Why the hell didn't you wrap your fists?! – yelled one of the betters who'd clearly backed the tall
True enough, Jacob was relying solely on what the gods had given him. Which meant he was clearly at a disadvantage against a guy with actual gear — barely decent, but gear nonetheless. One swing slammed into Jacob's crossed arms — a solid block — and pushed him back a step.
That's it! Go for his liver, it's already halfway falling off!
I never liked Especially lamb's...
NOBODY CARES! WATCH THE FIGHT!
The chatter swirled around the ring like drunken birds, and I'll admit, I got caught up in it too. Leaning forward, I started rooting for Jacob.
He moved like a coiled spring, always on his feet, never still for a second — not bad for a guy built like a siege tower. His opponent? What'd you expect from a guy called Brushstroke who looked like an overripe pear? He just kept charging forward, eating hits to his three-times-broken nose like he was begging for a fourth.
Jacob landed a clean one-two and sprang back, just missing a fist that flew past his ear. The crowd gasped — most of them were backing the champ, who carried the biggest pile of bets. Me? I was stuck between loyalties: on one hand, I needed Jacob's good graces. On the other — wouldn't mind making some easy coin.
What? A little selfish interest never killed anyone. Jesh wouldn't be mad about a quick profit. And if he was? Not my problem!
A massive, sandbag-weighted fist slammed into Jacob's shoulder, and I swear, it looked like the bone was about to crack.
But nope — held strong! Sand burst from Ezron's hand-wraps, and Jacob scooped some mid-air, smeared it across his face, licked it, bared his sharp teeth, and growled. Whoa! Even brute-force Ezron flinched at that. In the half-second pause, Jacob landed a left hook to the temple, and—
He's still up?! Holy hell, he's still standing! – someone near me screamed, slapping me on the back. – Did you see that?! No wonder he's the champ — how the hell is he not down?!
Ezron really was showing his armored ogre form — even after another clean shot to his already- mangled nose, he didn't faceplant. On the contrary, he let out a snarl and tried to kick Jacob's calf, but misjudged his own sluggish bulk and only managed to kick... air.
No legs! That was the deal! Fists .. please, dear guys! – The Organizer was screaming.
The fight was in full swing. The blows were flying, and the crowd was starting to lose its collective mind. A few steps from me, something suddenly kicked off.
Not because of the match itself — no, one particularly sensitive gentleman didn't like the way the guy next to him was breathing too loudly. Naturally, they grabbed each other by the throats and
started choking. Others jumped in to break it up, but then they started arguing too, and voilà — a classic tavern brawl broke out. Only this one came with fresh air and possible health benefits.
I probably should've gotten the hell out of there — but yeah, didn't quite make it.
One scumbag spotted that I was the only one not in a defensive stance and thought, "Bingo! Easy target." He jumped in and tried to smash me from above like he was holding a beer mug. But guess what, sunshine — you ain't got no mug, but you do have balls. And guess where my knee went?
Right there. Cracked that shell like a breakfast egg.
No time to celebrate my little victory. The chaos surged, someone shoved me hard, and I stumbled straight into the ring.
And froze in sheer terror — because something very painful slammed right into my solar plexus. Judging by the pain? Pretty sure that was a Brushstroke punch.
WHAM. And then: UGH.
That second sound came from me, gasped out as I staggered like a sleepwalker, managing a few dazed steps before collapsing near the wall. My mouth flapped uselessly, trying to suck in some life- giving air. Everything was flickering and shifting — guess the stars had decided to grace me with their presence and were gently whispering, "You're coming with us, buddy."
Oy vey! That fucking hurts.
The Organizer appeared beside me, slapping my cheeks and shouting:
Get up, sir, get up! It's over, you've won! Jacob is defeated!
Won? What the actual hell?! I could barely tell if I'd ever walk again!
So no, I wasn't exactly in a rush to collect my prize. I just kept lying there, broken. And got robbed, naturally…
One of the little weasels that had been scavenging the crowd during the riot got bold when he saw me down for the count. He walked right up, no shame, pulled the last few coins from my pouch, and bowed with this theatrical look of regret and sympathy.
Well... thanks for that, kind soul.
My stomach lit up with a whole new color palette, and I realized that punch was about to make me vomit. Which I did. And hey — felt a bit better afterward. But not for long.
The light above me vanished. Something huge and ominous loomed overhead. Why ominous? No need to explain — it grabbed me and yanked me upright.
By now I could sort of speak again, and I was just about to try and chat with Jacob (yep, it was him!), but he beat me to it. A huge gash above his left eyebrow was leaking most of his life juice, and his nose looked like a tribute act to Brushstroke's former face.
He looked like crap. Just like me.
The difference was: he could beat me into meeting my least favorite ancestors. I, on the other hand, couldn't do shit to him. And he knew it. And used it. Thoroughly.
I .. I don't get it... why? Why didn't you believe in me? Did I ever give you a reason to doubt me?
Stunned and battered, all I managed to mumble was:
What? Where? Why?
I heard before the fight that you'd bet a huge sum against me. And suddenly, a terrible doubt crept into my soul: this guy knows He's analyzed my strengths and weaknesses and concluded I'm going to lose. That killed my fighting spirit. Right then and there, I knew I'd lose. Your lack of faith — these bruises. You faithless bastard! You've got me mixed up with someone else! I'm And seriously — let me go. I need to collect my winnings.
Jacob wiped his eyes, where the first little crystals of male tragedy had begun to form, and shook his head mournfully.
I already did that. I had
What do you mean "you did"? That's my money!
The walking tree with the shaggy beard dramatically placed one hand on his forehead, then on his heart.
It would've been If you'd bet fair — a shekel, maybe two. But if you're putting in that kind of money, then you were clearly in cahoots with Brushstroke. You drugged me before the fight, made me weak. You wanted me to lose.
Is it even possible to inject doubt into a person? – I asked
In response, he grabbed me and slammed me against the wall a few times. With feeling, I might add.
Quit hitting me! I didn't conspire with your opponent! Give me my money! – I howled in
I won't. You didn't earn
Then go see He wants to meet you. He knows Mary, so you can trust him. The rabbi's interested in you.
Who the hell is he?
You'll But once you meet him, you'll start losing a lot less.
Just tell me where to go. But if you lie to me one more time, I'll throw you into the ring with Brushstroke.
Everyone's always threatening me…
And I really meant it. I was sick of all this aggression!