The man didn't hesitate.
His arm lifted and pointed straight across the pit.
"Him."
Several heads turned at once.
Osric.
A low murmur spread through the arena.
"Of course he picked him."
"He wants to test himself."
"Or he's just stupid."
"But he doesn't have any better options. Despite his achievements, Osric is a rookie and low-ranked fighter in the elite bracket."
"That's true."
Osric stepped up calmly.
'Good.'
He had no intention of waiting much longer anyway.
He stepped into the pit, his eyes already fixed on his opponent.
He knew him.
Toran.
A mid-ranked elite fighter.
Lean build, decent footwork, but lacked consistency. His record was average, and most of his wins came from opponents below his level.
'Not a problem.'
Before stepping fully into the pit, Osric turned slightly and walked toward the betting table.
The bookmaker raised an eyebrow as Osric placed five silver coins down.
"On yourself?" he asked.
"Yes, obviously."
Fighters weren't allowed to bet on their opponents, or else they'd just purposefully lose.
The man gave a short chuckle.
"Confident tonight."
"Odds are one point eight."
Osric didn't respond.
He took the wooden token and turned away.
Moments later, both fighters stood inside the pit.
The referee stepped between them.
"Next fight!" he shouted.
"On one side— Toran, with a record of 41 wins and 12 losses!"
A few scattered cheers followed.
"And on the other side, the rising newcomer with a record of only 14 wins and 0 losses— Osric!"
The reaction was louder this time.
"The newcomer!"
"He's the one from yesterday!"
The referee stepped back.
"Fight!"
Toran moved first.
A quick step forward.
A probing strike toward Osric's face.
Osric didn't move much.
His arm rose slightly.
Block.
The impact was light.
Toran followed up immediately.
Another strike— faster this time.
Osric shifted his head just enough for it to pass.
Then he stepped forward.
The distance closed instantly.
Toran's eyes widened slightly.
He hadn't expected that.
Osric's fist shot forward.
A clean strike to the ribs.
Toran grunted and staggered back.
The difference in strength was immediate.
The crowd reacted.
"Too fast."
"He's already pushing him!"
Toran tried to recover.
He circled, attempting to reset his footing.
But Osric didn't give him the chance.
Another step forward.
Another exchange.
Toran struck again.
Osric blocked.
Then countered.
A short, efficient movement.
His fist connected with Toran's jaw.
The impact snapped his head to the side.
Toran's stance broke.
Osric didn't rush.
He followed calmly.
One more step.
Toran tried to raise his guard—
Too slow.
Osric's final strike landed cleanly.
Toran's body collapsed onto the stone floor.
Silence for a split second.
Then the arena erupted.
"That was quick!"
"He didn't stand a chance!"
The referee stepped in immediately.
"The winner— Osric!"
Osric stepped back as the attendants dragged Toran out of the pit.
His breathing remained steady.
The fight had barely taken any effort.
He glanced briefly toward the betting table.
'That was worth it.'
Osric picked up his betting earnings.
9 silver. A profit of 4 silver.
'Not bad.'
'My movements before also felt more natural and easy. The improved close combat skill definitely shows.'
Osric didn't leave the pit yet.
He already had an opponent in mind for his second fight.
The noise in the arena had not yet settled.
Some spectators were still cheering, others arguing over lost bets, while a few were already turning their attention toward the remaining fighters.
Osric remained in the pit.
He rolled his shoulders once, loosening the slight tension left from the fight.
Around him, the remaining elite fighters watched quietly.
There were six of them left.
Some avoided his gaze.
Others studied him more carefully now.
The difference from before was clear.
After his performance, none of them saw him as just a newcomer anymore.
Osric's eyes moved across them one by one.
He didn't rush.
He had already made his decision.
'There you are.'
Without hesitation, Osric raised his arm.
And pointed.
The direction of Osric's finger was clear.
For a brief moment, the arena grew quieter.
Then several heads turned toward the man he had chosen.
A few reactions came immediately.
"Him?"
"That's not a good idea…"
"Now this might actually be interesting."
The man stepped forward without hesitation.
Adam.
He moved with steady, unhurried steps as he entered the pit.
Up close, his presence was unmistakable.
He was tall—noticeably taller than Osric—and carried a well-balanced, muscular build that spoke of years of real combat, not just arena fights. His skin was slightly tanned, roughened by exposure and hardship. His dark hair was cut short in a practical buzz, leaving no room for distraction.
His eyes were the most striking.
Dark.
Focused.
Completely calm.
They didn't flicker with excitement or tension like most fighters in the arena.
They simply observed.
Measured.
His face was sharp and worn, marked by a few small scars, but it was his body that told the real story. Faint lines of old injuries ran across his arms, shoulders, and torso—too many to count. None of them looked recent.
They were the kind that came from surviving.
His hands were already wrapped in tight bandages.
Not loosely tied like most brawlers.
Properly done.
Deliberate.
The crowd reacted more strongly now.
"Adam…"
"He stepped up?"
"Didn't expect that."
"He's actually taking it."
Among the more experienced spectators, the atmosphere shifted slightly.
This wasn't just another fight.
The referee glanced between the two fighters before raising his voice again.
"Next fight!"
"On one side— Adam, with a record of 56 wins and 9 losses!"
The reaction was immediate.
Louder than before.
"Let's go!"
"He's one of the best here!"
"And on the other side— the undefeated rising fighter with 15 wins and no losses… Osric!"
The energy in the arena rose another level.
Two different kinds of fighters.
Two different reputations.
Now standing face to face.
Adam stopped a few paces away from Osric.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
They simply looked at each other.
Adam's gaze remained steady.
Observing.
Assessing.
There was no arrogance in it.
No hostility.
Just quiet focus.
Across from him, Osric did the same.
This time, however—
He could feel it immediately.
This opponent was different.