The atmosphere inside the Hairy Bear Tavern was getting hotter by the minute under the announcer's relentless hype. More and more people crowded in to watch, eager for this lopsided fight to give them the raw, visceral thrill of fists pounding flesh and blood splattering.
"The odds on you winning are one-to-five right now!" The clerk taking wagers saw it was the "chick fighter" asking and bared his teeth in a smug, mocking grin.
Victor's smile was even brighter than his. He turned to the girl and said, "Angoulême, place the bet for me. One hundred orens on myself." Those odds weren't bad—he could at least claw back some of his losses.
When she reached for her money, she caught sight of Victor stripping off his studded leather with iron plates and, from his herb pouch, pulling out two vials of potion and downing them in quick succession.
She immediately remembered she still had some pocket money. On the spot, she corrected herself to the clerk: "Make it one hundred and fifty orens."
The announcer had finally finished introducing the Ultimate Murder King and was about to introduce the challenger. "And today, stepping up to challenge the Ultimate Murder King… is him—" He paused to take a slip of paper from an assistant. It was something Victor had just written. The announcer's expression turned strange when he read it, but he still recited the words exactly: "The North Star's Fist… the Dragon of Bell Town!"
When he drew out the words "Dragon of Bell Town," Victor went "rip!" and tore open the last linen shirt on his upper body, revealing a lean, solid frame of battle-tested muscle—muscle that had carried him through one-against-three, even one-against-five, without ever bending.
Bare-knuckle brawling between men, chest to chest, had the room so heated that Victor had a funny thought: maybe next time he should slap on some intimidating temporary tattoos.
The announcer kept shouting, "…That's right! This man with four scars across his face—his fighting name is the Dragon of Bell Town! A powerful name, isn't it?
Oh, look at that! His muscles are beyond what we expected—nothing like his height would suggest. He's no little chick. He's a fighting cock! Ahhh! Our Ultimate Murder King may be facing a brutal challenge tonight…"
Victor didn't bother paying attention to whatever lines the announcer used next to whip up the crowd. Good or bad, it didn't matter. It was all just bait to make more people place bets.
As he scanned the noisy tavern, Victor spotted the stocky Griffarin. Arms folded, he leaned against the bar, watching from afar.
He also saw a bunch of Ram Gang men, all dressed alike—gray cloth trousers, red cinching belts with brass buckles, and open-front linen shirts.
He even noticed a few promotional girls clustered around a woman who'd just entered—an especially gorgeous lady with big, wavy hair—pointing in Victor's direction and whispering. And when she moved closer to the edge of the ring, the men around her naturally parted to make a path. No one tried to crowd her or get handsy.
More unexpectedly, Victor saw Siegfried—Siegfried of Denesle. He'd never have guessed the Flaming Rose's refined young noble would show up in a place like this.
Siegfried raised his mug toward Victor in greeting, then waved the betting clerk over and pointed at Victor.
Good eye. Looks like the Rose Knight was about to make a tidy profit tonight.
By the time Victor snapped back, the announcer had finished the patter and moved on to the last pre-fight questions.
"Now we'll ask the Ultimate Murder King—before the bell, do you have anything you want to say to your opponent?"
"ROAR! You little *runt—soon you'll be nothing but bloody mush!"
With that murderous declaration—and with most of the room having bet on him—the cheers were deafening. One voice cut through especially loud: "Big guy, kill him! And tonight, I'm yours!"
Victor turned his head. The shout came from a tavern promo girl with an impressively generous figure. She'd probably bet a lot. What a shame she hadn't bet on him.
When the heckling died down a little, the announcer stepped in front of Victor. "Dragon of Bell Town—anything you want to say?"
"You're already dead." Victor didn't think there was any need to say more.
From the moment the Murder King refused his proposal, the ending had already been decided.
The crowd burst into laughter and jeers. The handful of people who'd bet on Victor could only keep quiet under the wave of booing and insults.
And that overly excited promo girl managed to get her voice into Victor's ears again: "You little *chick virgin—hurry up and crawl home and go suck your *milk!"
Victor didn't care about the shouting. She was too young to understand true greatness.
The announcer—doubling as referee—returned to the center of the ring. "I now declare: Ultimate Murder King versus the Dragon of Bell Town.
Fight!"
The instant the words fell, the Ultimate Murder King let out a war roar, lifted fists the size of stew pots, and lunged in first.
Some people were already imagining it: one punch smashing into the "chick fighter's" face, knocking half his teeth out in a spray.
Too bad. They were destined to be disappointed.
Two potions before the bell—now Victor's mind was calm and clear as still water. Blizzard sharpened his reactions until the Murder King's punches looked like slow motion. Thunderbolt drew out dormant strength until the Dragon's fist felt heavy as a mountain.
"No surprises," Victor thought. "As always, the outcome was decided before the fight even started. And since you forced me to burn my scarce stock of Thunderbolt and Blizzard… I'll give you a discount. I'll only need two punches to put you down."
The next second, under the crowd's unblinking stare, Victor shifted his weight left and dropped his center of gravity. He tilted his head just enough to slip past the Murder King's right fist by a hair, then drove off his left foot and snapped a rebounding left hook into the Murder King's side.
The speed and power behind that punch were nothing to scoff at.
Thud—Siegfried shot to his feet and knocked a chair over.
Clatter—the beautiful wavy-haired lady's cup hit the floor.
"He's finished," Griffarin murmured.
Angoulême's lips curled upward. Pick a fight with my captain and spit at him—this outcome isn't surprising at all. He might look easygoing most days, but when it comes to being ruthless, he's the real thing.
Most of the crowd didn't even see the punch clearly, and they still couldn't tell who'd won. But anyone who understood fighting knew: for the next few seconds, the Murder King had no room to fight back. Sir Tailles had demonstrated it professionally; Victor had experienced it personally. A liver shot that's heavy and accurate enough—one clean hit can decide life and death.
The Ultimate Murder King had plenty of brawling experience too. He knew this was a critical moment. Sensing a straight punch coming, he hurriedly crossed his arms to guard his front.
But it was already too late—and the straight punch was only a feint.
Victor stomped forward hard, driving with both legs, quads, and glutes. He lowered his body and sprang like a leaping stag. Explosive force surged from his toes through his knees into his hips, then snapped out in a whipping, rotating burst.
Stag Leap Punch!
BANG!
In front of the entire crowd, the Ultimate Murder King spat blood and teeth. His thick, muscular body actually lifted off the ground for a heartbeat before crashing down—its dull, heavy impact thudding straight into everyone's chest.
The Hairy Bear Tavern was like someone hit a mute switch. Instant silence. The result was too sudden. A few seconds ago the Ultimate Murder King looked unstoppable, and now he couldn't rise again—while the "chick"… no, the Dragon of Bell Town… was terrifyingly strong.
In the stunned silence, Victor looked at his fist. There was no victor's grin on his face.
The Murder King would live. Victor had held back—because in the instant he launched the Stag Leap, he heard that voice again, urging him toward slaughter. It was faint… but it was there.
The referee checked the Murder King's breathing, patted his face lightly to confirm he was unconscious, then nodded to the organizer… and then shook his head.
Then the announcer roared, "I now declare! The winner is—The North Star's Fist—The Dragon of Bell Town!!"
That declaration was like hitting the unmute switch. The tavern inside and out instantly filled with noise—some delighted at the underdog's victory, some furious at losing money, some venting their frustration at the Murder King's blood.
When Victor raised both hands high, people naturally lowered their volume, ready to hear the winner's words. That was the victor's privilege.
He spoke.
"I! The North Star's Fist, the Dragon of Bell Town,
standing here right now, have only one question—
Who… else… wants… it?"
His swaggering words echoed through the room. Even the few quiet conversations that had existed in the tavern vanished. The last fight had been so absurdly one-sided that no one felt the slightest desire to challenge him.
In the wordless silence, Victor spread his hands toward the organizer. "Forgive me for being a bit impatient, but maybe you can announce who tonight's 'Iron Fist Championship' winner is now."
…
In the stillness, the beautiful wavy-haired lady was the first to clap.
Then the tavern owner, Griffarin, began clapping.
Then the Rose Knight, Siegfried of Denesle, began clapping.
And finally… in a storm of applause, Victor lifted both hands again.
He—the Dragon of Bell Town—was tonight's undisputed "Iron Fist" of the Hairy Bear Tavern.