Chapter 10: A Chance [2]

Chapter 10: A Chance [2]

The absence of weapons meant that every strike, every blow, would be delivered with nothing but the power of their own fists. The arena was a stark contrast to the outside world, a place where violence reigned and bloodshed was celebrated.

Demitas glanced around, his eyes taking in the cage that enclosed the battleground. It was a formidable structure, imposing and unforgiving. The metallic bars gleamed in the dim lighting, serving as a reminder of the brutality that awaited them. The crowd was hungry for carnage, craving the sight of combatants locked in a deadly dance of fists and fury.

It wasn't just about overpowering the opponent with sheer force; some fighters resorted to hindering their enemies, seeking to incapacitate them through cunning tactics. They would strike with precision, targeting vulnerable areas to weaken and subdue their adversaries.

In this unforgiving environment, the spectators not only reveled in the violence but also sought to profit from it. The arena transformed into a hub of gambling and betting. Onlookers eagerly placed their bets, wagering their money on the fighters they believed would emerge victorious.

The stakes were high, and the potential winnings enticed a flurry of wagers, adding an element of risk and excitement to the already intense battles. For those who accurately predicted the winners, their pockets grew heavier with each triumphant fighter.

Among the betters, a lively discussion ensued, the topic of conversation being Misli's defeat. One bearded man, with a tinge of disappointment in his voice, lamented the loss of his wager. "Hey, have you heard? Misli was defeated. I lost money on that guy," he declared, his disappointment evident.

A burly man nearby expressed his surprise. "Really? I thought he was the strongest in their team!" he exclaimed, shaking his head in disbelief.

With the arrival of Demitas, the atmosphere shifted. Cheers erupted from the crowd, although they carried a distinct tone of disdain and ridicule. Some scoffed, believing his strength to be inferior, while others reveled in the prospect of witnessing a formidable display of power.

The man in the center, seizing the opportunity to enlighten his fellow betters, pointed toward Demitas with a smirk. "That's him! The strongest of Misli's team," he announced.

The burly man, undeterred by the jeers and mockery, seemed to be fueled by newfound enthusiasm. "Oh, that's him? Well, let's bet on him!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with energy and determination. Eager to place his faith in Demitas, he prepared himself to join the ranks of the hopeful betters.

Meanwhile, Demitas's gaze fell upon the arena where the forthcoming battle would take place. His eyes scanned the bloodied floor, bearing witness to the remnants of past fights.

Dried blood stains adorned the surface, serving as haunting reminders of the brutality that unfolded within the confines of the ring. Among the sanguinary remnants, a solitary tooth lay discarded, a stark symbol of the violence and pain endured by those who dared to enter.

A sense of unease settled within Demitas as he observed the neglected state of the ring. It was clear that the authorities had not taken the time to clean or sanitize the arena, leaving it in a grim and unclean condition.

Demitas, hardened by his life as a slave, had become accustomed to filth and grime. The dusty and squalid conditions they endured daily had taken their toll on his appearance. His feet and skin, once fair, had turned a deep shade of black from the accumulated dirt and dust.

Living in a place devoid of proper sanitation and lacking the luxury of bathwater, Demitas and his fellow slaves had no means to cleanse themselves adequately. Their bodies bore the marks of labor and deprivation, with sweat and grime becoming a constant companion.

The only respite they found was in the meager supply of drinking water, less than a liter each, hardly enough to quench their thirst, let alone wash away the layers of dirt that clung to their skin. Demitas had long accepted his fate as a slave and the harsh reality of their circumstances.

Demitas glanced across the ring, locking eyes with his opponent. Berthold stood tall and confident, surrounded by his enthusiastic supporters who chanted his name with fervor.

Berthold!

Berthold!

Berthold!

Berthold!

The voices of Berthold's fans were overpowering, their cheers drowning out all other sounds. The sheer volume of their support impressed Demitas, acknowledging the popularity and adoration that Berthold had garnered. It was clear that he had a strong following, with his fans unwavering in their loyalty and vocal in their encouragement.

The oppressive looks cast by the onlookers served as a reminder of the harsh reality of their circumstances. The arena encompassed a diverse array of individuals, each with their own motivations and stakes in the fights. Among them were regular villagers, drawn to the excitement of the battles, placing modest bets with the coins they could afford to wager. Their eyes fixated on the cage, hoping for a thrilling spectacle and a chance to increase their meager fortunes.

However, Demitas also noticed a different breed of spectators among the crowd—the wealthy gamblers who occupied the prime seats at the top of the arena. Nobles with excess wealth to spare, they relished the opportunity to partake in high-stakes gambling and bet on the outcomes of the battles unfolding before them.

From his vantage point, Demitas could see some of these affluent spectators in the slave master's viewing room. Their presence was marked by the swirling tendrils of smoke emanating from their mouths as they indulged in the pleasures of fine cigars.

Soon, both the fighters tightly wrapped a rope around their fists, securing them in place. Babyface stood by Demitas, assisting him in preparing for the upcoming fight. His hands moved with practiced precision, ensuring that Demitas' gloves were properly fitted and tightly secured, ready to absorb the impact of their punches.

"Fighters get ready! You will fight till one surrenders or is unconscious. You already know the rules! Now, ready and fight!"

The announcer's booming voice echoed through the arena, sending a surge of adrenaline through Demitas' veins. He locked eyes with Berthold, their gazes filled with determination and a hint of primal aggression.

As the crowd roared in anticipation, the fighters readied themselves for the impending clash.