"Why not now? Arnold offered.
"Exactly. You've earned your right to fight the toughest opponent they can offer. You've saved them for financial predicaments and from an inevitable closure. I'd feel that earns you the chance to show your grit in there," Bernardo suggested.
"What happened to doing this as a team?" Pierce asked.
"We can do that later. There's a massive line for it right now. Take the chance while we have it!" Bernardo urged.
"Fine. But don't push it. They hate making exceptions in these areas," Pierce warned.
After a bit of back and forth that took a lot of convincing, Pierce was given the green light. He took his shirt off and headed in there with the mindset to expect anything.
His first opponent had blood stains all over him. Delfi is widely known for showing no mercy. Pierce quietly sent a quick prayer.
A tall, stocky human whose swollen lump of a nose speaks testimony to the depth of his past experience here. He steps through the gate into the ring and the crowd cheers for him. As he raises his arm, Pierce spots a mark. A brand just off his shoulder, a circle studded with spikes.
Pierce recognized that symbol. He saw a tattoo of it on the back of Bernard's shoulder years ago. The next time Pierce saw his back it was gone. He could sense something was up.
So why is it here?
No time to think about it. Delfi's charging at him.
He broadcasts the punch, and Pierce slips outside of it, anticipating a follow-up. The man swivels, and Pierce circles back again, the low jab falling short of him. He can't spend the entire fight dodging. He has to win. That's the only way to salvage his reputation and reap the benefits. Pierce had been on the back foot and was losing by a landslide as things stood.
So, Pierce moves away, drawing another blow that overextends past his face. Too easy. Pierce wraps his arm around the Delfi's, locking it up, finds a foot hooking behind his heel and yanking. Not so easy after all. Pierce tries to regain his balance, but his foot is still captured, and he goes down, his back thumping into the canvas. The man's arm slides out of his grasp, which isn't altogether a bad thing, since he needs that hand to drag himself away. But not quite fast enough, the man straddling his right thigh and pinning him there.
He shields his head as Delfi's fists start raining down on. The cheering grew louder as the people sensed the end. All of Pierce's trials and tribulations in his life refused to let him lose though. He wraps his trapped foot around his opponent's ankle and uses it as leverage to lift his hip off the canvas, into the man's body. The meathead stops attacking and leans down, caging Pierce against the floor of the ring. Pierce reaches low with his left hand, trapping the man's arm and capturing his belt.
With his right hand he finds the man's knee and grabs his trouser leg.
He rocked upward. Not enough force to free himself. But he doesn't need that much. Delfi pushed back, intent on dominating. There. Pierce slips the hook and plants his right foot, lifts hard with his hips, and uses the momentum to heave his opponent through the air and off to the side.
The man thumps down on his back, and Pierce scrambles on top of him, raining down a flurry of blows before the man has a chance to recover and raise a guard. Blood smears over his knuckles. His own? Probably, some of it. Mixed with some of Delfi's. He is rocked early, as this fight practically turned on his head. His hands flail, weak and undirected. His punches were all windmills with hope and throw. Pierce, without anything else to do, keeps punching him. How long does he have to do this before they call the bout?
At last, the creak of the gate, and someone shouting for him to stop. He rises and steps away, rubbing his hands absently. That hurt. It'll get worse before the end, of course.
One victory. It was meant to be that would make him eternal. Alas, it was all an imagination. Another infuriated opponent came into the ring to take his head off. He glared at the smug matchmaker who misled him and took him for a fool. Pierce finds his breath coming a little fast, and he inhales through his nose, exhales slowly. He will need to preserve his energy. A pair of guards come and n to the ring and drag his opponent away. Pierce readies himself.
He wins. He wins that fight and the next. Three. The word forms on his lips as he grasps the iron bars. One-fifth of the way there. His next opponent comes through, an older man with a scraggly gray beard. They all have the same style, close to the same style, and not dissimilar from Bernard's. He couldn't help but spot how fearful Arnold, and Bernardo felt for him. They appealed to end this and grant him the rightful winner. It was futile. The fight would go on. The organizer didn't want any of it. It's quick and improvisational, hard to predict or counter. The best Pierce can do is survive and look for holes of which to take advantage.
He really started to feel a little weary.
His opponents don't care much for defense. They leave plenty of holes. After all, they don't have to worry about fighting any more bouts. So, Pierce can connect with a few blows, when he needs to. But of course, they're ready to leap on him as soon as he takes a chance. The fifth slips in a clever lock and almost manages to pop his shoulder out of his socket. He pays for his escape with a broken rib, but his shoulder remains intact. Pierce could visibly hear the cracking noise. By the seventh Pierce decides, he is far too exhausted, and he's too slow in moving his foot away when his opponent stomps at it. His opponent is twice his size. The foot is smashed. Pierce retaliates almost immediately, and its only luck that his fist catches just the right spot, whipping the man's enormous head to the side and knocking him unconscious.
The guards wake the man and haul him off. Pierce limps to the side and examines his hands. His knuckles are bloody, and the backs of his hands are bruised and swollen. Those are probably broken too. "Seven," he murmurs to himself.
He isn't even halfway.
Eight. Nine. Tired. It hurts to put weight on his foot. Can't move as well anymore. He's taken a few hits to the nose, but this time he feels the break, and blood cascades down over his lips. Hard to breathe. Doesn't matter. He has to keep going. The cheering is ceaseless, winnowed down to a constant stream, a hollow rushing in his ears. Vaguely he wonders if they're cheering for him by now, or just for his defeat. Another shot to his ribs, which he accepts, letting it rotate his body. He jams his shoulder into the woman's chest and shoves her off her feet.
Pierce wins that fight too. Nine. One more and then, something? What was it? Water.
He has to keep going.
His tenth opponent is Roger, his skin scattered with scars. A career fighter, and not just in the ring. He's got the brand too, as several of the others have, the spiked circle just to the left of his breastbone. Pierce curls his broken hands into fists.
They engage.
Their clashes are explosive and discrete. They will strike at each other for a few seconds and then break apart, circling. Pierce is breathing hard, his badly bruised chest aching with each inhalation. His broken foot hurts each time he puts weight on it. Might this be the fight he loses?
No. He has to keep going. He has to win.
Another engagement. Pierce diverts a blow, blocks the next, throws an elbow at the man's nose. It doesn't connect, and they separate once more, Pierce limping around the edge of the ring. This crowd had never been louder than ever. Pierce felt this go on for hours and felt like really giving it to his companions for roping him into this losing battle.
The man approaches. Pierce allows him to close. He suspects he'll pay for this, but he needs to prioritize saving his strength over avoiding injury. Dodge, counter, divert. Pierce feints, the one he used before, that was recognized then just like it is now. The man strikes out.
Pierce takes the open palm in his chest. Pain. When he goes to set his stance again, he stutters on the broken foot, and his opponent darts in to take advantage.
Pierce swivels on the bad foot, and his kick lands flat against the man's temple.
He crumples, unconscious before he hits the ground. Pierce kneels, tightening his jaw. Too much weight on bones that couldn't support it. Something broke or tore, something further. he's won again though, and that's all that matters. The next fighter is already coming through the gate. Pierce takes a deep breath, wincing, his heart thumping from the exertion, and rises.
Eleven. Twelve. He's exhausted. He only just gets away from blows in time and takes some he wouldn't have taken if his body still had the strength to move as it should. Their fists flatten bruises into his chest, sides, and stomach, their feet thumping into his legs. His face is battered and bloody by now. His hands are well and truly broken, but he can still get them to curl into fists, which is all they need to do. Each bout is less of a fight than a period of him weathering his opponent's strikes until they leave an opening into which he pours every scrap of energy he has left.
Thirteen. He wonders how many of his ribs are broken. Fourteen. "Fourteen," Pierce whispers to himself, through swollen lips, sagging back against the bars. Just one more and he'll hit fifteen. That seems important for some reason. The woman isn't rousing after the uppercut he gave her, so the guards have to ferry her away. There's blood all over the mat. Much of it is his. His nose is still bleeding, and his mouth has been cut to ribbons on the edges of his teeth.
It doesn't matter. He has to keep going. He pants for breath, blood bubbling as it drips down the back of his throat.
The hollow rushing in his ear's surges. The crowd, cheering. Pierce blinks, refocuses.
Two people come through the gate.
Pierce shuts his eyes briefly. Two at once. It's impossible. He won't win. With great effort he pushes himself off the bars and stands. A man and a woman. They look like siblings. Pierce coughs, spits out blood.
They drift to either side of him. Pierce wavers, hobbling on the bad foot. He has to try. He needs to win.
They attack.
Pierce blocks what would put him down and takes the rest. Hard blows thump into his back. This won't last long. They're feeling him out right now and not finding much to give them pause. Pierce throws a kick. Slow, pitifully slow. It's blocked, and the woman steps into a jab, swiveling her hips. Pierce manages to divert it past his head, only for a heel smash into his left knee, buckling it sideways.
The pain is frayed and burning, and the joint shifts and slides. All it took was for one perfect feint to the body before his opponent's arm dropped, leaving his head completely open. The clear power shot was enough as his opponent dropped his face flat onto the floor. One punch to turn the fight around. The punch scared her off and run out the gates and forfeit. One punch that made him the champion, eternal, breaking records after records which made all the licks to his wounds worth it. The benefits were just a mere bonus. His intimidating presence scared off any potential opponents.