The wooden bleachers of the Fighters Pit creaked under the restless crowd. Thousands pressed together in the humid heat, their collective weight straining the aging timber.

  Alph navigated the packed stands, leaning sideways to slip past a bellowing dwarf. He ignored curses and elbow jabs as he climbed higher. The lower levels overflowed with drunken spectators, their faces slick with sweat and spittle.

  Near the middle levels, the crowd thinned. Slightly more affluent patrons occupied reserved seats, their trinkets catching the torchlight. Alph slipped into an empty spot against the railing, his cloak blending with shadows.

  The pit yawned beneath him, its expanse of trampled sand bearing the scars of prior clashes. Alph’s gaze locked onto the glowing runes etched along the perimeter. Their patterns shifted, unstable; one side pulsed with the mark of a Tier 1 Axe Fighter, the other with the insignia of a Tier 1 Rogue.

  A mage must be present in a booth somewhere, Alph thought. Runes don't change themselves. Varrick's remark from earlier came to his mind.

  The crowd’s roar surged as the combatants entered.

  The Rogue slipped in first, already hunching his back, lithe as a shadow. He stood five-five, maybe five-seven, wrapped in tight black cloth that clung like a second skin, with padded leather reinforcing his joints. A leather mask obscured his face, and twin steel daggers rested at his hips. He made no wasted movement and no sound.

  The axe fighter lumbered into the pit, a six-foot pillar of scarred muscle and arrogance. Sweat and oil slicked his bare chest, catching the torchlight in greasy ribbons. Thick leather straps crisscrossed his torso to secure a single iron pauldron on his right shoulder. He gripped a broadaxe with casual, heavy-handed indifference; the weapon appeared light as a twig in his massive fist. On his left arm hung a round leather shield, its surface a ruin of deep gouges and notched edges. A horned helmet shrouded his upper features, but a jagged sneer remained visible, aimed at the crowd.

  The crowd’s anticipation thickened, a living thing pressing in from all sides. Alph’s fingers curled into his palms, his breath steady.

  This was what he needed. Not just the fight—the way they moved. The rogue’s precision, the axe fighter’s brute efficiency. He could learn from both.

  The gong’s echo still hung in the air when the Axe Fighter lunged.

  The broadaxe swung, a brutal arc slicing the empty air where the Rogue had been. The crowd’s roar swallowed the whistle of steel, but the churned sand told the truth. Grit erupted from the pit in a wide spray, stinging the faces of the front-row spectators. Alph’s fingers tightened on the railing.

  Alph’s breath hitched. The Rogue hadn't merely dodged; he'd vanished, a ripple in the fight's chaotic flow. Alph's own Deft Movement felt like a clumsy imitation next to such effortless, ghost-like speed.

  Then the Rogue reappeared.

  His body uncoiled from a crouch three paces to the left, daggers already rising. The Axe Fighter didn’t flinch. His shield snapped up, intercepting the first blade with a metallic clang that rang through the pit. But the second dagger was already there, skimming his ribs. A thin red line bloomed across his side, dark and glistening. The crowd howled, their voices a living thing, hungry for blood.

  Alph’s breath caught. Twin Strikes.

  He’d trained the skill himself once in Borov Woods, back when he had just found out about the node's drifting nature. His, was a child's play compared to this. The second strike had come so fast it blurred, a ghost of motion that left the Axe Fighter bleeding before he could react.

  The Axe Fighter’s heavy boots ground forward, his shield a wall before him. The Rogue flowed backward; his daggers crossed up in front of him. Heavy breaths hitched in the Rogue’s chest; each step was a fraction slower than the last, yet his gaze remained locked on the fighter.

  The roar of the crowd softened to a low hum, the air in the pit growing heavy with anticipation. Then the Axe Fighter’s stance shifted.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  His knees bent, weight settling low. The broadaxe rose in a slow, deliberate arc. The crowd hushed, the silence so sudden it felt like the world had stopped breathing. The axe descended—not a swing, but a crash, a force of nature given form.

  Alph held his breath. That’s new. I should learn it.

  The Rogue twisted, but the axe's edge clipped his shoulder. The impact sent him tumbling, his body skidding across the sand. One dagger tore from his grip, spinning end over end before it buried itself in the pit's edge.

  The crowd erupted.

  The Rogue pushed up from the sand, his left arm dangling useless at his side. Blood dripped from his split lip, dark and thick, but his right hand still gripped the dagger. The blade caught the torchlight, a sliver of cold steel in the chaos. His mask hid his expression, but Alph saw the way his shoulders squared, the way his weight shifted forward. The Rogue wasn’t retreating. He was smiling.

  The Axe Fighter had committed everything to that last strike. His shield was still raised, his body exposed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He hadn’t expected the Rogue to recover so fast.

  The Rogue moved.

  One moment, he was a crumpled heap in the sand. The next, he was inside the Fighter’s guard, his body a blur of motion. The dagger flashed upward, a piston of steel aimed for the soft, unarmored gap beneath the Fighter’s ribs. The point sank deep, and the Fighter’s scream tore through the pit, raw and guttural.

  Alph’s fingers dug into the railing. Gut Stab.

  The Rogue didn’t just stab. He twisted, his wrist turning with deliberate cruelty, ensuring the blade did more than pierce. It shredded.

  The Fighter staggered, his broadaxe slipping from his grip. Blood soaked his side, dark and glistening. The crowd roared, their voices a frenzied storm, but Alph barely heard them. His focus was locked on the fight, on the way the Rogue’s dagger gleamed, wet with blood.

  The Fighter snarled, his face twisted in pain and rage. He swung his shield in a wild arc, the edge slamming into the Rogue’s chest. The impact sent the Rogue flying, his body skidding across the sand. But as he tumbled, his dagger flashed once more, a quick, precise cut.

  The shield’s strap snapped.

  The Fighter’s gaze darted down, his eyes wide as the shield bucked in his grasp, suddenly listing. He spat a thick curse, the sound swallowed by the roaring pit. He slung the heavy disk of wood and leather onto the sand before it could drag him off-balance. His hand scrambled for the broadaxe, the steel cold and familiar against his palm. When he straightened, the guttural cheers had curdled into something sharper; a cruel, mocking sound that scraped against the stone walls.

  The two combatants circled each other, bloodied but unbroken. The Rogue’s left arm still hung limp, but his right hand was steady, his dagger ready. The Fighter’s breath came in heavy, ragged gasps, axe blade covered in blood and sand, his side slick with blood.

  Classic move, the climax is coming. Alph recognized the technique. Both combatants are goading each other to make the first move, at the same time, they are putting on a good show for the frenzied crowd. They are veterans in this arena.

  The roar of the audience swelled, voices demanding action, urging one combatant to finish the other. Alph drew a slow breath, his gaze sharpening as he tracked every slight shift in their’ stances.

  There was still more to observe. More to learn.

  Finally, as if snapped by the jeers from the crowd, the angry Axe Fighter charged once more. However, Alph noticed something, he didn't put all into it.

  The rogue shifted the dagger to backhand position, closed the gap as well, executing the signature shift in movement as he stepped left, right, left, left, in attempt to confuse the charging brute. But, he was unlucky, as the fighter slowed down just enough to catch his movement pattern and brought down the axe blade.

  This wasn't some single hit like before. The guy had clearly learned his lesson; now it was just a wild, brutal mess of swings, forcing the Rogue to focus everything on just staying out of the way. Before long, the Rogue was pressed right up against the edge of the arena, totally boxed in.

  That's another skill. Alph made a mental note of it. Of course, the weapon played a role into the way the Fighter swung it, but something in it, the essence, Alph noticed was actually a skill. Something that can be replicated, with practice.

  The axe's last wide swing slammed into the Rogue's gut, knocking him sideways; he hit the barrier hard. The crowd went nuts, cheering like crazy when the announcer called the Rogue finished. The Fighter raised his axe, roaring in triumph, which just hyped up the already wild crowd even more.

  Alph too had his blood boil at the last moment, but he pushed back the excitement. I didn't come here for entertainment. He told himself, I need to see more skills in use. Axe Fighter is just one of the Fighter Variants. I need more information.

  More coming in next one, will be brief but still it'll get your blood pumping just like Alph's.