Osric didn't sleep well.
Each time he shifted on the blanket, his body reminded him of the night before—of clenched fists, missed blows, and the moment the fight had turned in his favor. When he finally sat up, the room felt smaller than usual.
He already knew where he would go tonight.
The words from last night lingered in his mind—not the cheers, not the coins, but the skill. Combat Instinct. A promise without instructions.
If it was real, he would find out soon enough.
By the time evening settled over Lowbrook, Osric was already moving.
The stiffness in his body hadn't faded during the day, but it no longer surprised him. He welcomed it, in a way. Proof that last night hadn't been a dream.
The abandoned stone building emerged from the dim streets like it always did—silent, forgotten, easy to overlook. Osric slipped inside without hesitation this time. No coin exchanged hands. No questions asked.
He was a fighter now.
The underground ring greeted him with heat and noise. Torchlight flickered against stone walls, illuminating sweat-slick bodies and eager faces packed shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick with iron and anticipation.
Osric didn't step forward immediately.
Instead, he leaned back against the wall and watched.
One fight ended quickly. Another dragged on, brutal and messy. Osric's eyes followed movement without effort—stance, balance, timing. He noticed things faster than before. Small mistakes. Brief openings.
Then he saw him.
The same fighter from yesterday.
Broad. Powerful. Enduring.
Osric watched closely as the man entered the ring again, replacing two fighters who could no longer stand. The scene mirrored the night before almost perfectly.
When the call for an opponent came, Osric raised his hand.
This time, no one laughed.
"You again," the man said, then nodded. "Fine."
Osric stepped into the ring.
His opponent entered from the opposite side, eyes already on him. Not mocking. Not bored.
Aware.
They had watched him fight yesterday.
Osric felt it immediately—the difference. The way the man's stance settled lower. The way his fists stayed closer to his face.
Confident, but cautious.
Good.
The bell rang.
The first few seconds stretched.
Osric moved—and stopped.
Not because he hesitated.
Because something inside him told him not to commit yet.
Combat Instinct.
It wasn't a voice. It wasn't a thought. Just a pressure, a sense of now is not the moment. His feet adjusted half a step without him deciding to do it.
The man lunged.
A heavy right, wide and powerful.
Osric didn't block.
He slipped to the side, just enough that the punch grazed air instead of bone. He felt the wind of it brush past his cheek.
Too slow.
Osric struck back immediately—two quick punches to the ribs. They landed with dull thuds, not deep enough to end anything, but enough to sting.
The man grunted and backed off a step, eyes narrowing.
So that's how it feels, Osric thought.
Not stronger.
Earlier.
The next exchange came fast. The strength fighter pressed forward, throwing weight behind every strike, trying to corner him. Osric kept moving. Each time his opponent shifted his weight too much, Osric was already gone.
He didn't think dodge now.
He just did.
A low kick skimmed past his thigh. A hook passed where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. Each near miss left a faint echo in his mind—a sense of that would have hurt.
Openings appeared.
Osric took them.
A jab to the nose. A punch to the liver. Another to the ribs. He didn't linger. Hit and move. Hit and move. Exactly as he had planned.
The crowd grew louder.
The man's endurance showed quickly. He absorbed the hits, muscles tightening, jaw clenched. He didn't slow much—but his frustration began to show.
He swung harder.
Wider.
That was the mistake.
Osric felt it before he saw it. A subtle imbalance. A step planted too deep.
Now.
He darted inside the man's reach and drove his shoulder into the chest, not to overpower him, but to disrupt him. Then a sharp strike to the side of the knee.
The man stumbled, caught himself, and roared as he swung down with both fists.
Osric rolled aside.
The stone cracked where the blow landed.
A murmur of surprise rippled through the ring.
Osric was breathing hard now, sweat stinging his eyes. His arms burned. His legs felt heavy. But the rhythm was his.
He kept at it.
Relentless.
Each time the man tried to close the distance, Osric punished him for it. Each time he overcommitted, Osric was already somewhere else. The damage added up—not devastating blows, but dozens of them.
Persistence.
The man's swings slowed.
Not by much.
Enough.
Osric ducked under a final wide hook and drove his fist into the man's jaw—not clean enough to knock him out, but clean enough to stagger him. Before the man could recover, Osric followed with another strike. Then another.
The strength fighter dropped to one knee.
The bell rang.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then the announcer raised his hand.
Osric stepped back, chest heaving, every muscle screaming. He hadn't won because he was stronger. He hadn't won because he was tougher.
He had won because he knew.
As he left the ring, a familiar flicker of blue appeared at the edge of his vision.
This time, Osric didn't look away.
[ New Challenge Triggered. ]
Objective: Win two consecutive fights in the underground ring.
Conditions:
– Fights must occur without extended rest.
– Both victories must be decisive.
Failure:
– Challenge terminated.
Reward:
– ???