The Might of One

"I stand here, ready to accept your challenge at any time," Barlock said calmly.

"Barlock, don't..." Barotan began, but Barlock interrupted him.

"Barotan, I appreciate your concern, but I must do this. I cannot stand by while our people suffer. I will face this challenge," Barlock replied firmly.

Barotan sighed, knowing he couldn't dissuade Barlock. "Fine, but be careful. Sert is a demon in the arena. He knows every rule and every trick. It's not just about strength; it's about skill and instinct. He's been fighting in the arena for almost half his life. You might not stand a chance against him."

Barlock nodded, understanding the risks. "I know what I'm doing. Trust me."

As Barlock stepped into the arena, the crowd stirred with anticipation. It had been a long time since Sert had fought personally, and everyone, from guards to trainers to slaves, gathered to witness this spectacle. Barlock's earlier display of strength had impressed them all, and they were eager to see if he could match Sert in combat.

Sert approached Barlock, sizing him up. "You're the challenger. How do you want to fight? Bare-handed, with weapons, archery, mounted combat... or perhaps a fight to the death in the arena with beasts? It's your choice."

Barlock shrugged. "I'm just a guest here. You're the host. You decide."

"Very well. Let's make this a grand spectacle before the main event! I declare that the winner will receive twenty gold coins," Lord Delta announced, placing his money pouch on the table.

This was no small fortune. A skilled gladiator could be bought for three to five gold coins. Twenty gold coins could provide a comfortable life for an ordinary family in the capital for several years.

Sert smirked. He didn't care for gold. All he cared about was the thrill of battle, and in Barlock, he saw a worthy opponent.

Barlock, on the other hand, wasn't offended by Sert's arrogance. Whether he was a free man or not, he was confident in his abilities. He nodded and said loud enough for everyone to hear, "Very well. This money will provide better clothes and food for my people."

Confidence or arrogance? Only time would tell. Sert had some brains after all. Since Barlock had the king's decree, Sert couldn't kill him. "Let's use blunt wooden weapons, then. But be warned, broken limbs are inevitable. Be prepared!"

Barlock nodded in agreement. Soon, two black wooden swords and shields were brought out. These weapons were made of a special black wood, sturdy and heavy like iron.

The spectators cleared the arena and took their seats in the stands. Barlock's people watched from behind a barricade, worried about their leader's safety. The joy of their reunion was overshadowed by the fear of what might happen next.

Sert and Barlock faced each other, each armed with a sword and shield. They took their positions, several dozen paces apart, and locked eyes.

Lord Delta tossed a towel into the arena, signaling the start of the fight. As soon as it hit the ground, both Barlock and Sert sprung into action!

In a duel between two fighters, the dynamics were different from those of a small army. The arena was confined, and there was no need for complex commands. They were to test each other's speed, strength, and seize opportunities for attack, sometimes purely driven by instinct. When their shields clashed forcefully, their swords aimed downward at exposed thighs. A dull thud resonated as the sturdy wooden swords met, neither breaking.

Their swords halted by the impact, their left arms slightly numbed from the shield clash, the two fighters pushed each other away, cautiously assessing each other. Having tested each other's speed and strength, they found themselves evenly matched. Both sought weaknesses, occasionally engaging in a strike before retreating.

The atmosphere in the stands grew somber, as the audience seemed disappointed by the lack of expected bloodshed. However, the seasoned gladiators saw something shocking in Barlock and Sert's duel. The fact that Sert, the demon of the arena, was forced to be cautious spoke volumes about Barlock's formidable combat skills. He effortlessly evaded several sneaky and subtle attacks by Sert, as if he had anticipated them all along. Instead, Barlock countered, leaving Sert thwarted.

Those were secret techniques passed down among gladiators, rarely mastered due to the immense experience required. Sert had spent decades in the arena, so it wasn't surprising that he had learned them. But the real question was, how did a young orc like Barlock master these gladiatorial secrets?

Soon, however, the spectators were drawn back to the evolving situation in the arena. As both fighters realized they couldn't overcome each other, they abandoned their shields and wielded their wooden swords with both hands, viciously attacking each other. Blocks, slashes, clashes, and spins blurred their movements. Amidst the whirlwind of attacks, even Lord Delta, the grand knight, had to admit that in terms of sheer combat skills without resorting to aura, he was no match for either of them, and even holding out for ten rounds would be questionable.

The spectacle gradually became what the audience had hoped for: magnificent and exhilarating. They had forgotten about the surprising youthfulness of the orc. His performance, on par with that of a seasoned gladiator, was a delightful surprise. Lord Delta stroked his beard, suddenly having a thought... Perhaps bringing this orc into the arena performances would please the prince of Oderia!

Barlock conserved his strength, not revealing his full power. It wasn't his beastial combat aura or shamanic powers. Perhaps due to his formidable soul, amidst the frenzied exchange with Sert, he was even surprised to find himself able to observe Sert's expressions. This man was indeed a madman, completely engulfed in a frenzy, fighting purely on instinct, like a beast, more beastly than even an orc!

It was uncertain how many strikes they exchanged, but eventually, the sturdy wooden swords could no longer withstand the tremendous force. With a loud crack, they shattered. Sert, with his eyes glowing red, roared and lunged at Barlock, his fists flying towards him. But Barlock, with a steady gaze, shifted his left foot to sidestep, barely avoiding Sert's punch. At the same time, he swung his right fist fiercely towards Sert's left ribs. Reacting swiftly, Sert bent his arm, turning the punch into an elbow strike aimed at Barlock's forehead. However, Barlock also lowered his head, directing the force of his initial punch towards Sert's left ribs.

Sert, already an older man in his sixties, couldn't compare to the youthful vigor of Barlock. He had exhausted too much energy in their earlier weapon exchange, while Barlock was just warming up. Unable to evade completely, Sert felt his ribs numb, as if a crunching sound reverberated through him, then found himself involuntarily taking a step back.

But there was no room for mercy in the arena. Cold and ruthless, Barlock seized the opportunity, charging forward. He bent his left knee, ramming it fiercely into Sert's abdomen, then grabbed his shoulders with both hands, preventing him from falling due to the impact. With his left knee still raised, he struck again, and again, and again... until Sert, spewing blood from his mouth, his eyes losing their red glow and dimming, stumbled backward.

The arena fell silent. Then, a piercing roar erupted...!