, the motion smooth as water. He tucked it away with the practiced grace of a man learning to love wealth.
The announcer leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "A word. Free advice. Goodwill."
Toric's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.
"You're strong. Storms know you're strong—we all saw it." His gaze flicked left, right. "But strength alone won't keep you alive here. You've challenged two factions now. Openly. Boldly. That kind of thing... it has consequences." He paused. "Keep your eyes open. Your ears sharper. That's all I'm saying."
Toric nodded once. No argument. No explanation. No gratitude.
What do you know, old man? The Captain sees everything. I just have to trust.
"Excuse me!"
The voice was thin, reedy, barely above a whisper. Toric looked down. The man before him was a study in deprivation—thin to the point of frailty, his tunic so worn it was more holes than fabric. Beside him stood two others: one barely four feet tall, the other pushing six feet.
All three shifted nervously under his gaze.
"What?" Toric's voice was ice.
They exchanged glances—quick, fearful, determined. Then, in unison, they bowed. "We want to follow you!" "We want to change our lives!"
Toric stared at them for a long moment. Ah. Here they come. The fools—no, the recruits. The ones who'll help build a reputation. But look at them. Have they ever held a weapon? Killed anyone? They look like they'd break if I sneezed too hard.
"Names."
The thin one straightened slightly. "Holt." He gestured to the others. "Colt and Nolt."
"Brothers?"
"Yes! Born same day. Same mother. We were fishermen. Sold our catch at market. Mother was—she worked in the—and our father, well, we never—"
"Silence."
Toric's voice cracked like a whip. Holt's mouth snapped shut.
I asked for names. I got a life story.
Brothers. This much height difference. Storms above.
They seem... simple. But simple can be useful. And I can't afford to turn away anyone willing.
He studied them for a heartbeat longer. Then: "It'll be painful. Bloody. You might die." He paused. "Still want to follow?"
The three exchanged glances again—longer this time, more uncertain. Then, in unison: "We will. We will change our lives."
Something in their voices had shifted. Not confidence—they had none. But resolve.
Toric spread his arms wide. "Then welcome aboard, mates."
The brothers' faces transformed—relief, joy, hope so bright it was almost painful to witness. "Thank you, Captain Toric!"
Captain. They're already calling me Captain.
Should I take them to the real Captain? No. He'd probably kill me—and them—for the interruption. Better they stay out here. Help attract more.
"Captain?" Holt's voice was hesitant. "What's our first mission?" "What will we do?" "Can you teach us to fight—like that?"
Toric's expression hardened. "First lesson. Keep. Your. Mouths. Shut."
"Yes, Captain!"
Behind them, the announcer watched the scene unfold with calculating eyes. What will this change? Small waves, swallowed by the ocean? Or something bigger—something that changes the ocean itself?
Doesn't matter. As long as it fills my purse.
.....
In a dark alley, away from the fighting rings' noise...
"SHIT! DAMN IT ALL!"
Dale's fist connected with the stone wall—once, twice, three times. The skin on his knuckles split, the blood welling. "That bastard! That Toric bastard! He's destroying our reputation! The Master's reputation! Our faction's reputation!" He whirled on the silent figure beside him. "Thruston! Bald Thruston! Didn't you see? Three fighters! At once! And he barely moved! And now he's recruiting—openly! Against us!"
Thruston's expression did not change. His bald head gleamed in the alley's dim light. His thick beard was motionless.
Dale pressed on. "I could take three! Four even! And you—you could take a dozen without breathing hard! We should—"
"You could take one. Maybe." Thruston's voice was flat, absolute. "And stop hitting the wall."
Dale's mouth snapped shut.
Toric. Thruston's mind worked through the data. His energy flow—nearly comparable to mine. In a fistfight, I'd win. With weapons? Definitely. But the question isn't whether I can kill him.
It's whether killing him is the right move.
The Master needs to know. Soon. Before this spreads further.
"Move." He vanished deeper into the alley's shadows.
Dale followed, hatred burning in his eyes. One day, bald man. One day you'll die by my hand. And I'll laugh while it happens.
.....
Back at the tavern...
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The old tavern keeper's hand trembled slightly as he rapped on the wooden door. "I have a report for you."
"Speak."
The voice from within was cold. Absolute.
The tavern keeper swallowed hard and began to speak.
Behind the door, Ashan continued his work—hands moving with surgical precision, shaping membranes over wooden moulds, one after another after another.
The night was young. There was still much to do.