Osric returned to the abandoned stone building just before dusk.
This time, he didn't hesitate at the entrance.
The alley was the same—narrow, foul-smelling, easy to disappear into—but Osric walked it with steady steps, cloak drawn close, coin pouch secured beneath it. His body still carried stiffness from the past days, a dull reminder that healing was not the same as being whole.
But it was enough.
He had tested himself that morning. Slow movements. Controlled breathing. No sharp pain, no weakness that made him falter. Whatever he lacked in experience, he would not lack awareness.
Inside, the underground arena felt smaller than it had the night before.
Not because it had changed—but because Osric had.
He paid nothing at the door this time. Fighters didn't.
The crowd was thinner early in the evening, restless rather than roaring. Fights came in uneven waves here, dictated less by order and more by who was still standing and willing to bleed.
Osric stayed near the edge of the chamber, eyes moving constantly.
He wasn't searching for courage.
He already knew who he wanted to face.
A fight broke out in the pit—two men neither of whom Osric recognized. It was sloppy and loud, driven by exhaustion more than intent. When it ended, one man remained standing, chest heaving, blood running freely down his side.
The win was obvious.
So was the damage.
The man barely made it out of the pit before collapsing onto a bench, attendants dragging him back as the crowd groaned in disappointment.
The announcer clicked his tongue and raised a hand.
"Winner's done," he called. "We need another."
A murmur passed through the room.
Then a man stepped forward and dropped into the pit.
Osric's focus sharpened instantly.
Late twenties. Lean frame. No real muscle definition. The same man from the night before—the one who had won by desperation rather than skill.
His intended target.
The man rolled his shoulders once, loose but unconfident, eyes scanning the crowd like he already knew what was coming.
The announcer grinned and gestured outward. "Who wants him?"
Three hands went up.
One belonged to a scarred man with confident posture and a knowing smile—experienced, hungry for an easy win.
Another belonged to a fighter Osric vaguely recognized. Someone middling. A mix of wins and losses. Careful.
The third was Osric's.
No shout. No bravado.
Just a raised hand.
The man in the pit studied them one by one.
His gaze lingered on the scarred fighter only briefly before sliding away. Too dangerous.
The second earned a longer look. Calculated. Uncertain.
Then his eyes settled on Osric.
Young. Plain. Unproven.
The man smiled.
"I'll take him."
A ripple of reaction passed through the crowd—disappointment, interest, indifference—all of it meaningless.
Osric lowered his hand and moved forward.
As he stepped toward the pit, his heartbeat quickened—not with fear, but with clarity.
This was it.
Not long ago, he wouldn't have raised his hand at all.
He hadn't forgotten that.
'I might be wrong,' he reminded himself.
Then he stepped down into the stone ring.
They stood facing each other in the pit.
The noise of the crowd pressed in from all sides, a low, restless hum that seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath Osric's boots. Sweat and heat hung heavy in the air. Torchlight flickered across scarred walls and older stains.
Osric breathed slowly.
He felt calm—but beneath it lay uncertainty.
'I don't actually know how strong I am.'
Across from him, his opponent looked down with thinly veiled disdain. The man's shoulders were loose, posture careless, confidence bordering on arrogance. He didn't see Osric as a threat.
The announcer raised his voice.
"Start!"
The fight began instantly.
Osric brought his hands up, forearms tight against his face, elbows tucked in the way he had seen others do. It felt awkward. Unnatural.
His opponent didn't hesitate.
He charged forward and threw a straight punch directly into Osric's guard.
The impact jolted through Osric's arms and into his skull.
Pain flared.
Sharp. Real.
His breath hitched as surprise cut through his composure.
'That… still hurts.'
In that instant, Osric realized he had trusted the system too much. Pain Resistance didn't mean immunity. Getting hit was still getting hit.
His opponent pressed the advantage immediately, throwing consecutive punches in quick succession. Sloppy. Overcommitted. But heavy.
Osric kept his guard up, absorbing the blows. Each strike hurt, rattling his arms and shoulders, but he didn't fold. He didn't break.
And then he understood.
'I can take this.'
The realization steadied him.
He waited.
Another punch came—slower this time. Wider.
Osric slipped to the side and drove a right hook into his opponent's body with everything he had.
The impact landed solidly.
The man let out a guttural groan, saliva spraying from his mouth as his body folded instinctively.
Both of them froze for half a heartbeat.
Osric felt it—the force behind his own strike—and his eyes widened.
His opponent felt it too.
Osric didn't hesitate.
He followed up with a left hook to the face.
The man's head snapped sideways.
Before he could recover, Osric stepped in and swept his right leg low.
Already off balance, the man had no chance. His legs were taken out from under him and he fell hard, landing on his ass with a stunned expression.
Osric stared.
'That was… easy?'
The thought barely finished forming before instinct took over.
He stepped forward and swung his leg with full momentum, driving his foot into his opponent's head.
The impact was decisive.
The man went limp instantly.
Silence hit the room—then chaos.
Some of the fifty-plus people in the chamber erupted into cheers, thrilled by the sudden, brutal finish. Others cursed loudly, furious at their lost bets. A few stayed quiet, watching Osric with narrowed eyes.
Osric stood over the unconscious body, chest rising and falling, expression caught between shock and relief.
He finally understood something.
Not everything—but enough.
His strength wasn't imaginary. His stats mattered.
Still, he didn't let it go to his head.
One win was enough.
Osric stepped back, signaling he was done.
For now.