---
Six hours earlier.
---
"Treyaro! Go and fight that guy," Zagressa ordered Cecil with a commanding tone.
The guy she was pointing to stood in the middle of a ring. Three men lay on the ground, bruised and bloodied, while people surrounding the improvised arena cheered—or despaired over the coins they'd lost or won from betting.
"Okay!" Cecil replied with a smile.
He was clearly in his element—a place where he could fight anyone he wanted. He left the tiger teacher and Alen behind and made his way through the crowd.
Cecil entered the ring as the three other fighters on the ground were dragged away by their fans.
"Huh? You get lost, kid?" asked the man Cecil had to beat—a tall, robust guy with a mustache—cracking his knuckles.
"I'm Cecil Treyaro, and I challenge you to a fight!" Cecil beamed a childish smile and bowed his head.
Silence...
"Ahahaha!"
Laughter erupted from the fighter's fans at the mention of Cecil's full name.
"Kid..." the fighter said with a slightly concerned voice, shaking his head. "You don't use your real name down here..."
Cecil tilted his head in confusion, but then shrugged and smiled again. "Really? Well, not that it matters. I came here to defeat you, and that's all I care about."
"Hey, kid! Go back home—this isn't where you belong!"
"Go back to suckin' on mom's tits if you don't wanna get hurt!"
Cecil didn't let the jeers bother him. To him, the only thing that mattered was the fight.
"Listen, kid. One fight—that's all I'll do," the fighter finally agreed.
"Thanks, old man!" Cecil grinned innocently, unaware of how much that comment stung.
"O-old man!? I'm only nineteen..." The fighter flinched and stumbled backward, covering his face with his hands. "Do I... really look that old?"
"You do look kinda old. That mustache doesn't help either. You treated me like a kid, so I thought you were way older," Cecil replied, hands on hips.
The fighter looked to the crowd—his fans.
"Why did none of you tell me!?" he asked, genuinely hurt.
"I thought you were in your thirties."
"I thought you liked being seen as a battle-hardened veteran. What man doesn't like being called 'mister' by a boy?"
"I thought you knew..."
His fans offered weak excuses, waving their hands.
"I do like being looked up to by younger people. Makes me feel like a hero..." The fighter covered his mouth with his hand, deep in thought.
"You change your mind way too fast!" one of the fans exclaimed in disbelief.
Seeing time slipping away, Cecil cleared his throat. "Ahem... so, what's your name?"
"Down here, I'm called Rumble. Because all my opponents are left shaking at the mere mention of my name," he said seriously.
"Weren't you called Rumble because the floor shakes when you walk, fatass?" one of the fans joked with a raspy voice.
"Ahaha!" Rumble's fans laughed and chugged their drinks in unison.
"That's a cool alias. How do I get one?"
"You have to earn it, kid!" Rumble replied, cheeks reddening as he tried to ignore his rowdy fans.
"Yeah, no more using your real name down here. Earn a true fighter's name."
The crowd's tone toward Cecil turned surprisingly kind.
"I'm getting tired of fighting stray fighters. So I'll end this quick," Rumble muttered.
Cecil didn't bother questioning the terms he didn't know. He was here for one thing and one thing only:
To fight.
He charged at his opponent.
By instinct, Cecil moved his hands to the side of his hips to unsheathe a sword—a sword that wasn't there, as fighters in this place weren't allowed to use weapons.
The motion left him wide open.
"You ran straight into it," Rumble whispered as he swung a fast, powerful punch.
Cecil's hands moved instinctively—an old sword-drawing motion, as if to parry. But this time, he held no blade. Still, his movements didn't falter.
His hands barely managed to block the punch. When it connected, he felt his entire body shake—rumble—from the impact.
It didn't stop there. Another punch came from the opposite side.
Cecil stepped back. But the second punch was a feint—a bait masking the real attack.
"Hurghk!"
A punch to the gut. He felt his organs bounce inside him as he was lifted slightly off the ground by the sheer force.
His body went numb.
"Goodnight, kid," Rumble mumbled, swinging again.
The horizontal punch struck Cecil's jaw.
In a flash, his world faded to black.
---
A few minutes later...
Cecil woke, surrounded by Rumble's fan group.
"You finally woke up."
"Man, not even a minute."
"He lasted longer than I expected. Pay up!"
"Fuck you, man!" An old man handed over a few silver coins.
"Suck it, freak. I knew I should trust my gut."
"Thank you very much," Cecil said, standing with help from some fans.
"Help? This ain't a charity, kid!" one fan snapped, only to get smacked on the back of the head by another.
"Shut up before I kick your wrinkly ass, old man."
"You kick his ass and a lot of—" smack! Another fan hit him too.
Cecil looked past the group and saw Rumble still in the arena, waiting for his next opponent.
The student pushed through the crowd and reentered the ring.
"Rumble, let's fight again!" Cecil beamed at the man who had just flattened him.
"Huh...? Kid, it was a one-time fight. I got other important things to do, so... get lost," Rumble replied, stroking his mustache.
"We can fight until you start your next match."
The crowd burst out laughing, their voices a mix of playful mockery and genuine encouragement for Rumble to take up the challenge again.
"Huh... okay."
"Thanks, Rumble!" Cecil smiled, readying himself again.
---
"Another loss, kid."
"How many times has he lost?"
"Six times, counting this one."
The crowd watched as Cecil stood up once more, thanking them for taking care of him.
They'd seen it repeatedly: Cecil challenged Rumble. Rumble accepted. Cecil lost. Repeat.
Even when people left to watch the main event—a kid challenging a Lord—Cecil stayed behind to fight Rumble again.
Rumble had wanted to see what the fuss was about, but Cecil insisted he go. "I'll be here," he said, "waiting to challenge you again."
Rumble, moved by Cecil's determination, stayed and kept fighting him.
Some fans left, but not all. The true Rumble fans who remained made sure to take care of Cecil after every knockout.
Some even became Cecil fans, secretly cheering for the kid who never stopped smiling, who never stopped fighting.
Cecil wasn't just retrying the same thing, hoping to get lucky. He was learning.
At first, he tried to forcibly suppress his muscle memory—the instinct to draw a sword that wasn't there. But that only made him worse. His movements grew sloppy. His hands, used to gripping a sword, felt empty and foreign.
Then, on one of his many failed attempts, a memory returned.
---
"C'mon, Cecil. Stand up!" A woman with long black hair barked at a five-year-old boy holding a wooden training sword bigger than he was.
"You were born with one purpose—to protect Prince Theodore. If you can't do that, you're denying your own existence!" the woman yelled, wielding her own wooden sword.
---
His mother's training filled his mind.
He was meant to protect the second prince of Raychmen. He was trained with the sword for that purpose.
But now? He was weak.
Fighting without a sword went against everything he knew. But Cecil blamed himself. If he was ever caught unarmed while protecting Theo, he'd be useless.
---
"This sword is not an object, Cecil. It's an extension of yourself. Controlling it should feel as natural as moving your own arm," his mother once said as he held his stance.
---
Cecil stopped fighting his instincts. Instead, he let them guide him.
He began to develop his own unarmed style of combat. A style born not from logic—but from pure muscle memory.
A style based on fast strikes, over before they even started.
Cecil adapted sword movements he had practiced time and time again.
"Guhk!" Rumble gasped for air as two quick jabs connected with his body.
"That kid... he's doing it," one of the fans said, watching Cecil inch closer and closer to a win against Rumble.
"He's just gonna win because he's tiring Rumble out," an old man who had stayed to watch them fight replied.
"Yeah, the kid's got way more energy than old man Rumble," another fan teased, grinning at the two fighters.
"I'm not old!" Rumble shot back, just before knocking Cecil out once again.
A few minutes later, Cecil stood up once more.
The fans tending to him began to cheer.
It was something Cecil wouldn't have noticed—he didn't think too deeply about things that didn't concern him—but he was forming a connection with those fans.
A connection strong enough to make them cheer for Cecil... even with Rumble still standing there.
"These guys..." Rumble muttered. His forehead was noticeably sweaty after all the rounds he had fought against the persistent kid.
And once again, the fight resumed.
Both fighters were exhausted from the nonstop brawling that had gone on all night.
Even when the earlier commotion ended and people returned to their places—talking about how a kid had become a Lord, or how Grandmaster Beritan had finally reappeared in the underground arena after years—Cecil and Rumble kept fighting.
But those who had just returned were quickly silenced by the ones who had stayed.
The fight had reached its climax.
Both fighters were tired—breathing heavily, struggling to keep their guard up.
Cecil took a deep breath and readied himself for one final confrontation.
He ran toward Rumble, his hands dropping to his hips, mimicking the draw of an imaginary sword.
Rumble wound up a punch, ready to counter whatever Cecil tried to pull.
They closed the distance in an instant—Rumble struck first.
Cecil raised his guard and 'parried' the punch with his forearm, just like he would with a sword.
Everything was set. The perfect condition.
Rumble's momentum from the failed punch left him exposed—close enough for Cecil to strike.
And strike he did.
Cecil drove a swift, heavy, and precise punch into Rumble's stomach.
"Haaa..."
Rumble let out a sharp gasp as all the air in his lungs left his body.
The two froze in place for a moment before Rumble's legs gave out. He dropped to his knees and turned to the side, clutching his stomach.
Cecil—sweaty, weakened, and worn out—raised his fist.
He had won.
The ones who had stuck around all this time rushed toward him, jumping on him with cheers and laughter, congratulating him like he was one of their own.
One of the fans even grabbed Rumble by the arm and dragged him into the celebration—making sure the fighter who lost knew he was still part of it too.