Just ten minutes later, Alph was pushing through the jammed bleachers, a whole crowd of people surging past him. He managed to find a new spot, much higher up and closer to one of the other stages; this one was still clean, the sand untouched, waiting for the next fight. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of sweat, beer that had been spilled, and that sharp, metallic scent of dried blood.

  The announcer, a portly man with a booming voice, stepped onto the platform. He raised his hands, silencing the clamor.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome back to the Fighters Pit!" His voice echoed through the arena. "You’ve seen skill, you’ve seen might, but now, you shall witness a true test of spirit!"

  The crowd's murmur vanished. A heavy silence pressed in, thick and suffocating.

  "Our next bout," the announcer bellowed, "is a Blood Fight! Only one warrior leaves this sand alive!"

  A thunderous roar ripped through the pit, vibrating up through Alph's boots. A cold, sharp prickle ran over his skin, not from fear, but from the brutal clarity that settled in his gut. This was no mere sport; it was a ritualistic slaughter.

  Two figures emerged from opposing tunnels. The first, clad in standard leather armor, wore a metal pauldron on his right shoulder and sabatons on his feet. A bronze-shafted spear, tipped with a mythril point, rested in his right hand. A rectangular, curved bronze shield, covered his left side. A silver-plumed helmet concealed his face. He moved with a measured gait, his posture disciplined.

  The second combatant exploded into the arena, a whirlwind of muscle and fury. Bare-chested, he wore only a fur breechcloth. Twin axes, their blades glinting, swung at his sides. Long, scruffy hair and a matted beard framed a face contorted in a primal snarl.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, cast your eyes upon the pits! That man standing there is the unbroken, undefeated king of our Tier 1 arena! A raw, untamed tempest of pure power!" announcer's voice dipped for a beat then bellowed, "Berserker!"

  The Berserker slammed his axes together, a ringing clang that cut through the lingering cheers. He then spread his arms wide, axes held high, and let out a wordless challenge, a guttural roar aimed squarely at the Spear Fighter. He thumped his chest with a fist, inviting the other man to come.

  "Across the blood-stained sand stands the Knight Captain of Ser-Monok," the announcer’s voice thundered. "A man whispered to be a prodigy with the spear! His liege has granted him the honor of testing his mettle against our Champion. Welcome him, people! Will he survive our undefeated king?"

  The Spear Fighter remained unmoving, his stance solid. He raised his shield, a bronze wall between him and the Berserker’s aggression. His spear point dipped slightly, a silent promise of retribution. He advanced, one cautious step after another, his eyes fixed on his opponent.

  The crowd began to boo, their impatience growing. "Charge, you coward!" someone yelled. "Rip him apart, Berserker!" others screamed, their voices a wave of bloodlust.

  The Spear Fighter ignored them. He kept his shield up, his spear poised. He closed the distance slowly, methodically, until he stood just outside the reach of the Berserker’s axes.

  Then, he moved.

  The Spear Fighter pulled his spear back until the bronze shaft vanished into the hollow of his right armpit. His body coiled, every muscle tensing in concert. Alph’s breath caught. He felt his own muscles tighten in sympathetic response, a visceral recognition of profound skill. This was no simple warrior’s stance; it was the prelude to an execution. A faint, silvery shimmer, nearly invisible in the harsh arena light, pulsed along the length of the mythril tip.

  Then the fighter exploded forward. It was not a telegraphed lunge but a compressed surge of motion, a blur of bronze and mythril. The spear struck three times in the space of a single heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. Three precise, stabs punched into the Berserker’s unprotected stomach, the mythril head tearing through skin and muscle with clinical efficiency.

  Alph watched, his analytical mind dissecting the sequence. Not three separate actions, but one fluid, chained maneuver. A flicker of understanding, cold and sharp, ignited within him. That's a skill.

  His mind rolled back to the only Spear user he had seen was Captain Hendricks of Stoneford Town Watch and he was a Tier 2 Spear Master. This Kight Captain's skill didn't hold the same force as that man, which was expected, but the skill used was definitely of Tier 1 caliber. Worth learning.

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  The Berserker stumbled back, blood blooming across his midsection. Dark rivulets ran down his fur breechcloth. Yet, no scream escaped his lips. Instead, a savage grin split his face. He threw his head back, a roar of triumph escaping him, not of pain. He looked around the arena, his eyes wild, inviting the audience to share in his macabre joy.

  The crowd responded, their cheers escalating to a fever pitch.

  "Big mistake," a stout dwarf grunted, wiping his wet beard with a sleeve. "Is this guy an idiot?"

  Alph frowned at the bloody spectacle. "Taking the spear thrusts," he said, half to himself. "Not one, but three, unguarded. For what? Riling the audience? It isn't worth it." He glanced at his neighbor. "Why?"

  The dwarf turned, giving a sidelong glance, looking at him like another idiot. "Lad, don't you know? The Berserker gets empowered with bloodlust the more of his blood gets spilled."

  Alph understood, with a rush of internal heat, that the dwarf hadn't been calling the Berserker an idiot, but the novice Spear wielder; he instantly forced his attention back to the fight, burying the flush of his own embarrassment.

  I should have caught that immediately.

  The Spear Fighter lunged, his weapon snapping back for another thrust. A blur of steel, the Berserker’s axe slammed up, deflecting the spear. The impact jolted the weapon skyward, its momentum carrying the fighter forward, off balance. Before he could recover, the Berserker’s second axe slashed at his exposed side. The fighter snapped his shield up, but the brute force swatted him aside. He reeled, shield clattering, stumbling back ten paces before finding his footing.

  "That's it! Crush him!" The drunk dwarf cheered, the drink from his mug, spilling on Alph's boots, his brows creased, but he didn't pay any more attention to the dwarf, instead he focused on the arena.

  The Spear Fighter recovered quickly, his shield snapping back into position. He feinted left, then lunged right, his spear a silver streak in the torchlight. The Berserker twisted, his axes intercepting the strike with a shower of sparks. The two combatants locked together, steel grinding against steel, their breaths coming in ragged gasps.

  Then, the Berserker shoved.

  The Spear Fighter stumbled back, his shield arm buckling under the force. The Berserker didn’t let up. He pressed forward, his axes a whirlwind of death. The Spear Fighter barely managed to keep his shield up, the impacts shaking his arms, his teeth gritted in pain.

  Alph’s fingers clenched at his side. He’s not just strong. He’s fast. Too fast.

  The Spear Fighter’s spear lashed out again, a desperate thrust aimed at the Berserker’s chest. The Berserker twisted, the spear grazing his side, drawing another line of blood. He didn’t even seem to notice. His axes came down in a brutal overhead chop, the Spear Fighter’s shield barely managing to deflect the blow.

  The crowd’s cheers were deafening now, a wall of sound that threatened to drown out everything else. Alph barely heard it. His focus was locked on the fight, on the way the Berserker moved, on the way his axes seemed to blur with his speed.

  Then, the Spear Fighter made his mistake.

  He overcommitted.

  His spear lunged forward, a desperate strike aimed at the Berserker’s throat. The Berserker didn’t even try to block. He leaned into it, letting the spear’s tip graze his shoulder before his axes came up in a brutal cross-slash.

  The Spear Fighter’s shield shattered.

  The crowd’s roar turned to a scream of approval as the Berserker’s axes bit deep, the Spear Fighter’s armor offering no resistance. Blood sprayed, dark and glistening, as the Spear Fighter staggered back, his shield arm hanging limp.

  Several minutes later…

  The crowd's cheers rose to a fever pitch as the Spear Fighter crumpled, his body hitting the sand with a dull thud. The Berserker stood over him, chest heaving, his axes slick with blood. Wounds gaped across his own flesh, oozing crimson, yet his face betrayed no pain. He hoisted his axes high, a wild grin stretching his lips, triumph burning in his eyes.

  The announcer's voice blasted across the pit, "Alright, folks, listen up; ladies, gentlemen, and anyone else who doesn't care for labels—your champion won!"

  The crowd erupted, their voices a storm of approval. The Berserker turned in a slow circle, soaking in their adoration, his axes still raised.

  Alph didn’t cheer. He didn’t clap. He just watched, his mind racing.

  I have an idea on what skills are easier to practice now. He turned around and followed the crowd as they exited the arena. It's easier to get my hands on a Sword or an axe but... His thoughts halted, just as his steps did.

  Why are there so many variants for Fighter profession? I should consult the Shaper before committing to the specific practice.

  His head was just spinning with thoughts. As Alph walked back toward the Grimforge District, the memories of Stoneford washed over him, and his eyes, hidden under his hood, got a little misty.