Chapter 12: Vivian

  Ronen's fingers brushed against the blade. Beneath the cold steel, he felt a faint, rhythmic vibration—like a heartbeat, or a calling.

  No mercenary who lived by the blade could refuse a weapon that truly fit them.

  He gripped the hilt, raising the short sword known as "Snow Poem" before his eyes. The layered steel patterns resembled the grain of ice, shimmering with a frigid light in the dim shop. He flicked the blade with his finger.

  Zing—

  The sound was long and mournful. It didn't sound like clashing metal; it sounded like a lone wolf on the Great Snowfields howling at the moon.

  It was a magnificent sword. Ronen wasn't a veteran yet, but his training with the legion had taught him how to judge steel. "Snow Poem" wasn't a legendary relic of old, but it was sharp, resilient, and perfectly balanced—a companion that could walk a warrior through a lifetime of winters. With the right craftsman or rare materials in the future, it could even be reforged into something greater.

  For a mercenary just starting his journey, such a blade was an impossible temptation.

  Suddenly, a tsunami of cheers erupted from the arena. Ronen turned to see Vivian's raised arm standing like a banner against the wind, while below, a forest of frantic arms waved like a storm-tossed sea.

  He wanted to stand there. He wanted to be hailed.

  The blood of a fighter flowed through his veins, and his instincts were screaming in response.

  He wanted to be a hero.

  At that moment, Alter gently pressed the crystal vial of emerald liquid into his hand.

  "The rules are simple. Stand up there and make them remember the name—Ronen."

  The last of his hesitation was blown away by those words.

  Ronen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Missions, responsibilities, unknown dangers... all the noise was stripped away. The world went silent, leaving only his heartbeat resonating with the hum of the sword.

  When he opened his eyes again, the amber of his pupils held no more doubt.

  There was only a prairie fire.

  He turned to Alter, his voice low but striking like iron nails driven into the air:

  "How do I sign up?"

  Beneath the Imperial Capital lay organizations that never saw the light of day yet held immense power. They gathered street orphans, battlefield captives, and desperate souls willing to pawn their lives for a chance to rise overnight. After years of brutal training, these people were ranked and sent into the pits—living chess pieces that bled and fought for the amusement of the elite.

  But it wasn't just these shadow organizations; many noble houses secretly bred their own "warriors."

  They selected promising youths from servants or cadet branches, teaching them the arts of slaughter alongside literature and etiquette. When these fighters stepped into the iron cage, they carried more than just their own lives; they carried the prestige of an entire lineage.

  When negotiations stalled and contracts couldn't be signed, combat became a different language. A "Duel Covenant" was often more binding than a court decree. Both sides sent representatives to settle terms with fists and blood—an elegant, cruel final arbitration sanctioned by the Empire.

  Thus, the audience never watched just for the gore. They watched the tilting of family fortunes, the division of trade monopolies, and the forging or breaking of secret alliances. The winner took all; the loser maintained a hollow grace, licking their wounds in the dark while waiting for the next turn of the wheel.

  For the fighters, this blood-stained stage was a ladder.

  Some fought to pay debts, some for freedom, some just to hear their names spoken aloud once before they died. A victor could leap to nobility, gold, and beauty in a single night. A loser became a crimson stain quickly washed away.

  And yet, they kept coming—because only here was destiny briefly, truly, in their own hands. Even if the fall followed a moment later.

  Of course, the stage Ronen was about to step onto wasn't quite that grand. This was just a typical night in the depths of the back alleys, an amateur pit fight that happened every day. No family honor, no imperial gambits—just raw desire colliding. The hunger for victory, the thirst for recognition, the obsession with "being remembered," and the frenzy of the gamblers.

  "And now, our next challenger is..."

  The announcer’s voice was a bronze bell, carving a rift through the din. He deliberately drew out the note, scanning his ledger with a playful smirk.

  "—a fresh face for the pits! From the White Tiger's Fang, the little cub—Ronen!"

  The crowd went silent for a heartbeat, followed by a wave of low laughter and murmurs.

  Ronen froze at the edge of the ring.

  He hadn't given the name of his legion—that profiteer Alter must have added it for flair. A chill ran down his spine; he could already hear Wolf’s lecture in his head.

  He closed his eyes, inhaled to push the stray thoughts down, and when he opened them, his boots were planted firmly on the wooden planks of the stage.

  Opposite him, Vivian stood with her arms crossed. Sweat tracked down her sharp jawline, and her damp hair clung to her temples. Surprise flashed in her eyes for a split second, quickly replaced by a knowing grin.

  "Oho," she tilted her head, her voice slightly raspy from the previous fights but still bright. "Is the little brother here to earn some pocket money?"

  Ronen gave a helpless half-smile. "Something like that." He looked up, his tone turning serious. "We have a journey tomorrow, Sister. Let’s keep it clean. Don't want to miss our departure."

  "Clean? That's the wrong mindset!" Vivian laughed, cracking her knuckles with a sound like snapping pine branches. "Once you're on my stage, I don't know the meaning of 'holding back.'"

  She turned to the referee and jerked her chin. "Can we start?"

  The referee’s raised arm swept down.

  "Begin!"

  The noise of the crowd receded like a tide. Ronen’s world shrank until only his opponent remained.

  His nervousness didn't vanish, but it settled into a sharp, clear calm. He realized then—this fight wasn't just about impulse or the sword.

  He needed this.

  Until now, his opponents had been either monsters or the seasoned veterans of the legion who always held back. They taught him technique and gave him experience, but every sparring match ended before it truly began. He had never fought an unknown opponent with everything he had.

  Tonight, on this stage, he would fight for himself for the first time.

  Even if only to see the limits of his own strength, it would be worth it.

  A fierce fighting spirit ignited in Ronen's eyes.

  "Then, please... show me what you've got!"

  Vivian's lips curved upward. She took a half-step forward with her left foot, sinking her weight. Her left hand unfurled like a wing in front of her, while her right palm rested loosely at her waist—a stance devoid of any wasted movement. A faint, pale gold light flickered in her eyes, creeping over her skin like something alive.

  Ronen moved.

  The moment his right foot kicked off the ground, he was a bolt from a crossbow, driving straight for her center. He was used to hunting beasts, and the iron rule of the wild was simple: break them before their claws can reach you.

  Fast. He had to be faster.

  But he was wrong.

  Vivian wasn't a beast. She was a warrior—one who knew how to wait, how to bait, and how to snap an opponent’s rhythm at the perfect moment.

  The instant Ronen entered her reach, her hovering left hand blurred.

  No wind-up, no warning. Just a precise, measured palm strike that caught him exactly between the eyes.

  Slap!

  It wasn't heavy, but it was crisp. His vision exploded into white. Ronen instinctively closed his eyes and raised his hands—too late. Darkness and a brief vertigo swallowed him, and the world was violently jerked away.

  Along with the darkness came the collapse of his balance.

  Vivian’s right hand was already waiting. It wasn't a reactive defense; it was a trap set from the moment they started. Her fist slammed like a sledgehammer into his unprotected solar plexus.

  "Ugh—!"

  The air was brutally driven from his lungs. Pain like a shattering ice pick pierced his torso. Ronen doubled over like a shrimp, his feet leaving the ground as he was sent flying backward, tumbling across the rough wooden floor before grinding to a halt.

  He curled on the ground, his breath coming in ragged, trembling hitches.

  The roar of the crowd felt muffled, as if he were underwater.

  Across the ring, Vivian didn't follow up. She simply returned to her original stance, watching him calmly. She had already fought several rounds; her stamina was flagging, and she was a woman—even a full-strength strike against a healthy Ronen wasn't enough to end it in one blow.

  Ronen slowly pushed himself up. He stood, shaking his head to clear the lingering dizziness.

  His vision sharpened. He wiped a smudge of blood from the corner of his mouth and looked across the ring.

  Ronen lunged again.

  This time, his eyes were locked onto Vivian’s shoulders and arms. He was measuring her reach, predicting the trajectory of her strikes.

  If she's more skilled, then I'll trade blow for blow. It was the crudest strategy, but perhaps the only effective one.

  "Brother," Vivian smiled, but instead of retreating, she stepped into his guard. "First lesson: people aren't standing wooden posts for you to hit."

  Before the words finished, she had slipped inside his predicted radius. Ronen’s punch whistled through empty air. Immediately, three precise, needle-sharp impacts stung his ribs.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  It wasn't brute force; it was penetration concentrated on a single point. Ronen grunted, staggering back.

  Vivian followed him like a shadow, her fist rising again for his face. This punch was faster, meaner, the whistle of displaced air screaming in his ear.

  But Ronen didn't close his eyes.

  The pain in his gut acted as an anchor, pinning him to the present moment. He twisted his hips, his right hand darting out like a lightning strike—and in the final heartbeat, he clamped his fingers firmly around her attacking wrist.

  Got you!

  His mind flared with hope. He yanked her toward him, twisting his entire body to use her momentum, attempting to heave her off the ground and slam her into the boards.

  But Vivian's reaction was terrifyingly quick. The moment her wrist was seized, she grabbed Ronen back, slapped her free palm against the floor, and used the leverage to flip. The second her toes touched the wood, she was stable again.

  They fell into a clinch—hands locked, faces so close they could see their own reflections in each other's eyes.

  The storm of blows began again.

  This time it wasn't a one-sided slaughter; it was a brawl.

  Punch, parry, dodge, counter—every second was a high-stakes tug-of-war of prediction and reaction. Stamina burned at a staggering rate.

  Ronen used his superior strength to press the attack, willing to take hits on his shoulders just to force her into a corner.

  Vivian moved like a butterfly through a thicket, dodging by hairsbreadths in the cramped space. She avoided injury at all costs, her strikes lethal but always keeping a margin of safety for herself.

  After several exchanges, Vivian’s breathing grew heavy. Sweat pooled at her brow and ran down her face.

  She tried to disengage, but Ronen's fingers were like iron shackles, locking her into this intimate dance of violence.

  "Sister," Ronen's voice came through jagged breaths, lit with a burning light. "You look like... you're reaching your limit."

  His offensive grew more ferocious.

  However, a faint glint of cunning flashed in Vivian’s eyes.

  She suddenly lashed out with a straight kick, her boot cutting through the air to find Ronen's chest. It was without warning. Though Ronen managed to throw up his arms to block, the penetrating force sent him reeling back, the wooden stage creaking under his boots.

  "Second lesson," her voice held a scorching battle-thirst and a touch of mockery. "Never let your guard down—until the end!"

  Before Ronen could stabilize, Vivian pounced like a predatory cat. Her right foot stepped on his left shoulder, her left knee pressed into his right, pinning him toward the floor like a lock. Her right fist was cocked back, screaming as it descended toward his face!

  Ronen’s pupils shrank. He crossed his arms over his head—

  BOOM!

  The impact left his forearms numb. He bared his teeth, forcing a sound from his throat:

  "Sister... your punch... isn't heavy enough."

  With a surge of strength from his core, he snapped upward like a bow released from tension, physically hurling Vivian off him.

  They stood apart once more, breathing hard, glares sharp as knives.

  Then, Vivian took a long, deep breath.

  She vanished.

  No, she didn't vanish—she was simply moving faster than Ronen's eyes could track.

  His vision blurred. In the next heartbeat, seven heavy, precise strikes hammered into his body almost simultaneously: neck, shoulders, knees, chest, temple. Each blow hit the junctions of his joints and vitals. The force vibrated through him—not breaking bones, but completely dismantling his control over his own muscles.

  Numbness flooded his limbs like a rising tide.

  And Vivian's final blow arrived on schedule.

  The familiar, suffocating pain returned to his abdomen. He was lifted off his feet, sailing through the air in a short arc, and slammed down hard—

  Outside the ring!!

  A cloud of dust rose.

  Ronen struggled to prop himself up, shaking his head. He tried to stand.

  "It's not ov—" He stopped mid-sentence.

  On the stage, Vivian stood still, the trace of a smile still on her lips. She wasn't looking at him; she was looking to the side.

  The referee raised his right hand high, his voice piercing the chaos:

  "Ronen is out of bounds! The winner—Vivian!"

  Cheers and jeers crashed over him like waves.

  Ronen knelt at the edge of the stage, looking down at his knees resting on the dirt outside the line. He looked up at the woman on the platform.

  She gave a small nod, the gold light fading from her eyes, leaving behind the quiet calm of a finished duel.

  "The match is settled, little brother."