Aaaaand we're back. With that I mean I and the youth. On the coliseum grounds. Standing there while the whole world jeered.
Or such I'd have believed I'd find. Yet that wasn't entirely the case. Sure, the anchorman tried his best in downplaying my chances.
But a part of the audience was different this time. There was much more variety I glimpsed upon. Members of the Races who, understandably, contradicted the squaller at every turn.
"Stemming from a personal request to put this lucky fighter to the test...," "Shameless!" "...we welcome our most honourable...,"
"Most brainless." "...most manly...," "Most chicken-breasted." "...most powerful champion..." "Of dirty play." "...to the ring! Let's welcome Boris Borinis!"
Even I down there smelled the stench of the darn anchorman's despair. He tried and tried... but got countered at every turn by a member of The Races who got such a powerful voice.
After rounds upon rounds of demeaning, this was a welcome turn of events. So much so that I only registered belatedly what it actually was he was saying.
"Darn... the champion? Test? Personal request?" If it didn't concern me, I'd have lost myself in laughter.
The organisers couldn't make their disapproval of my survival more evident, couldn't they? My thoughts were cut short by the appearance of a certain guff man.
Jumping from the spectators' stalls all the way down here on the platform, his impact unsettled the youth and my nose.
Reason being, he reeked of so much alcohol, there was simply no way in hell he could've given his best today.
As long as he didn't specialise in drunken martial arts... "Holy mackerel... that's one big-ass cleaver. Sure it's practical?"
"For the likes of you, every day!" The voice answering me was hardly understandable, each word so slurred it sent a shiver down my spine.
The visual combination coupled with his imposing physique was just this... unique. "What if you lose to the likes of me, huh?
Are you rising back up from the ground, continuing the annoyance even after death?" That smirk on his scar-covered face revealing some nasty brown stumps was wiped off.
Instead, belittlement turned to fury as he slurred away, "small, insignificant slave. This master... hiccup... crushes lizardmen... hiccup... in his sleep!"
Indeed, only in dreams would he. The moron... "Take... this." With greater speed than I thought possible, he swung the rusty cleaver my way.
The horizontal swipe whizzed past me as I bent forward, all four on the ground, the muscles gathering explosive strength.
A powerful push forward sent me straight into his blind zone. Boris only smirked in reaction, his other hand letting go of the cleaver as he targeted my head instead.
Arms crossed in front of my face, we clashed. The man sure packed a punch, quite random too, as his movements were rather unpredictable due to the heavy influence of alcohol.
Opposing inertia should've put his muscles under enough strain for me to react, but Boris simply let go of the cleaver with his other hand and caught the handle from the other side.
He was so fast the remaining push of the cleaver seamlessly incorporated more force into his other wide swing.
This time he hacked down, tearing a sizable hole into the sturdy rock below us. "Not with me, fucker. No, you seriously won't"
I had some recollection of similar fighting styles, so I foresaw him taking advantage of the weight and letting himself be dragged closer to me as I retreated.
The weakness was that he couldn't veer off the straight path, else his muscles wouldn't survive the crushing force he exercised.
Doing so in the face of a madly swinging cleaver was surely counter-intuitive for any random Tom, Dick or Jerry.
You'd rather increase the distance between yourself and a mighty cleaver as opposed to dancing around just where the brutal thing didn't reach.
Strangely enough, Boris didn't seem to mind. He even rode the inertia to its end, readying himself for a dash.
"You fucking... NO!" It was only now I understood what he had in mind. There was but one special person behind me.
A lifeform I absolutely had to protect against all costs. I got in motion fast, ignoring the awkward feeling of rupturing veins all over my leg muscles as I mercilessly pushed mana through.
I shot forward faster than ever, kicking him in the side so his swing got disrupted. I almost lost my battered coat as it billowed behind me.
Boris didn't intend to allow me to catch my breath, so I had to counter his mighty cleaver again. Barehanded.
The coat lost some more of its rather diminished dignity. "You awful little bastard." I cursed, veins bulging on my head as rationality tried to reason with instinct.
"Fucking little shit...!" Boris grinned again, believing himself on the winning side. I was forced to admit, the man had a good reason for doing so.
My arms were bleeding pretty badly. But then, I snapped. Instincts took over, mana shot through my arms, eating away at the cleaver.
It didn't take long for the prized tool of murder to crumble to pieces before Boris' neck became the next victim.
The coliseum went silent all of a sudden. Very, very silent. However, the presence of muscle spasms I could only hardly suppress for now made me beat a hasty retreat.
"Honourless bastard," in passing, I kicked the corpse, "what a glorious duel this was." Contrary to my spiteful remarks, I felt... really spent. I didn't wait for the others to find their bearings.
Only darkness' protective embrace and obstruction would provide me with a place where I could grit my teeth in peace and outlive the nasty after-effects.
So I legged it. When I reached the hole in the wall leading to my heavenly quarters, my leg muscles burned up as if they were pressed against searing tongs of bloody torture.
Around the corner and I could no longer stand, had to hurry downwards on all five limbs. Halfway there and my arms too refused to follow my command.
And the remaining distance I covered in... two hours. Lucky nobody came this deep, the Great Consciousness jested time and time again while I was forced to realise one painful truth.
That I, the immortal rug specialised in cleaning duty, had lost all my pride and grace this day. So it was very understandable I'd rather console myself by engaging in acceptable pastimes.
Such as plotting Spice's demise. And outliving the backlash. "Urghhhsssss, isssss hurrrrrsssssss!!!!!"