Varkas exploded forward the instant the referee’s voice finished echoing.

There was no hesitation. No testing of distance. No feeling out the opponent.

The guildmaster charged, boots hammering the sand so hard the ground shook beneath him. Despite his massive frame, he moved faster than a desertstorm wind, an armored blur powered by raw muscle and momentum.

One clean hit from someone that size would send most fighters flying. But Ludger didn’t wait to find out. He met the charge head-on.

Feet digging into the sand, posture dropping low, Ludger dashed forward to intercept. The arena gasped, no one sane rushed into a collision with something the size of a siege ram. Yet Ludger sprinted directly toward him, matching power with power, speed with speed.

They closed distance in a single heartbeat,  and both fists came up.

Varkas swung a massive right hook, air splitting around his arm in a violent shockwave. Ludger’s own fist lashed forward, compact and heavy, froststeel bracers flashing like silver lightning. Their knuckles met dead center.

BOOM.

The impact detonated through the arena like a pressure bomb. Sand blasted outward in a violent ring, exploding from beneath their feet and rolling across the floor in a shockwave that reached all the way to the first rows of seats.

The audience flinched as wind ripped at their clothing, hair whipping back, drinks spilling, tablecloths fluttering. Up in the stands, nobles stared wide-eyed. Northerners cheered. Judges ducked behind protective screens.

Down in the arena, two figures stood locked fist-to-fist, the massive guildmaster forced backward a step by the recoil, and a twelve-year-old boy holding the line without a tremor.

They broke from the collision in the same instant, no pause, no breath, no retreat, just a mutual, silent agreement to escalate.

Varkas pivoted first, boots grinding deep trenches into the sand as his left arm swept upward in a heavy backfist. Ludger ducked under it by a hair, feeling wind shear over his scalp. He countered with a quick jab to the ribs, fast, sharp, aimed for the floating bone.

Varkas caught it on his gauntlet, the metal ringing like a bell.

Ludger spun with the deflection, turning the missed strike into a rising kick that cracked against Varkas’s thigh plate. The impact thudded loud but didn’t move the big man an inch.

Varkas grinned and answered with a knee of his own, a brutal upward drive meant to crack ribs. Ludger dropped an elbow, catching the knee before it could rise, redirecting the force off line. His free hand snapped forward into a straight punch, aiming for the solar plexus. But Varkas wasn’t just muscle.

He rotated, letting the blow slide past while his right hand hammered downward in a piston strike aimed for Ludger’s collarbone.

Ludger raised his forearm at the last second, metal on metal, the shock rattling down to his shoulder.

Varkas didn’t stop. He shifted his weight and kicked, a wide, sweeping leg strike that would’ve thrown Ludger into the stands if it connected.

Instead Ludger hopped back a half step, feeling the rush of air skim across his stomach. Before Varkas could reset, Ludger leapt forward, flipping into a downward heel strike.

Varkas slid his arms up in an X-block. The kick slammed into the guard, sparks flashing from metal contact, both fighters absorbing the recoil in tight, controlled muscle.

They landed. Simultaneously. Eyes locked. Breathing steady.

Varkas threw a quick one-two, heavy hooks meant to smash through defense. Ludger slipped under the first and parried the second wide, countering with a rapid trio of body shots, left, right, left, targeting soft spots between armor plating.

Varkas grunted but held firm, shoving forward with the momentum and slamming his shoulder into Ludger like a battering ram. Ludger slid back two steps, boots skidding, sand spraying, then planted his heel and came right back in.

A roundhouse kick lashed toward Varkas’s temple. Blocked.

A palm strike snapped into Ludger’s sternum. Dodged. A low sweep carved at Varkas’s ankles. Jumped.

Their fists met again, knuckle to knuckle, sparks spread.

Neither blinked. Neither wavered.

It was less a brawl than a conversation, and every strike a word., Every block an answer. Every kick a threat. They moved faster. Harder. Closer. Two fighters who refused to look away.

Their arms tangled again, Ludger catching Varkas’s gauntlet and twisting it aside while the guildmaster redirected a knee strike with brutal efficiency. For a moment they were chest-to-chest, muscles locked, breath hot against the air between them.

Then Ludger spoke.

“Don’t look at me so much,” he said calmly, barely winded. “You’ll make me blush.”

Varkas froze, not physically, but spiritually.

A vein on his forehead pulsed once. Then twice. Then bulged with frantic, throbbing rage.

The guildmaster’s face darkened several shades, somewhere between plum and volcanic red, and the air around him grew hotter, denser, like a furnace stoking its flame. He yanked his arm free with sudden force, nearly ripping Ludger off his feet, then came at him harder, angrier, faster.

The fight instantly escalated.

Up in the stands, Arslan buried his face in one hand. The sound of his palm smacking against his forehead echoed faintly over the noise of the crowd.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.

Everyone near him could see the tired amusement and quiet horror behind the gesture, the familiar resignation of a man who’d survived years of watching his child find humor at the strangest, most dangerous moments imaginable.

Elaine stifled a laugh. Kharnek choked on his drink. Freyra snorted so hard she nearly inhaled ale. And Varkas Stonefury, Guildmaster of the Ashbound Compact, powered toward Ludger with murder in his eyes.

Varkas ground his teeth, fury churning hot enough to blister the air around him. The playful jab had landed harder than any punch Ludger could throw until now.

He spat a breath through his nose.

“Didn’t want to waste anything fancy on a brat…” he growled, voice scraping with irritation. “But dragging this out will only make things messier.”

His mana ignited. A deep, guttural pulse rushed through his body, thick, heavy, violent. It flooded down his arms and legs like molten iron, veins bulging beneath skin, muscles swelling with hard, brutal density.

The arena sand vibrated. He stepped forward, and the ground cracked.

Hairline fractures spread in a web beneath his boots, lines racing outward like lightning frozen in stone. Varkas leaned in, pushing off with explosive force, charging again, but faster.

Much faster.

His fist came in low, up under Ludger’s guard, a rising hammer strike with enough momentum to break a ribcage clean through.

Ludger reacted in time, barely, slamming his forearms down to block.

The impact hit like a siege ram.

A concussive blast of force rolled through Ludger’s bones, shoulders rattling, teeth clacking. The blow threw him backward, skidding across the sand for several meters. His boots cut furrows through the arena floor before he finally ground to a stop.

Pain flickered through his arm, a raw, biting ache under the bracers.

He gave it a shake. Once. Testing feeling. Testing function. Still worked.

Still strong. But the message had been delivered. Varkas Stonefury, pissed or not, was no joke.

Ludger rolled his shoulders once, then twice. The ache in his blocking arm throbbed, but no more than background noise to a fighter used to far worse. He stretched his arms forward, joints popping, then tilted his head to either side—vertebrae cracking in a chain.

A slow breath in.

A slower breath out.

Then he spoke.

Quiet.

Matter-of-fact.

“It can’t be helped,” he said. “Fighting someone like you without trying a bit would be insane.”

The sound of those words rolled across the arena like a warning bell.

Varkas narrowed his eyes, bracing instinctively, and then Ludger changed.

Rage Flow surged. It wasn’t a burst. It was a flood.

Heat pulsed from inside him, pressure rising under his skin until his veins glowed with molten red energy. His flesh flushed a deep, furious crimson as blood accelerated, not burning him, but empowering him. His muscles tightened like iron cables, fibers swelling and hardening, lines of definition rippling into razor clarity beneath his skin. Steam roared from every pore, white plumes rising around him as energy and adrenaline forced water straight out of flesh.

Ludger’s hair lifted from his forehead, carried by the unnatural heat radiating from his body. His breath came out in thick fog-like bursts, each exhale vibrating with violent potential.

His fists clenched—knuckles whitening, and his teeth locked together as he pushed into motion. He charged. A sprint blurred into a leap. The leap blurred into a strike.

Varkas met him head-on, mana thrumming through his limbs, muscles coiled for annihilation. Their fists collided…

BOOM.

The shockwave rippled through the sand in a circular blast, sending dust and pebbles outward in a trembling ring. The entire arena floor shuddered under the force of that single exchange.

Neither pulled away. Both pushed harder.

Another punch… fist to fist…

BOOM.

The air cracked with every impact, their blows ringing like cannon fire. Ludger’s crimson fists hammered downward and upward in rapid succession, three body shots, a rising hook, a descending hammer punch.

Varkas blocked two, absorbed one, redirected another, and countered with a savage elbow aimed for the jaw. Ludger twisted aside, steam ripping from his back as he pivoted, delivering a knee strike that Varkas caught with his shin…

CRACK.

The collision of bone to reinforced armor sent tremors up both legs.

They spun apart… only a step… then lunged again.

Fists met forearms. Shins smashed against shins. Shoulders crashed. Chests collided.

Every contact triggered a deep, thunderous boom… like two boulders smashing together underwater. The stands vibrated. The sand quivered. The stone seating hummed under the repeated concussive blasts.

Sweat and steam clung to Ludger’s skin, muscles swollen and pulsing with stamina. His eyes burned with intensity, focused, hungry, alive. Across from him, Varkas grinned through the pain, teeth bared, eyes wild with the thrill of a real fight.

They collided again…  fists slamming together in a shockwave so heavy the arena floor trembled. Two forces, equal in will, different in nature… pushing each other past limits. Refusing to fall. Refusing to yield.

Every impact was a promise… And every promise said the same thing: This wasn’t ending quiet.

The exchange finally broke, just for a heartbeat.

Both fighters snapped back a half step, chests heaving, steam pouring off Ludger, heat shimmering off Varkas. They held their guard, shoulders still tense, feet rooted, but neither swung. Not for lack of will, just necessity.

Their fists dripped blood.

It leaked through the seams of their gauntlets, streaking knuckles, knifing down forearms, scattering red across the sand. Skin split from repeated bone-to-bone impact, each strike tearing open flesh wider than the last.

And though the bleeding was mutual, it was clear who was winning that trade.

Varkas was a mountain… bigger frame, thicker bones more mass behind every hit

Each of his punches shoved Ludger back, half a step, then a full step, then nearly two

The crowd saw it. The judges saw it. Horvan’s stretcher bearers saw it from the tunnel.

They knew how this kind of battle ended.

Blow for blow, meat against iron, force versus force, the larger body always pulled ahead.

Eventually, Ludger’s arms would slow.  His defense would lag. One punch would slip through. Then another. And then he’d fall.

It was written in the blood dripping from his fists. Or so it seemed.

Because just as the realization spread through the arena, something else happened… Ludger’s fists began to glow.

Thank you for reading!

Don’t forget to follow, favorite, and rate. If you want to read 300 chapters ahead, you can check my patreon: /Comedian0

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep