The referee stepped into the center of the pit.
His eyes moved slowly across the remaining fighters.
Seven left.
Silence spread, heavier than before.
Everyone was waiting.
Watching.
'Pick me.'
Osric stood still.
Calm on the surface—
Focused underneath.
The referee stopped.
Raised his hand.
"You."
A man stepped forward.
Tall.
Lean.
Built for movement rather than brute force.
His dark hair was tied loosely behind his head, a few strands falling over sharp, narrow eyes.
No wasted motion.
No hesitation.
Unlike most—
He looked composed.
Controlled.
Confident.
Osric recognized him immediately.
'Riven.'
A high-ranker.
Not among the very strongest—
But close.
Fast.
Precise.
Technical.
A fighter who didn't waste energy.
Didn't overcommit.
Didn't make many mistakes.
Exactly the type Osric preferred—
And respected.
Riven didn't even look at the other fighters.
His gaze moved once—
And stopped on Osric.
A faint smile formed.
"There you are."
No hesitation.
No doubt.
He raised his hand—
And pointed straight at him.
"I choose you."
A murmur spread through the crowd.
"He picked Osric?"
"Already?"
"That guy came prepared…"
Osric didn't react outwardly.
But internally—
Everything aligned.
'Good.'
This was what he needed.
A high-ranker.
A clean fight.
A step forward.
He turned—
And walked toward the betting table.
Without a word—
He placed five silver coins down.
The bookmaker didn't question it this time.
He simply nodded.
"Odds are one point six."
Osric picked up the wooden token.
Lower risk.
Lower reward.
But expected.
He was favored.
As he stepped away, his eyes returned to the pit.
Riven was already waiting.
Still.
Relaxed.
Watching him.
Not like Hugh.
Not chaotic.
Not unstable.
This one was different.
Calculated.
Osric stepped into the pit.
The noise around him faded slightly.
Not gone—
But distant.
His focus narrowed.
Locked.
'Seen him fight twice.'
'Fast footwork.'
'Clean counters.'
'Doesn't chase.'
'Waits.'
Osric adjusted his stance.
Subtle.
Controlled.
'Good.'
Across from him—
Riven tilted his head slightly.
Studying him the same way.
"I've been wanting this."
Osric didn't respond.
He didn't need to.
The referee stepped between them.
"To my left stands the popular and calculating mercenary captain, Riven! He has an astonishing record of 61 wins and 19 losses!"
He turned around. "And to my right, with a record of 17 wins and 0 losses—
The rising star, Osric!"
"Woahh!"
"Let's goo!"
"Kill each other!"
"Make me rich!"
So far, this was the most popular fight of the night.
The referee looked at both fighters again.
Paused—
Then stepped back.
"Fight—"
They moved at the same time.
No hesitation.
No wasted motion.
Riven stepped in first—
Light on his feet.
Balanced.
His arm shot forward.
Clean.
Straight.
Osric shifted slightly.
Minimal.
The strike missed by inches.
Not luck—
Control.
Osric answered immediately.
A short counter toward the body—
Riven was already moving.
He pivoted.
Redirected.
The strike grazed him—
Not clean.
Not enough.
They separated.
Just a step.
Both watching.
Measuring.
'Fast.'
Osric adjusted his stance.
Lower.
More compact.
'Clean movement. No wasted energy.'
Across from him—
Riven's eyes sharpened slightly.
'He reads well.'
He stepped in again.
This time slower.
Testing.
A faint toward the shoulder—
Osric didn't bite.
Riven followed through anyway.
A second strike came from below.
Faster.
Osric reacted—
Blocked.
But—
Riven was already there.
A clean counter.
Sharp.
Precise.
It clipped Osric's side.
Not heavy—
But clean.
The crowd reacted.
"He hit him!"
Riven stepped back.
Calm.
Controlled.
"Good," he said quietly.
Osric exhaled slowly.
'He's not overcommitting.'
'Everything has purpose.'
He stepped forward.
Closing distance.
This time—
He didn't strike immediately.
He waited.
A fraction.
Then moved.
Riven responded.
As expected.
A counter came—
But Osric shifted earlier.
Before it fully formed.
The strike missed.
For the first time—
Not barely.
Cleanly.
Osric's counter followed.
Short.
Direct.
To the body.
This time—
It landed properly.
Riven's torso turned with the impact.
He stepped back.
Once.
Subtle—
But real.
His eyes narrowed.
'…Faster than before.'
Osric didn't stop.
He stepped in again.
Maintaining pressure.
Not reckless—
Controlled.
His strikes came tighter now.
More efficient.
Every movement smaller.
Cleaner.
Riven moved to counter—
But Osric was already off the line.
Every time.
'He's adjusting mid-exchange.'
Riven's footwork shifted.
Faster now.
More deliberate.
He stepped in—
Committed.
A sharp strike toward Osric's head—
Osric slipped it.
Clean.
His body moved without thought.
Without delay.
'There.'
The opening was already there—
Before it fully existed.
Osric's fist drove into Riven's ribs.
Solid.
Followed immediately by another.
Higher.
Snapping his head slightly back.
The rhythm broke.
Riven tried to recover—
To reset—
But Osric didn't allow it.
He stepped in again.
Closer.
Cutting space.
Every movement now—
Ahead.
Riven's counters came—
But late.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
His jaw tightened.
'He's reading ahead.'
Osric's next strike came sharp.
Precise.
Driving into his core again.
The air left Riven's lungs.
A step back—
Larger this time.
The crowd noticed.
"He's pushing him back!"
"No way!"
Riven steadied himself.
Exhaled once.
Then looked at Osric properly.
Not just observing now—
Acknowledging.
"…You've improved fast."
Osric didn't answer.
But for a brief moment—
A thought crossed his mind.
'If he wasn't already leading a band…'
'He would've been worth recruiting.'
Riven moved again.
One more attempt.
Clean.
Focused.
His best timing yet—
A perfect counter setup—
But Osric was already inside it.
Too early.
Too precise.
The strike never formed.
Osric's body shifted.
A small angle.
Perfect positioning.
His counter came immediately.
Everything behind it.
Technique.
Timing.
Control.
A clean strike to the jaw.
Riven's head snapped back.
His body froze—
Then dropped.
Heavy.
Uncontrolled.
Silence—
For a split second.
Then—
The arena erupted.
"He's down!"
"No way!"
"He made it look easy!"
Osric stood still.
Breathing steady.
His eyes remained on Riven.
Waiting.
Seconds passed.
No movement.
The referee stepped in.
Checked quickly—
Then raised his hand.
"The winner— Osric!"
The roar grew louder.
Different from before.
More convinced.
More certain.
Osric exhaled slowly.
No frustration.
No tension.
Just clarity.
'One step closer.'