CH 9. Gotta Eat to Live
The match began shortly after.
The cheers were more one-sided than ever, all directed at Icarus.
No one in the arena was rooting for Zed—except one person: Riu.
‘Gods of War, Luck, Miracles, and Life… Please, just let him come back alive…!’
He couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes.
How could he watch his lifeline being torn apart?
As Zed and Icarus faced each other in the ring’s center, the audience’s roars grew louder. Riu clamped his hands over his ears and ducked his head.
‘What’s… happening?’
Icarus, who had been oozing confidence, faltered.
Zed’s brief glance had felt… off.
‘He’s only fifteen. How does he…?’
It wasn’t just the gaze.
The aura radiating from Zed was unnervingly oppressive.
Though the arena was small, Icarus was a veteran who’d crushed countless challengers.
Reaching the top required effort and experience—this was universal.
‘Am I imagining things?’
No. The longer he observed, the clearer it became: Zed was nothing like previous opponents.
His eyes were cold and focused, his breathing steady.
It was common for fighters to breathe heavily from tension before a match.
But this kid wasn’t even nervous.
‘What kind of stance is that? Never seen it before…’
Even his guard was unconventional.
His hands hovered near his face, perfectly positioned to protect his chin, solar plexus, and ribs.
His feet, shoulder-width apart in a staggered stance, looked both stable and ready to strike.
It was a modern combat "guard" posture—alien in this world where martial arts concepts didn’t exist.
‘What the hell…? Where do I even hit him?!’
Every angle seemed primed for a counter.
Icarus shook off his hesitation and steadied himself.
‘Stance doesn’t win fights. I’m stronger and faster!’
‘No way I’m losing to some street rat!’
He swung his fist—
“Ghk?!”
—and his head snapped back before he registered the hit.
Zed hadn’t used a fraction of his strength, yet Icarus’s nose shattered, blood gushing.
‘What… was that?!’
The crowd froze, their fiery cheers doused like lava under ice.
Zed, silent until now, finally spoke:
“Don’t wind your fist behind your shoulder.”
“Huh…?”
“Slower than a snail. I could dodge it blindfolded.”
“Bullshit! That was luck!” Icarus spat, swinging again.
The result was identical—except this time, two front teeth flew from the jab.
“Ugh…!”
“Punch from your guard. Straight to the face.”
“Tch!”
“Fastest path. Light. Precise.”
“Gah…!”
Stars danced in Icarus’s vision.
Desperate, he unleashed his signature kick—
But Zed slipped back, closed the gap in a blink, and jabbed again.
Too fast to see.
“What the hell?!”
“Is Icarus taking it easy on him?!”
“Open your eyes! The kid’s demolishing him!”
Riu peeked through his fingers.
Zed was dominating a man twice his size.
‘He’s really winning…? Against Icarus?’
Zed was just a teenager—younger meant weaker, less experienced.
Yet he controlled the fight effortlessly.
In modern combat, weight classes existed for a reason.
Even reach or height differences mattered.
But Kim Jin-ho—Zed’s true self—never fixated on disadvantages.
Overcoming them mattered.
Longer reach? Close the distance.
Taller? Target the body.
That was a champion’s mindset.
“Damn it! Just stand still!” Icarus roared, swinging wildly.
Zed stayed just out of reach, darting in with surgical jabs.
A few centimeters decided every strike’s timing—making Zed seem inhumanly fast.
“Guh!”
Each missed swing met a counter.
Zed’s jabs, feather-light and relentless, peppered Icarus’s face.
—Thud!
Like cloth soaked in drizzle, Icarus’s face swelled grotesquely before he collapsed.
Defeated by left jabs alone.
A humiliating, one-sided rout.
“Ref. Should I fight dirty too?”
“Uh… uh…”
Zed’s icy stare pinned the referee.
Icarus lay unconscious; continuing would cripple him.
The referee locked eyes with someone in the crowd, then flailed his arms—the match was over.
Zed narrowed his eyes at the announcer’s booth.
“Holy shit! You beat Icarus!” Riu babbled as Zed exited the ring.
To Zed, the fight was disappointingly brief. His body hadn’t even warmed up.
‘Maybe I overdid it. Should’ve held back.’
Icarus would recover—no permanent damage.
‘Next time, ease up.’
At the betting counter, the clerk trembled as he handed over a meager pile of coins.
Zed frowned. “Odds were 62-to-1. Why so little?”
“Y-young master, that’s…!”
Riu squirmed. Zed glared.
‘Don’t tell me…’
“How much did you bet?”
“W-well… You said bet it all, but…”
“You didn’t.”
“Gambling’s bad! Who knew you’d win?!”
“So you cost us dozens of coins?”
“All-in’s reckless! We needed dinner money!”
Zed sighed. They’d lost enough for premium beef.
But the stake had been Riu’s stolen gold anyway.
“Whatever. Let’s eat.”
“R-really? You’re not mad?”
“Spilled milk. Move on.”
To be exact, I didn't exactly blow it all. And I'm not greedy for money. I'm just doing this to survive."
Liu, looking relieved, pressed close to me. Still, it was enough to taste some beef.
For a penniless guy like me, this counted as success.
"Let's go."
"Yeah!"
The arena had descended into chaos after Icas's defeat.
Men wailed about losing their life savings, others hurled curses at the unconscious fighter, while some stormed toward the betting counters to protest.
"...?"
As I pushed through the commotion toward the exit, a middle-aged woman blocked our path. Her flimsy dress clung to her figure, and her overpowering perfume made my head swim.
"...What do you want?"
"Well, hello there~"
"Why are you blocking us?"
"Not recognizing me? You must be new. I'm Herna, this arena's manager. Let's have a little—"
"Not interested."
"...Pardon?"
"Herna, Corona, whatever—move."
Her face froze in shock.
When I tried to push past with Liu, hulking men materialized behind her. My empty stomach tightened with irritation.
"Want to join him on the floor? Need a week-long nap?"
......
The brutes didn't budge. Whether from numbers or blind loyalty.
"Let them pass."
At her command, the wall of muscle parted like the Red Sea.
Loyalty it was.
Her voice chased us as we left: "Visit anytime. I do adore strong ones like you."
"Sorry. You're not my type."
"Tehehe. We'll meet again soon. Next time... in cozier surroundings."
Yeah, right.
I quickened my pace, her cloying stare raising goosebumps.
"Zed... You shouldn't antagonize her."
Liu spoke up nervously once outside, wiping his brow. "Herna's not just arena staff—she's the shadow power here. We'll keep crossing paths. Better stay on her good side."
"Should've mentioned that earlier. Just looked like a money-grubbing cougar to me."
"That's her nickname—the Old Fox. They say she's in her forties, but..."
"Forty-nine's still forties."
I'd already noticed her signaling referees and announcers during matches.
Meaning she was Icas's backer.
She's got a bloodhound's nose for profit.
The arena had unintentionally struck gold—62:1 odds with Liu as the sole winner. Yet they'd only paid him five gold coins.
She wants to use me.
Same story when I'd entered the fighting circuit—managers swarmed after my first wins. Most saw me as a piggy bank. Got scammed twice before finding my current handler.
The one who made me champion.
Skill matters most, but good management's irreplaceable.
If she approaches again... maybe flip the script.
A city powerbroker could be useful for a fugitive beggar. But I'm no country bumpkin to be exploited—I clawed my way up through every dirty trick.
Old Fox? We'll see who's cunning.
"We're here, Zed."
The Berti beef restaurant.
A sneering bouncer intercepted us in line: "Scram, gutter trash."
"What? Think we'll dine and dash?"
"Cheeky brat! Want to die?"
Jingle.
I shook my pouch of five gold and silver coins.
"Enough for one portion," he scoffed.
"I know. Now scram."
"Pfft! Fine, beggar. But who're you trying to impress with that?"
"Not you. Stop drooling."
"Tch! Trash these days..."
He stormed off. Better clothes might've helped, but then we couldn't afford even this.
The line crawled slower than a three-legged ox. Inside was worse—smoky, deafening, packed beyond belief.
Odd. Berti beef's a noble's luxury. Why would aristocrats eat here with commoners? The warden needed a week to source it, yet this place serves crowds daily?
"Something's off."
"Off? It's our turn!" Liu dragged me inside.
"One portion—make it double-sized!"
The slab slapped on our table wasn't Berti beef. Not even close.
