Prologue

Only in darkness can one truly see oneself. As a child, Brego Bloodthroat heard this saying from his swordsmanship mentor, but it took him most of his life to understand it.

Now, the long-awaited final is imminent. He had the guards extinguish the lights in the competitor's room and sat in the dark, with his great sword resting on his knees and his right hand fiddling with the prayer beads around his neck. When he left his hometown, he once swore that he would carve a cross on the prayer beads for every worthy opponent he killed. But after so many years, he gave up. Not only because there was no room left on the prayer beads for new carvings, but also because he realized that counting kills was nothing more than boastful vanity. Meaningless.

Ten years ago, when he was most proud of his count, Brego suffered a crushing defeat. Now, enclosed in the darkened room, the overwhelming darkness took him back to that memory. In a similarly unlit cave, soaked in cold and blood, as if wrapped in the coils of a giant python; all you can do is wait for death, lamenting that you cannot rest in the land of your native orc warriors. No matter how many crosses were carved on the prayer beads, they could not offset one foolish failure.

Outside was noisy. After all, several thousand people were bustling in the Gurubashi Arena, and even through the thick walls, Brego could barely hear his own breathing. There was no need. For him, seeing, hearing, and breathing could not prove that he was still alive. Only one thing could.

The door opened slowly, light poured in, shattering Brego's memories. He ended his meditation, opened his eyes, picked up his great sword, stood up and entered the arena.

As he appeared in the arena, a new surge of excitement erupted in the stands. There were cheers and boos, forming a wall of sound around the circular arena. This sound wall could crush the suffocating heat of Thorn Valley. He just casually flexed his wrist, and the great sword swings slightly, increasing the cheers. He did not dislike this feeling, although this was another form of vanity. No warrior could resist the temptation of the attention of thousands. But Brego hoped more that among these audiences of various races, there would be orcs from his native village. Even one would do. He needed witnesses.

On the opposite side, dozens of meters away in the competitor's preparation room, the door also opened. An ogre walked out. A different sound wave rose in the stands. Unlike Brego, who was bare-chested and armed only with a great sword, the ogre was impossibly fully equipped with various weapons and items. Daggers, hammers, short-handled axes, totems, poison jars, masks of different styles and colors, some tied around the waist, some stored in bone containers on the shoulders, and some attached to the outer sides of the calves. But for Brego, the most conspicuous was the ogre's right saber-toothed tiger, half of which was broken.

The saber-toothed tiger should have protruded outwards like the one on the left, then curled up until the tooth tip was almost at the same level as the eyeballs. But now it was only less than two inches long, like a short chair leg biting in the mouth. Yet on this broken tooth were carved a large number of ancient ogre witch doctor languages, forming a convoluted and intricate pattern.

Ten days ago, when he first saw this ogre, he recognized him. In his eyes, the faces of other races were easily confused, but he would not forget this broken saber-toothed tiger and the name of this ogre. He was surprised to find that this name had been widely spread, not only as a witch doctor but also as a gladiator. People had been talking from the beginning about whether there would be a warrior in this colosseum tournament who could stop the ogre from winning the championship.

Followingly, observers were surprised at Brego's appearance. Brego's process of rushing into the finals was no more difficult than stepping over a small ditch. The audience enjoyed watching bloody fights, counterattacks on the brink of life, and even the surrender of the wounded all over. But in Brego's games, they never saw it. Paying two silvers each time but only being able to watch a match that lasted less than a minute made them dissatisfied, and this dissatisfaction was precisely the proof of Brego's strength. By the finals, the popular argument gradually changed to whether the ogre could stop Brego from winning the championship.

The ogre looked up and waved at the audience. Obviously, he enjoyed the audience's attention more than Brego. Brego could accept this difference.

If he could not get the recognition of his hometown, then at least he should get the recognition of his lifesaver. There was only one way to gain this glory.

The two warriors walked towards each other.