Four years had passed, marked by the creaking of wagons, the roar of crowds, and the taste of blood on the sand. Brannok, now fifteen, was no longer a child. The fights had tempered him like steel. His body, sculpted by effort and survival, stood nearly six feet tall (1.92m), a giant for his age. His shoulders were broad, his muscles prominent under skin now layered with a fresh web of scars over the old ones.
Under the banner of Zarekh's circus, he had traveled across Hyboria. The smoky arenas of Luxur, the muddy pits of Aghrapur, the combat gardens of Paikang... Everywhere, the "Bestiarus" had become a legendary attraction. He had never fought men, only beasts. Swift leopards, laughing and vicious hyenas, panthers black as ebony, tigers with stripes of fire, and even a giant anaconda whose suffocating coils he had shattered with a superhuman effort.
The public adored him. He didn't win by strength alone, but by a kind of calculated savagery, a predator's grace that hypnotized. He was living proof that man could become a beast again, and master it.
Zarekh, meanwhile, had become rich. Very rich. Bets on the Bestiarus sold for a fortune. A strange relationship had woven itself between the man and the boy. It wasn't affection, but a mutual respect, tinged in Zarekh with a proprietor's pride for his most lucrative investment. He had even, in a calculated moment of generosity, hired a weapons master from the distant lands of Khitai, an old man with slanted eyes named Lao-Kwan, to teach Brannok the arts of the saber and the spear. Zarekh understood that a beast that thinks is a beast that lives longer, and earns more.
One evening, as the caravan was camped at the gates of Khemi, an unexpected visitor entered Zarekh's lavish tent.
"Cousin! I finally found you. Your circus has become so famous one must cross the desert to find you."
Zarekh looked up from his accounts, a goblet of Stygian wine in his hand. Zarakhim, his cousin, stood in the entrance. He was thinner, more nervous than Zarekh, with a perpetually ironic smile that never reached his eyes.
"Zarakhim. Your presence is like a scorpion in my boot: always a nasty surprise. What do you want?"
"Always so charming, cousin. I've heard about your little golden goose. This... Bestiarus. They say he's never been defeated."
"Beasts cannot defeat a true hunter," Zarekh retorted, sipping his wine.
Zarakhim sneered. "Beasts, perhaps. But a man?"
He signaled. From the shadows behind him, a figure emerged. A giant. He stood well over seven and a half feet tall (2.30m). His arms, disproportionately long, almost swept the ground. His brow was sloping, his jaw prognathous, and his small eyes gleamed with a bestial intelligence. This was Barrock, Zarakhim's own attraction.
"This is Barrock," Zarakhim continued. "He strangled a Cimmerian mountain bear last week. He knows no defeat."
Zarekh eyed the giant with contempt. "And?"
"And I propose a wager, cousin. A real fight. Your Bestiarus against my Barrock. No beasts. Man against... whatever you claim he is."
Zarekh scowled. "Brannok does not fight men."
"Because you are afraid?" Zarakhim was smiling openly now, enjoying the discomfort he was sowing. "You've built your fortune on a myth, Zarekh. A boy who beats wild cats. I'm offering you a chance to prove his worth. Or reveal his weakness. Let's set a price. Say... half the earnings from your circus last season against mine."
Zarekh felt anger rise. His cousin's jealousy was palpable. But he looked at Barrock. The sheer muscle mass was impressive, primitive. Then he thought of Brannok. Not his strength, but his eyes. That cold intelligence that had learned Khitan martial arts in a few months.
"You think size is everything, Zarakhim?" he said with a sudden smile. "My boy is not just a beast. He is the son of the beast and the mind. Very well. I accept your wager. Prepare your ape. The Bestiarus needs a new trophy."
Zarakhim smirked in triumph. "Until soon, cousin. May the gods have mercy on your child. Barrock, however, has none."
After he left, Zarekh remained silent for a moment. He might have been reckless. But his cousin's arrogance was unbearable. And deep down, a certainty remained: Brannok was not meant to be a mere curiosity. It was time to see what the son of Conan was truly made of. The fight against Barrock would not be a spectacle. It would be a revelation.