CH 8. Gotta Eat to Live
“Hahaha! Crush their skulls!”
“Yes, yes! Make it bloodier!”
The underground arena thrummed with frenzied energy.
Nobles who reeked of wealth lounged in front-row seats, while the rabble stood in the back, roaring toward the bloodstained center.
“He’s here!”
“Hell yeah! Been waiting all night for this!”
“Finally, the main event!”
The fighters, too, were tiered by reputation.
When a renowned combatant stepped into the pit, even the dullest atmosphere reignited into a fever pitch.
Tonight featured the arena’s undisputed champion—a man called Icas.
“Hahaha! All my coins on Icas!”
“Icas never loses! Empty your purses, boys!”
The rules were brutally simple:
No magic. No ki. No weapons.
Victors could face endless challengers, with bets placed before each match.
That was it.
No strikes below the navel or to the back of the skull—the only semblance of restraint in this cesspool of savagery. Calling it “barbaric” would’ve been too kind.
“Ladies and gentlem—ahem—animals! The moment you’ve slobbered over is here! Any brave—or brainless—souls daring to challenge Icas?!”
On paper, the system favored the strong. Yet there was a twisted balance: challengers could pick their opponents.
But why would anyone choose Icas?
“Hahaha! All bark, no bite? Scared shitless?!”
“Quit cowering and fight, you spineless worms!”
The fighters’ gallery remained frozen. Even rookies knew better than to face the champion.
“Boring as hell.”
“Screw this! I didn’t pay to watch losers tremble!”
“Do something! Sun’s gonna rise at this rate!”
Jeers swelled as the announcer smirked, scanning the crowd like a vulture.
“Tsk. Tough crowd. Let’s sweeten the pot!” He spread his arms theatrically. “Blind betting starts now! Bet on the challenger, and win 30 times your stake—no matter the odds! And if the challenger loses? They still get 1 gold coin! But if they win? 30 gold coins!”
Gasps rippled through the stands. A slave’s annual wage was 1 gold. Thirty was a fortune.
Even seasoned gamblers knew 30x odds were unheard of. But Icas’s backers—and the announcer—were in cahoots. This was a con, plain and simple. Amateur bettors were lambs to the slaughter.
“30 coins?! For real?!”
The fighters’ gallery stirred. The crowd erupted, coins clattering into betting pools.
“YOLO! Reverse bet, baby!”
“Idiot! Stick to the favorites—that’s how you survive!”
The announcer raised his hand. A challenger emerged—scrawny, soft, and visibly shaking.
“Shit! I bet my life on that?!”
“Told you! Safe bets always win!”
The man hunched his shoulders, avoiding Icas’s gaze. No fighter’s pride—just raw fear.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Looks like he’s missing a few screws.”
He wasn’t a fighter. Just a paid actor from Icas’s stable.
“Enough delay! Let’s begin!”
The match started before the crowd could blink.
The challenger stood frozen. Icas, oddly, didn’t charge.
“Since when does Icas hold back? He always attacks first!”
“Look! He’s limping!”
“No way! Is he hurt?!”
The champion’s faltering step sent shockwaves through the crowd. Could the underdog win?
The 30x jackpot glittered in their minds. Cheers erupted, ignorant of the scripted farce.
“Zed, that’s Icas. The arena’s strongest.”
“Hm.”
“But his leg’s injured. Maybe his reign’s over.”
“No. He’s faking.”
“How can you tell?”
“The limp’s forced. And that ‘challenger’? Paid trash.”
Zed’s smirk was razor-sharp.
“Ugh… It’s all staged?”
“He’ll ‘struggle,’ then win. Classic hustle.”
“But why?”
“To hype the next match.”
“What’s th—”
THUD!
The challenger’s clumsy punch rocked Icas’s jaw. The crowd gasped.
“What?! He’s actually winning?!”
“Reverse bet! Reverse bet!”
Riu tensed, eyes glued to the ring.
CRACK!
Icas’s fist obliterated the challenger’s temple. The man crumpled, unconscious—but Icas wasn’t done.
THUD! CRUNCH! SMASH!
Fists rained down on the limp body. Icas grinned, pounding meat like a butcher.
“Hahaha! This is why we love Icas!”
The crowd roared, equal parts thrilled and terrified.
“See? This place is hell. Death’s cheap here. Zed, you listening…?”
Riu turned. Zed was gone.
Then he saw him—in the ring, silence choking the arena.
‘You lunatic…! Why now?!’
Panic flooded Riu’s mind. But the dice were already cast.
As someone jumped into the ring to retrieve Zed, he was confronting the referee.
"Hey! Can't you see that man's unconscious?"
"Huh...?"
"The match is decided—why keep it going?"
"That's... uh..."
"Letting him die here? Are you even a referee? Or did someone pay you off?"
"......"
The referee stammered, flustered by the sudden interruption.
He'd been bribed, but by official rules, the match should've ended long ago.
"Cut this out. Want a no-rules brawl? Take it to the streets."
Combat wasn't mere violence—it was sport.
Even after brutal exchanges, fighters embraced and praised each other when the bell rang.
Though worlds apart, this was the ring where he'd spent his youth. A sacred space for honorable duels.
Zed wasn't some rigid idealist preaching chivalry in a world of swords and sorcery.
But he believed in maintaining basic rules—basic justice.
Wasn't that what divided humans from beasts?
"Bold for a brat. You're no noble—who the hell are you?"
Icarus studied Zed with intrigued eyes.
An audacious street rat.
The boy's tattered clothes marked him as a beggar, yet here he stood in the ring—a feat requiring extraordinary nerve.
Perhaps he wasn't ordinary.
Had he been noble-born, even Icarus would've groveled. Begged for mercy. Such was the power of elite bloodlines.
"Me? Look closer. I'm gutter-born."
"...What? An actual beggar?"
The shock wasn't Icarus' alone.
Spectators released held breaths, tension dissolving into disbelief.
Mockery rained down like rotten fruit.
"Fuck! A beggar shit ruining the show?!"
"See this? Kids today eat trash and shit out nonsense!"
The mood turned venomous.
Demands for reparations. Threats of violence.
Through the abuse, Zed stood taller, shouting over the din:
"I'll settle it!"
"What?"
"Fight him, right? Simple enough."
"You—fighting Icarus? Now?"
"Pfft! Madness! Then again, only lunatics enter this ring."
Amid jeers, the announcer glanced at a shadowed VIP box.
After a silent exchange, he smoothly took center stage.
"Order! Our challenger—" he glanced at Zed's rags, "—is confirmed! Icarus accepts! Place your bets—we know you're itching for more action!"
The crowd roared with derisive laughter.
Who'd wager coin on filth? Yet betting boards lit up feverishly—eager to see the pauper punished.
"Ha! I'll humiliate him left-handed!"
"There's our champion!"
Icarus played his role perfectly, stoking the crowd's bloodlust.
As bets flooded in, Zed stretched calmly in his corner.
"Zed! Stop this! Icarus is unbeatable! Pick anyone else!"
Liu shoved through ropes, panic tightening his voice.
Entering this deathmatch was insanity. Challenging the arena king? Suicide.
"Relax. I won't lose."
"He's the strongest! This isn't just risky—it's impossible! Even with divine intervention!"
"Quit whining. Bet everything on me."
"Are you insane?! Apologize and get down!"
As Liu pleaded, guards approached. Zed's eyes turned glacial.
"He's mine. Touch him, and I forfeit."
The thugs retreated under the announcer's subtle nod.
Liu trembled, trapped in nightmare logic.
"Zed, please...!"
"After this, we feast. Beef till we explode."
Zed grinned, oblivious to his friend's terror.
