I settled into an orthodox stance—left foot forward, right foot behind, elbows tight, chin tucked, fists raised. Across from me, he squared up awkwardly, fists high by his temples.
I bounced in, head bobbing, finding my rhythm. As I circled, he turned stiffly to follow, shoulders high and tense—wound up like a novice.
I feinted forward and snapped a quick jab, just to fill the space between us. He swung back wildly—fast, untrained haymakers. I slipped away with a casual backstep.
I kept circling. Another push off the right foot—snap, a clean left jab to his left eye—then backstepped again, just out of reach. He bit on every feint, chasing air and looking worse by the second.
A minute passed. Maybe two. I kept tagging him with sharp left jabs, always at the same spot—his left eye. The crowd didn't love it at first; I caught some drunken boos. But this was how fights were won. Distance control. Footwork. Hit and don't get hit. Like Muhammad Ali said—float like a butterfly and sting like a bee.
Another jab popped his head back. The eye was nearly shut now, purple and swelling. This was the opening I'd been waiting for.
Frustrated, he charged, swinging wild and wide. I backstepped, pivoted off my left foot, and reset. Still calm. Still clean.
Time to end it.
As he came in again, I flicked my left hand out—a feint. He bit, winding up a left swing. But I was already gone, shuffling right, slipping into the blind spot on his swollen side.
They say the punch you don't see is the one that puts you out…
As he turned to track me—bang. I pushed off my right foot, twisted my hips, and drove a right straight punch into his jaw. It landed flush with a sharp smack. His whole body locked up before tipping over like a felled tree.
I raised my fist after—no hesitation. I knew it was over. The boos turned into a thunderous roar.
"AND THERE IT IS, FOLK! THAT'S A WALK-OFF KNOCK OUT IF I EVER SAW ONE! GIVE IT UP FOR MARCUS PEREIRA!"
I descended the stairs and waited for the next match. At the side of the stage, the matchmaker slid a wooden plate with my name deeper into the bracket board. I was directed to a special table with a clear view of the stage—not just a chance to recuperate, but the perfect spot to study any peculiar opponents.
"UP NEXT! A NOBLE WOMAN DESCENDING INTO OUR HUMBLE CITY, EAGER TO PROVE HER FAMILY'S MIGHT! SHE IS DEADLY AND GRACEFUL WITH HER RAPIER, BUT DON'T EVER THINK SHE'S ANY LESS OF A WARRIOR WITHOUT IT! GIVE IT UP FOR VALERIE MAEVE ROSSO!"
Cheers erupted as a noblewoman in a purple vest ascended the stairs, every step maintaining her royal poise. Across from her stood a nameless brute, hungry for recognition.
"...AND FIGHT!"
Valerie took a sideways stance—left foot forward, right foot back, knees deeply bent. Her left hand extended ahead, right hand raised. It resembled a fencer's guard, but there was no sword in sight.
The brute just smirked and charged, swinging wild haymakers. Valerie stayed calm. Her feet shuffled with practiced precision, gliding her just out of reach. Then, she stepped in, raised her left knee, and snapped a high kick straight to his jaw—crack—his head whipped back, eyes dazed.
Without missing a beat, she dropped back into stance, pivoted, and pointed her left heel at him before firing a spinning back kick with her right—right into his solar plexus. The man staggered, breath caught in his throat.
Then she spun again. Using the momentum, she stepped right, lifted her right knee mid-turn, and drove her left foot into the side of his head in a brutal tornado kick—holy shit!
The brute collapsed instantly, out cold. Maeve calmly adjusted her vest and smoothed her blouse like nothing had happened.
"SUCH GRACEFUL VIOLENCE! HER CLASS DEFINITELY MATCHES HER ATTIRE AND ATTITUDE! WELL DONE, LADY ROSSO!"
The crowd roared—cheers, claps, whistles. She descended the stairs, completely unfazed.
She's legit. Hiding Tae Kwon Do in a fencing stance? That's terrifying. She'd be a monster in a real fight.
Just as I turned to watch the next match, I felt a presence at the table. Valerie stood beside the seat across from me, eyes sharp, voice smooth.
"Oh, how improper. Seating me in front of my next opponent?" she said in that posh accent of hers.
I chuckled.
"I know, right? Aren't we supposed to be staring daggers at each other from across the room?" I said, half-joking.
Valerie gave a light, amused hmph in response.
"Valerie, right?—"
"That's Lady Valerie to you," she interrupted, her tone sharp.
"...But yes, that would be me. And you're Marcus, I presume? Esteemed hero of Graywatch," she added, the last part laced with curiosity as she looked me up and down.
"...I expected a proper knight in shining armor based on the stories. But tell me—how am I supposed to tell you apart from a common ruffian dressed like that?" she asked, tone edging on critical. Was this her way of trash-talking before the match?
"Hey. I'm no hero," I said with a smug grin. "But yeah, I'm Marcus. Got a problem with the way I look? I think I pull it off pretty well."
"Hmph."
She glanced away—then did a double take, eyeing the stage. "I suppose 'rough' has its charms," she murmured. "I saw your fight. You're not like the others—swinging wildly and hoping something lands. You were... precise. Tactical. Like you already knew what to do against your opponent."
I followed her gaze. The monk in the orange robe had stepped onto the stage, squaring off against yet another brawler.
"And you," I said, glancing back at her, "were graceful and cunning. You disguised a martial art within a fencing stance and executed it cleanly. Dazed him with a high kick, controlled the distance with a spinning back kick, then closed it with a tornado kick. That was clean."
She paused, visibly surprised. When I glanced over, she had this stunned expression, like she hadn't expected me to catch all that.
"You knew about those Rosso family techniques? How did you—And what boorish naming!" she snapped. "I'll have you know, you called them wrong! They are properly named—"
Then she launched into a passionate rant about the correct names of her techniques. I... couldn't really follow. They sounded French, kind of, but it was more like the local dialect of this world. Thankfully, the system translated them for me right after:
High Kick. Spinning Back Kick. Tornado Kick.
I couldn't help but giggle at the display in my vision… but that giggle was cut short by what I saw next.
The monk stood in a square stance, legs bent, fists resting at his hips as he inhaled deeply. The brawler charged forward, aiming to tackle—but his momentum was stopped cold by a flurry of fists that blurred in the air. It was like a shotgun blast—rapid punches pelting his body all at once.
That was fast. Scary fast. No way that's possible in the real world.
"How terrifying," Valerie murmured.
"Yeah. He's pretty quick, alright—but look at that stance. No pivot, no hip movement, just arm punches... I doubt it hits as hard as a real strike," I muttered, mostly to myself.
"...Already planning on how to beat him, are you?" she said with a sly look. "That's what I meant about you—always tactical. Tell me, O Hero of Graywatch, how would you defeat Lady Valerie?"
I glanced at her with a smirk. "Can't say. How else am I supposed to win if you already know my plan?"
"So you do have a plan," she said, arching an eyebrow. "How scary."
Our attention drifted back to the stage. Another match had begun—brute versus brute. A full-on slugfest. The crowd loved it. I, on the other hand, winced.
Big meaty hooks. No jabs, no straights, no uppercuts. Just... ugh. Can they please throw something that isn't just wild swinging?
"So, Lady Rosso," I began, mock-formal, "how exactly do you plan to spread your family's 'might' by brawling in a random inn?"
"Oh, that?" she said with a casual flick of her wrist. "Just an excuse. I wanted to challenge myself. No one can stand against my swordplay anymore, so... I thought I'd test myself in other ways."
She flagged down a waiter and ordered a wine with a name so classy it probably had a coat of arms.
"...Not what I'd expect from a noble," I said. "Most want to keep their image clean. Untouchable. Yet here you are, seeking your own defeat."
She waited until her glass arrived before replying. Holding it by the stem, she swirled the crimson liquid with practiced elegance, then took a slow sip.
"...It's a Rosso thing," she said, vague and cool. "You wouldn't understand."
I paused, trying to process that last line. Rosso thing? I don't recall—
My train of thought was cut off by waiters approaching us, silently guiding us down separate staircases. We emerged on opposite sides of the stage. Guess it's our fight now.
While waiting for the introductions, I turned toward a shadowed corner and tapped the air, summoning my build panel. Which strategy should I go with? Maybe I could draw inspiration from Rick Roufus vs. Changpuek Kiatsongrit.
I selected "Counter Striker" as my trait for this match, mentally replaying that legendary fight.
"AND NOW, FOR OUR SECOND BRACKET! THE VICTORS FROM EARLIER! A SIMPLE YET BRUTALLY EFFECTIVE BRAWLER VERSUS A CLASSY AND FLASHY FIGHTER! PLEASE WELCOME MARCUS PEREIRA AND LADY VALERIE MAEVE ROSSO!"
The crowd erupted as we both stepped onto the stage. Wild to see they've still got this much energy so late at night.
Valerie smirked as she took her fencing stance—sideways, left fist extended toward me, right hand raised. I answered with an orthodox stance, more squared-up, lifting my left heel slightly into a solid Muay Thai guard. Her brows furrowed in brief confusion. She doesn't recognize it? Good.
I started marching toward her, fists raised, and fired off a quick left jab to fill the space between us—just testing her reactions. She glided back effortlessly using that fencing footwork, then lifted her left knee into a snapping high kick. I leaned back, letting it sail past.
Bouncing on my toes, I reset into my Muay Thai stance. She really leans into that slide-back move. Expected—fencers usually move in straight lines, back and forth. I began circling her, staying light on my feet, curious to see how she'd respond. She simply pivoted to keep me in front, her left fist still pointed at me like a drawn rapier.
I tested her again—dashing in with another jab. As expected, she slid back and countered with a snapping right kick toward my ribs. I raised my left knee, checking the kick with my shin. She grimaced for a split second.
Yeah... it really fucking hurts when someone checks your kick.
I've got my reads now. Time to apply them. That habit of hers? It needs to be punished.
I dashed in with another left jab—she reacted the same way, gliding back with her usual footwork. But this time, I was ready. I shifted my torso left, bent my knees, hinged at the hips—loading power—then exploded forward with a leaping left hook. A gazelle punch, meant to close the gap. She reflexively leaned back, just barely avoiding it… but that moment of instability—that was my opening.
Already coiled from the missed hook, I twisted my hips and torso, whipping my right leg into a vicious low kick. My shin crashed into her left thigh, snapping through her balance. Her knee buckled inward from the impact, and I heard a soft grunt escape her lips.
It made me hesitate—just for a beat.
Her expression twisted—anger and frustration written all over her face. Then she charged, unleashing a flurry of kicks: a left to my ribs, a right low kick to my thigh, and a left high kick aimed at my head.
I blocked each one with precision—raising my knees to check the body and low kicks with my shins, then folding my right arm beside my head and reinforcing it with my left hand to absorb the high kick.
In the same breath, I fired back. I snapped my left knee up, driving it forward into a front teep aimed at her stomach. The stab of my foot caught her clean, forcing her to stumble backward.
I marched toward her, pressing with relentless pressure. She reset into her fencing stance, and just as I moved to strike, she pivoted—timing a spinning back kick right into my stomach. I stumbled back with a grunt, forced to reset into my stance, mind racing.
In Rick Roufus vs. Changpuek Kiatsongrit, the odds were stacked against the Thai fighter. Changpuek couldn't use elbows, knees, or throws—most of Muay Thai's arsenal was off-limits. And still, he won. Just by timing brutal low kicks and breaking Roufus down with them.
That makes me think… do I really want to cripple a Lady here? There aren't even any rules holding me back—
My sympathetic thoughts were cut short as Valerie charged in with another fluid kick combo. Same sequence—left mid kick, right low kick. I checked both with my shins, already anticipating her next move. I folded my right arm by my head, expecting the tornado kick as she stepped over and spun—
—only to get hammered in the gut by a heel, smashing into my solar plexus like a battering ram. My breath left me in a violent cough as I staggered back.
What the fuck were you thinking, Marcus!? You thought you could hold back just 'cause she's a Lady? Look at you now—coughing like a fuckin' loser. Get your shit together!
She sensed blood in the water. She was closing in. I was vulnerable—and she knew it.
She glided forward with sharp footwork, left hand reaching out to measure distance, prepping another kick. I can't let her.
Still breathless, I gritted my teeth and pushed off my feet—lunging forward. My right hand shot out, gripping her left wrist hard. I yanked her in close, then quickly wrapped both hands behind her neck, locking her in a tight Thai clinch. Finally—room to breathe.
Bet you've never seen this shit before, huh?
Time to return the favor.
I wrenched her head down, stepping around her, searching for an angle. Then I shuffled in and drove my left knee into her right side—right into the liver. Her grunt told me I'd landed clean. I planted my feet and followed up—right knee straight into her solar plexus. She went breathless this time.
She had no idea how to defend—or escape—the clinch.
She's fucked.
I switched grips—right hand still anchored on the back of her head, left hand locking her right wrist. She resisted, but I stepped left and yanked her head down as I twisted. Then I swept the side of her left foot with my right foot, taking her down hard.
She hit the ground and started to rise—but I was already on her. I sprinted in, wrapped my right arm around her neck, and rolled backward. My legs shot into the air, coiling around her torso like a trap snapping shut.
"Surrender. Tap out," I warned, gripping my right wrist with my left hand and twisting, slowly tightening the pressure around her neck.
I could feel her grunting against my hold, but I kept squeezing—gradually, deliberately.
She writhed, trying to wriggle free, but it was useless. My grip was ironclad.
Seconds ticked by. Then—tap tap tap—she slapped the floorboard.
I released her immediately.
A moment of silence hung in the air as we caught our breaths—then the announcer's voice thundered across the inn:
"AND THAT'S IT, FOLKS! ONCE AGAIN, HIS BRUTAL EFFICIENCY STEALS THE SHOW! GIVE IT UP FOR MARCUS PEREIRA!"
"...I lost. How... utterly disgraceful," Valerie murmured.
"Yeah. Hope it doesn't offend you, Lady Valerie."
"No, you misunderstand..."
She finally took my hand and rose to her feet, her posture regaining its grace even as the crowd fell into a hush, sensing something significant was about to unfold.
I gave her a puzzled look, waiting for her to explain.
"The Rosso clan is a distinguished martial lineage," she began, voice calm but resolute. "Our ambition is to extend our influence across all domains of combat. As a daughter of this house, I am bound by its traditions… and by my honor."
She took a slow, deliberate breath.
"...To wed the one who defeats me in battle."
I blinked.
The inn fell into a stunned silence—so quiet, I could hear the chirping of crickets beyond the walls.
"...What?"
"I am to marry you, Marcus."