Osric didn't leave the ring.
The noise hadn't even settled when he lowered his hand again. His chest rose and fell steadily, but the heat clung to his skin, sweat already cooling in places it shouldn't. He could feel the first fight in his arms—not pain, not yet, but weight.
Around him, the crowd shifted.
This time, no one laughed.
A second fight meant something different.
Osric remained in the ring as four hands rose from the crowd.
He forced himself to slow his breathing and study them carefully. This wasn't like the first fight. This choice would decide whether tonight ended in growth—or regret.
The first man was a veteran, his build dense and hardened by years of fighting. The way he stood, relaxed and confident, made Osric dismiss him immediately. Experience like that, paired with real skill, was a risk he couldn't afford with this being his second fight.
The second volunteer was impossible to miss. He was huge—broad shoulders, thick arms, and a torso built to absorb punishment. His strength and endurance were infamous, and though his movements were slow and his stamina poor, he had never lost. Every opponent who stepped into the ring with him had eventually been knocked unconscious. Osric crossed him off just as quickly. He wasn't confident he could weather that kind of pressure or escape those fists long enough to win.
The third fighter drew murmurs from the crowd. A popular newcomer, only a few weeks ahead of Osric in the ring, yet already undefeated. He didn't look imposing, but his posture was balanced, his movements sharp. Average strength, average endurance—but exceptional agility, good stamina, and a level of polished technique Osric didn't yet possess. The lack of information bothered him most. Fighting someone so refined, especially as a second match, carried too many unknowns.
That left the fourth man.
He was also a veteran, though not a celebrated one. His record was uneven—he had lost slightly less than half of his fights—and his stamina was poor. Still, he had solid strength, good endurance, and decent agility. More importantly, he was known for one thing above all else: crushing newcomers. It wasn't skill that made him dangerous, but experience. He knew how rookies moved, how they panicked, how they made mistakes.
Osric's jaw tightened.
It wasn't an easy choice, but it was the right one.
He raised his hand and pointed to the fourth fighter.
Based on everything he knew, this was the best option. The stats were manageable, the risks calculated. Beating a veteran—even one with a flawed record—would be a significant step forward. It would prove something, not just to the crowd watching with growing interest, but to the System itself.
And Osric was certain of one thing.
If he won this fight, the rewards—both seen and unseen—would be worth it.
The fourth fighter stepped into the ring with a slow, practiced ease.
He wasn't rushed. Wasn't eager. His eyes swept the space once, then settled on Osric with open appraisal—measuring height, reach, posture. A veteran's habit.
The crowd reacted immediately.
Some murmured in recognition. Others leaned forward. The rookie crusher wasn't flashy, but everyone knew what he did to newcomers who misjudged him. This wasn't a mismatch. It was a test.
Osric met the man's gaze without flinching.
Up close, the difference in experience was obvious. The veteran's stance was loose but grounded, weight centered, hands low but ready. He didn't posture. Didn't threaten. He simply stood there, confident in repetition—hundreds of fights distilled into muscle memory.
Osric adjusted his footing.
Not consciously.
Combat Instinct nudged him half a step wider, heels lighter, knees softer. He felt where the man wanted him to stand—and refused it. His guard stayed compact, elbows in, chin tucked.
The veteran noticed.
One brow lifted slightly.
Interesting.
"Second fight already?" the man asked, voice calm. Almost amused.
Osric didn't answer.
Silence stretched between them, thick and deliberate. The torchlight flickered, shadows shifting across scarred stone and scarred skin alike. Somewhere behind them, a coin clinked as someone placed a late bet.
The bell hadn't rung yet.
This moment—before motion, before impact—was where experience usually crushed confidence.
But Osric didn't feel small.
He felt ready.
The veteran rolled his shoulders once and raised his hands, finally settling into a true guard.
Osric mirrored him.
The crowd quieted, sensing it.
Two fighters. Two paths.
And no way out once it began.
The bell rang.
The veteran moved first—but only barely.
A half-step forward. A faint shift of weight. Just enough to suggest commitment without actually giving any.
Osric felt it immediately.
Not danger.
Invitation.
The man's guard was open in places it shouldn't have been. His lead hand drifted low, ribs slightly exposed, chin turned just enough to look careless. To a newcomer, it would have looked like an opening too good to pass up.
Osric didn't take it.
Combat Instinct stirred, quiet but firm. Wrong timing. Not a warning—an understanding. The kind that settled into his bones before his mind could argue.
The veteran's eyes flicked, barely noticeable.
'So you're not rushing.'
He tried again.
A sharper feint this time. The veteran stepped into Osric's range and pulled back instantly, testing reaction speed. When Osric didn't bite, the man followed with a slow, deliberate jab—meant to be blocked, not to land.
Osric shifted instead.
The punch brushed past his guard, missing by inches. He didn't counter. Didn't chase.
The crowd murmured.
The veteran smiled faintly.
"Careful," he said, voice low. "Thinking too much gets you hurt."
Osric said nothing.
The next exchange was more deliberate. The veteran pressed forward with measured steps, forcing Osric to give ground. Each movement was calculated—not aggressive, not passive. He wanted Osric backed toward the edge of the ring, where panic tended to creep in.
Osric adjusted his angle instead, circling sideways rather than retreating straight back.
Good.
The veteran threw a heavier strike this time—a looping right aimed at Osric's guard. It was slower than it looked, deliberately so. A test. If Osric blocked too hard, overcommitted, the follow-up would come fast and brutal.
Osric let the punch glance off his forearm and rolled with it, dispersing the force.
No counter.
The veteran's smile faded a fraction.
He changed tactics.
This time, he surged forward suddenly, closing distance and crowding Osric's space. His shoulder clipped Osric's chest, not enough to hurt, but enough to disrupt rhythm. A common trick—make the rookie uncomfortable, force a messy reaction.
Osric stumbled half a step.
On purpose.
The veteran took the bait instantly, driving in with a short hook meant to punish the mistake.
Osric slipped under it.
The motion was smooth—too smooth. His body reacted before thought, feet adjusting, torso twisting just enough that the punch passed over his shoulder.
Combat Instinct flared—not loud, not dramatic.
Now he could see it.
Osric didn't strike.
Not yet.
The veteran pulled back, eyes narrowing for the first time.
He had expected panic.
Expected desperation.
Instead, he was being watched.
Truly watched.
"You're not moving like a rookie," the man muttered.
Osric felt his pulse steady.
Every feint now stood out clearly. Every attempt to lure him into overextending felt obvious in hindsight—like watching someone set traps in daylight.
The veteran exhaled slowly and finally raised his guard higher.
The game changed.
No more invitations.
No more tests.
He stepped in with real intent this time, weight grounded, fists tight, strikes shorter and more efficient. Osric was forced to work now—dodging, blocking, redirecting. Each movement cost him something, but none of it felt wasted.
He wasn't being overwhelmed.
He was being challenged.
The crowd's noise softened, attention sharpening. They could feel it too—the shift from spectacle to contest.
Osric absorbed a glancing blow to the shoulder, rolled with it, and answered with a sharp jab that snapped the veteran's head back just enough to register.
The man grunted—not in pain, but surprise.
He hadn't expected that.
They separated again, both breathing harder now.
Sweat ran into Osric's eyes. His muscles burned—not from exhaustion, but from restraint. From holding back when instinct screamed to press forward.
This fight wouldn't be won by rushing.
It would be won by breaking rhythm.
By forcing the veteran to make the mistake he'd spent years punishing in others.
Across from him, the veteran settled deeper into his stance, expression no longer amused.
No longer dismissive.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's see what you've really got."
Osric tightened his fists.
The real fight was just beginning.
And this time—
He was ready for it.