The war between humans, elves, and orcs had become a familiar occurrence for the residents of Brighton City. Two years ago, Lord Edward issued a new policy allowing frontline soldiers to switch posts with city dwellers after two months without encountering any enemy activity. This policy gave soldiers stationed on the frontlines much-needed respite, allowing the war to persist. The policy was necessary due to the orcs' unconventional tactics: they occasionally harassed the borders of humans or elves. If ignored, their actions escalated to full-scale invasions and looting. When confronted, they retreated like an ebbing tide, only to target unprotected areas while the allied forces regrouped. The orc tribes, composed of various scattered clans with mobile encampments, were elusive and difficult to deal with decisively.
Of course, these issues were distant concerns for Arthur Hebrew.
When Arthur returned to the Etzikri Charity White House, he was greeted by Mrs. Lily, Katerina, and Lizzy, who were all eager to check on his injuries. Deciding to hide the truth about the underground fighting pit, Arthur fabricated a story about visiting a gym. To avoid more questions, he claimed he was starving and sat down to eat.
The next day, on Windmoon, Arthur returned to the underground fighting pit with fresh bruises, once again watching a fight unfold.
The matches began daily at 3 p.m., featuring three to four bouts. Winners received cash prizes, with the option to apply for consecutive matches for greater rewards. A single win earned 200 currency, two wins brought 500, and three wins, 1000. Fighters who managed to achieve continuous victories received a share of the evening's overall earnings.
The pit's income came primarily from ticket sales. Arthur gained entry thanks to George Cavendish, but others had to pay a fee to access the pit, which included free beer and snacks. Another major source of income was betting, with wagers starting at 30 currency. Odds varied based on each fighter's win-loss record, and even higher stakes were offered for betting on consecutive wins.
Arthur wasn't here for the money. The charity regularly received stipends from the Enforcer Hall, paid by nobles seeking to maintain their public image.
Sitting near the ring, Arthur watched as two fighters clashed fiercely. He tried to absorb techniques, learning both offensive and defensive maneuvers. Around him, the crowd roared, their attention focused solely on placing bets and cheering for their chosen fighter. No one seemed to care about a twelve-year-old boy in such an environment.
After watching a couple of matches, Arthur felt he had gained some insights. He headed to the training room in the basement, a space equipped with punching bags and wooden dummies for fighters to warm up. Being a participant, Arthur had free access to the room.
Wrapping his hands with bandages to protect them from the rough surface of the punching bag, Arthur began striking it repeatedly. Each punch left his arms trembling, but he gritted his teeth and pressed on. As Night Hawk often said, no one becomes strong overnight; it's a gradual process. Arthur committed the sensation of each punch to memory, determined to improve despite the strain on his body.
Unlike George Cavendish, Arthur lacked any innate talent. To compensate, he pushed himself harder. Night Hawk, standing by the door with a bottle of malt beer, watched Arthur through a crack. "Interesting kid," he muttered, finishing the beer in one gulp. Grabbing another bottle from a passing elven attendant, he chuckled to himself. "I thought George was an abnormal kid, but this one… this one's obsession with getting stronger is even deeper."
Just then, Cookie joined him. The massive orc towered over Night Hawk, their combined height resembling a small building. Yet the crowd, engrossed in the match, paid them no attention.
"Cookie," said Night Hawk, "have the kid fight Murderer Jess the day after tomorrow."
"Boss, Jess has been on a rampage recently," Cookie cautioned. The last time Jess got "excited," he had beaten a man to death in the ring. If Night Hawk hadn't intervened, Jess might have taken out several spectators as well.
"No matter," Night Hawk replied. "That guy only hates it when his opponent loses the will to fight. Who knows? He might help us forge another George."
Cookie nodded thoughtfully. He could never guess what schemes his cunning boss had in mind. "Wolf-hearted" was the term he often used to curse him silently. Night Hawk, sensing his thoughts, turned to him with a sharp smile.
"If you have time to think, Cookie," he said coldly, "we can settle it in the ring."
What? When did the boss learn to read minds? Cookie quickly erased all traces of expression from his face, standing still like a statue.
Arthur continued his intense training for two days. By then, the wounds inflicted by the giant had mostly healed. Each afternoon, he observed the fighters in the ring, studying their techniques before practicing against the punching bag.
On the third day, Arthur noticed something strange as he arrived at the pit around 2 p.m. The atmosphere was unusually tense. A few early drinkers whispered among themselves, frequently casting wary glances toward a corner where a man sat quietly.
Arthur rubbed his eyes. It was a man in a doctor's white coat, wearing glasses. Seeing such a figure in Etzikri Street was odd. Doctors were common in places like the North District, but in the East District—especially on Typler Street, also known as Desire Street—nobody cared for treatment. Here, there were only two states: alive or dead.
"That's your opponent for today," Night Hawk said, appearing behind Arthur. Placing a clawed hand on Arthur's shoulder, he pointed to the doctor with a sly grin.
"Murderer Jess," he announced solemnly. "We don't know where he's a doctor, but he's the reigning champion of the past two years. His weapon of choice is a scalpel."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. Weapons? This was the first he'd heard of such a thing being allowed here. Then he recalled Night Hawk's words: aside from killing, anything goes.
"He's also killed before," Night Hawk added with a smirk.
Arthur cursed under his breath repeatedly. Remembering Night Hawk's rumored ability to read minds, he deliberately framed his curses as being directed at Jess.
Night Hawk's grin widened. "If you don't fight for your life today, kid, you might not live to see the moonrise."
Arthur rolled his eyes. You do realize I'm only twelve, right?
At that moment, Jess stood up from his seat and approached. Smiling so broadly that his eyes nearly closed, he extended a gloved hand. "Hello. You must be my opponent today. I'm Jess, a doctor at a private clinic."
Arthur noticed small tears in the rubber of Jess's glove on his thumb and forefinger. Shaking the offered hand, Arthur found Jess exerted no force at all—quite unlike the other fighters who had tried to crush his hand during introductions. Maybe this man wasn't as dangerous as his nickname suggested. Maybe Night Hawk was just trying to scare him.
While Arthur was lost in thought, Jess leaned in close to his left ear, still smiling, and whispered in a voice as cold as ice:
"Make sure you entertain me, little worm. Or I'll kill you."