After walking away and devouring the half-eaten bread that had been silently calling his name, another day uneventfully passed for Murin.
The one known as Banton kept his distance after they'd last spoken, occasionally eyeing him before looking away the second he felt like he'd been noticed.
While Murin wasn't one to mind any stares that weren't hostile in nature, even he was growing mildly irritated as the looks continued prickling his heightened senses whether he wanted them to or not.
More importantly, the lack of activity on the ship was so dreary that he was half-jokingly considering clawing his eyes out for the mere entertainment it would provide.
In his past life, despite existing for several centuries, he rarely had to come face-to-face with boredom.
His free time had always been consumed with training, fighting, adventure, and whatever pleasures of life he had available when he tired of the other three.
Additionally, he had consciously made an effort not to make any real waves among his peers so far while he observed the state of affairs in his new life.
Although it might've been the right idea tactically, nonetheless he was sorely regretting his choice and the dullness it had brought.
Right when he had just begun considering if it would be worth killing whoever was closest to him to break the monotony, he heard footsteps overhead and had to repress a fist pump as he saw the hatch opening up once again.
'To hell with maintaining this body's identity or whatever. If I can consume a similar amount of bread to what those three hooligans had amassed last time, not only would the act of taking it be fun enough to keep me from massacring everyone here, but I would have enough nutrients to start building this body's ki foundation.' He excitedly thought.
The sequence of events played out exactly like they did last time. The ceiling opened up, the prisoners rushed forward, bread came down, and finally the man who had been mentally relegated to "blonde bastard" began repeating a similar pitch to last time.
The only difference now was that it had become more obvious that his influence was growing.
Plenty of the men present had approached the point where they were more than willing to happily trade their dignity for satiety and the safety of a group, and the growing flock that hovered near the trio reflected that.
Not mention that the primary reason that nobody had bothered picking a fight with those three in order to have at their massive stockpile was that they were simply overwhelmingly stronger than the vast majority of others on board.
Adding to that, not only had they remained well-fed and in top shape throughout the duration of the trip, but the ringleader was an infamous viscount's third son.
His lackluster governing talent combined with a lust for power had led to his repeated rejections for the title of heir, and in turn sent him down a vicious spiral of crime and debauchery that brought him to the same position as everyone else in that hold.
He was flanked by two of his trusted knights who'd followed him in exile, and all three were blessed with solid combat foundations that the viscount's family had passed down to them along with the years of training required to hone it.
If that wasn't enough as a deterrent, the aversion to the consequences of crossing a noble was a conditioned response that most of the prisoners had yet to shake.
It had dawned on only a handful that they were truly being banished from their homeland forever. Where they were heading, noble lineage had about as much worth as a mud puddle.
Thus, nobody said a word of complaint when he sent a scrawny fellow reeling from the enormous backhand he'd answered with after being asked if he'd spare some of his food out of the kindness in his heart, causing the chains of his shackles to jingle with the force of the blow.
As he wiped his hand off with the look of someone who'd stepped in manure, Murin took the place of the emaciated stranger who'd already scampered off after his attempt at begging only earned him a shiner.
Then, with the same tone one asks about the weather, he spoke before the noble could even notice the new filthy convict that had taken the previous one's place.
"I'm gonna need all of your food." He confidently demanded.
The noble did a double take in disbelief.
It took him a full second to reassure himself that his senses were functioning properly and that he'd heard the man in front of him correctly.
Then, after finally realizing the identity of that same man, he let out a roaring belly laugh. Murin smiled, bursting out into a chuckle himself after finding the ignorant reaction just as funny.
Suddenly, the amusement disappeared from the face of the man right before he leaned closer, some of the spittle from the utterance of his response splashing onto Murin's face.
"Hunger must be really getting to you, huh Garaan? First it's stealing from the weak, and now you've gone so crazy you really think you can stand a chance against me."
Murin remained unfazed, though a little annoyed by the filth being sprayed on his visage. He was busy wiping it away as the man gave him back his space before continuing.
"Your stick-waving in the arenas doesn't amount to squat compared to my family's art of war. Perhaps malnutrition made you forget that fact, so just this once, I'll forget I heard anything. Though maybe I'd consider helping you if you had something to offer."
When Murin gave him another grin, he returned the gesture thinking that he was just about to receive a pledge of loyalty from the exiled rogue, who would no doubt prove more useful than most others on the ship once they'd made it to Heavensway.
For a commoner, Garaan had been outstanding at dueling and would make a good addition to the faction he planned to amass in the future.
What he hadn't expected in the least, however, was for Murin's leg to suddenly extend above his head.
He stared at it dumbly for a moment before it crashed down into the side of his neck in a stupendously wound up ax kick.
He immediately dropped to his knees from the pain that resulted in the fractured collarbone he'd received, though nothing could prepare him for the blow that came next when Murin spun before delivering a heavy kick straight into his head.
His face nearly caved before he was sent tumbling backwards and onto the floor, clutching at his bloody, crushed nose in agony.
He was no stranger to beatings, but that was before he had become a trained combatant with a body so tempered that it wasn't much softer than solid oak.
Even before then, his upper body had never radiated with the level of pain that the sudden assault had given him, and he found it impossible to focus on anything else other than gritting his teeth and trying to get his panicked mind under control.
Previously, he'd been completely certain that Garaan was incapable of harming him.
Not only was he a weaker individual even before he'd been convicted, but starvation had since sapped his already lesser strength and energy.
Reality, however, had begged to differ, shattering that notion along with a couple of bones.
His knights' jaws had also dropped after witnessing the spectacle.
Their patron was a more capable combatant than either of the pair, and it had never occurred to them that their intervention would be necessary.
Furthermore, seeing him get sprawled on the floor by his opponent with no less ease than one would swat a fly had furthermore instilled a cautious fear in them that prevented them from moving an inch from where they stood.
Yet one was more aghast than all of them, gazing at the encounter from the background in complete disbelief.
Banton had fought alongside Garaan for a few years up to that point, and knew his fighting style almost as well as he knew his own.
As he spied from afar though, the movements he displayed didn't even remotely resemble anything Garaan had been capable of doing before.
Moreover, everything was executed with such an unflinching display of violence and fluidity that it seemed in a league all on its own compared to any other moves he'd seen.
He found himself shivering– not for fear of the prowess that he'd witnessed, but for whatever unfathomable event had occurred to turn his old friend into whatever he was now.
He didn't know what exactly had happened to change him in such a way, but it was obvious that the Garaan he knew was now replaced by the unknown monster that inhabited his skin.
With the realization also came endless questions.
Was it possible that what happened had affected his behavior before, leading Garaan to his own ruin in the first place?
As someone who had barely scratched the surface of the capabilities of martial arts and internal energy, Banton lacked even a single answer for his numerous inquiries.
The possibilities were as open as the sky, and the thought of that filled him with enough dread to make it feel like his guts were doing flips.
Simultaneously, on another level, it steeled his conviction.
While everyone else was paying him no mind, he quietly resolved to do everything in his power to bring his friend back.
He would surely become much stronger than he already was in the years to come, and Heavensway was a land of miracles and impossibilities.
If he wasn't able to make it happen there, then he could only assume it was never possible for him to begin with.
However, none of that was truly relevant to the scene which currently captivated the entire hold.
The noble had already recovered from his shock enough that he managed to glare with hatred at the two useless followers of his that had yet to make a move.
"What the hell are you two doing? You cowards are both healthy as bulls, and against one filthy fucking commoner. Kill him!" He shouted, his rage overshadowing reason.
He had understood the innate prowess that Garaan's strikes held, but his wounded pride wouldn't allow him to see it as more than a craven sneak attack.
The two knights felt a chill permeate them at his words.
They'd almost forgotten themselves in the moment, and his call to action managed to bring back enough of their courage to step forward and challenge the threat to their authority.
Though they'd entered a state of denial similar to their master, it wasn't so much that they dared not to take their opponent seriously, and quickly moved to flank him on both sides in order to seal his movements as much as possible.
Murin, however, couldn't care less. His relaxed demeanor was enough to further unnerve the knights, who subconsciously tightened their guard.
To the reborn martial arts master, it was obvious that no matter how the insects before him attempted to take him on, they would be crushed regardless.
Their fate was decided the moment they raised their fists against him.
This theory was put to the test when both of his enemies glanced at each other and nodded, signaling the start of their counteroffensive.
The large one rushed at him while the shorter of the two hung back a short distance, looking for any opportunities his larger partner managed to grant him.
Contrary to what most would normally expect of his massive stature, the hulking knight's size did little to impede his speed thanks to his well-trained physique.
What he sent towards Murin was the closest thing to a jab that he could produce with his hands bound together, his left hand shooting out while his right stayed a few inches back so he could pull easily pull it back to guard against retaliatory strikes.
It was a jab, merely a tentative strike with the dual purpose of probing his opponents defenses and likely dealing some damage to boot.
Yet to the onlookers, it appeared as little more than a blur.
With it being launched by that gargantuan fighter, what should've been a jab had the same force behind it as a heavily-wound hook from an average fighter, and many among the audience felt their stomach churn at the thought of what such an attack would do to them in their current state.
However, unfortunately for the knight, the same didn't apply to the target of his punch.
It was so painfully slow to Murin's reflexes that he had to resist the urge to yawn before lazily leaning to one side at the last possible second, just enough for the strike to graze past him.
The fight had barely started and already the knight was shocked.
Given his opponent's background and current weakness, and with how little distance his fist had needed to travel before his quarry had even reacted, the knight had fully expected the strike to land and knock the undernourished convict backwards into his awaiting partner.
According to all the battle-hardened reasoning of the knight, no matter how solid Garaan's technique was, it shouldn't have mattered if his body couldn't keep up with it.
Plus, common sense dictated that it was the larger, more well-trained fighter who should've held all of the advantages in that fight.
Strength, reach, speed, and even his technique should've ordinarily completely eclipsed that of his prey.
While the last factor might've observably changed that day for some strange reason, no small advantage in fighting skills would ever be close to enough to account for such a massive difference in physical stature.
However, the unwitting henchman had no way of knowing just how much of a gulf in that last factor existed between the two of them in that moment.
Not to mention, he was only the newest addition to the endless list of larger and stronger opponents that Murin had faced in the past, and not a particularly skilled one at that.
He was involuntarily educated on this when Murin, with the same displeased look as one would handle a bug, coiled his arms around the defenseless one that now extended past his head, doing this all at the same time as he took a step forward and drew his adversary further in.
It was all performed in one smooth, seamless motion that was so unhesitating that it seemed practiced to his spectators, and so graceful that the chains barely emitted a sound even with the rapid movement.
The knights had plenty of training in the art of war with weaponry, but admittedly, the Kingdom of Hepele had little perceived use of hand-to-hand combat skills.
Only cursory knowledge of it was taught for the sole purpose of being able to defend oneself whenever their weapon was broken or lost, and only just long enough for them to disarm or get a hold of new arms.
For a master among masters of close quarters combat, the openings and imbalances the knight's punch presented was no different than bending over and showing the opponent his ass.
The small disturbances in balance that the strike had created were soon widened into a complete lack of solid footing, and the gargantuan man quickly found himself leaving the ground as Murin executed a flawless overhead throw.
There wasn't a single mistake nor wasted movement on his part, turning his foe's size into his worst enemy as all of it was sent slamming into the floor with such force that it nearly splintered the wood.
The shock sent pain radiating through his back and displaced nearly all of the precious air he held in his lungs.
The combined effect left him writhing on the floor as he faced both searing agony along with the spasms that accompanied his attempts to gasp and replace his supply of oxygen.
His companion managed to not hesitate, immediately leaping forward over his fallen partner in order to confront the opponent and prevent the opening from being taken advantage of.
However, in the act of leaving the ground and covering for the fellow knight, he had graciously left countless openings for himself which Murin had no problem making use of.
He whipped his right leg out from behind in a spinning back kick that countered the man's forward momentum in such vicious fashion that it cracked his solar plexus.
Even worse, it made him spin backwards and sent the back of his head on a direct collision course with the same wooden flooring that his ally had collapsed on, mercilessly knocking him unconscious.
Being the last one standing after such a short exchange, Murin loudly sighed.
Rather than an exciting fight to the death, it was a one-sided massacre.
He would normally consider it customary to end the life of anyone who made an attempt on his own, but the pitiful way they'd been demolished so easily made them no more threatening than puppies in his eyes.
Executing the weak brought him no joy, and to him, it would be trivial to simply kill them later if they somehow hadn't managed to learn their lesson.
That left him with one last barrier to overcome before he could obtain the nourishment he so desired, which made itself apparent in the form of a makeshift dagger which was being lunged toward his right lung from behind.
To its wielder's surprise, it only managed to stab at air as its mark smoothly pivoted to the side as if expecting the blow.
Despite seeing more inexplicable twists happen in the last minute than in his last few years altogether, the noble managed to remain unfazed, quickly withdrawing the knife as if he'd never expected it to hit in the first place.
Having lost the element of surprise– and perhaps never having it in the first place– he made a bit of distance while slowly circling around his target, looking for openings.
"I am Tirius Proudspear, of the Proudspear fiefdom." He suddenly declared, attempting to stall while he probed for weak spots in his enemy's defense.
Rather than dropping his guard, Murin merely raised an eyebrow at what seemed like a bizarrely-timed attempt to strike up conversation.
Tirius, although disappointed that his ruse would yield no results, continued nonetheless.
"I know you as Garaan, and that you have no last name as a commoner, but would you perhaps perform the honor of proclaiming your heritage?"
Upon hearing the question and finally understanding its purpose, Murin only replied with a contemptuous laugh.
Though he'd misunderstood the reasoning for why his enemy was suddenly asking such a thing, he was hardly mistaken about the direction the inquiries were heading in.
"Is this the part where you're going to 'acknowledge' me?" He bitterly spat.
Then, a grim coldness that he hadn't displayed once since the start of the fight washed over every other emotion in his face, making the normally stuffy ship feel like it had plunged several degrees all at once.
It felt like invisible needles were prickling Tirius's skin and cold water trickling down his spine as he was subjected to an intensity of killing intent he'd never in his life considered possible.
When he looked at the unarmed man standing in front of him, his panicked brain couldn't help but overlap ghastly, intangible images of shadows and death with the growing figure that began looming over him despite the two being of similar height.
Never could he have fathomed that this was only the result of his enemy being mildly irked by his behavior, and that he had yet to invoke any true fury.
In his previous life, Murin had battled for his life against no small number of worthy opponents who had given their lives to martial arts, men and women who, like him, had put everything on the line for glory alone.
So even the mere thought of the worm in front of him believing he had the same privilege as those legendary characters of his past was enough to sour his mood and lose what small scraps of enjoyment he was deriving from the confrontation.
"You haven't earned the right." He icily sneered, dashing towards his final victim without a shred of reservation.
The move was completely unexpected on his adversary's end, and enough to snap him out of the trance that had previously been induced by the killing intent, promptly forgetting about it with the excuse of it all being caused by his nerves.
It was common knowledge in the Kingdom of Hepele that when fighting unarmed against someone with a weapon, it was more beneficial to wait for the opponent to strike and try to seek an opportunity to safely disarm them.
To move in aggressively despite their reach and ability to decide the battle in a single hit could only be considered an act of suicide.
For a split second, the Hepelian aristocrat rejoiced, believing that his opponent had lost his temper and finally made an irreparable blunder.
In that tiny moment of mistaken confidence, he freely lunged towards the foe stupidly running straight into the shiv's stabbing range.
Yet, in that same moment, he had callously disregarded the inhuman fighting ability that this foe had previously displayed, deciding upon his move with the idea of his opponent being an ordinary human.
Murin, however, was anything but.
The opening that the lunge gave was all it took to seal the outcome of their conflict.
In one flowing, serpentine motion, Murin twisted out of the blade's path so rapidly that even though the tip managed to prod his side, it was spinning backwards nearly as fast as the lunge, making the pointy tip unable to find enough purchase for it to do any meaningful damage.
The move wasn't just for defense either, as he had also promptly leapt off the ground and used the torque in his motions to channel enough force into his leg to send his target flying.
Which is exactly what happened as the fierce kick impacted the side of the noble's head, fracturing his skull and knocking him unconscious without delay before he was sent cartwheeling over onto the floor.
Unfortunately, despite the magnificent form of the move, Murin's weak anatomy combined with the incredible power of the kick was enough to severely fracture the lower half of his shin.
It was a small price to pay for winning the fight by miles though; it was a minor injury and its pain came nowhere close to bothering the person it was inflicted upon.
Then, with the same unburdened mind that one relaxes with on a calm, sunny day, Murin pried the makeshift weapon from its owner's grasp before slitting his throat with it.