Max's heart was pounding, but not like Rehann's. It wasn't the fear of death… it was the fear of humiliation. The fear of collapsing like a rag in front of everyone.
Anthony (whispering): "We're… we're screwed."
Arald took one slow step forward, his boots echoing like a threat with every impact.
Arald: "Don't tell me you've already lost your courage?"
Anthony lowered his eyes. Max looked away. Their palms were wet, their breaths shallow. Memories of the forest came back—the helplessness, the feeling of being hunted like prey.
Far away, Rehann was still lying on the ground, barely conscious, his fingers twitching weakly but unable to push himself up.
Arald smiled again.
Arald: "Fine. If you won't decide… I'll choose for you."
His finger slid slowly through the air, like a blade cutting invisible flesh, and stopped on Max.
Arald: "You."
Max stood up at once. He cracked his fingers, then his neck, and walked firmly into the arena. Anthony followed him with his eyes, lips trembling in a nervous half-smile.
Max (inner thought): "No way I'm waiting to get crushed. I'm attacking first."
Arald: "Good. Begin whenever you want. Don't hold back."
Max closed the distance in an instant, launching a sharp punch aimed straight at Arald's face. Surprised, Arald leaned back to dodge.
Arald: "Oh… interesting."
Max followed with a quick left hook, then another right, then a brutal kick to the shin. He lunged forward, driving his knee up toward Arald's chin. The captain raised his arm to block.
Max didn't stop. Punches hammered forward, elbows snapped, knees and legs struck at ribs and thighs. He was fighting like a storm, throwing everything in at once.
But Arald slipped away from each strike, his movements smooth, lazy even. He looked more like a predator toying with its prey than a man defending himself.
Max feinted high, spun his body, and aimed a crushing strike at Arald's side. His fist tore through the air. Empty.
In a blink, Arald vanished and reappeared behind him. CRACK—a sharp hit with the wooden sword slammed into the back of Max's thigh. His leg buckled.
Arald: "Tss… not bad, but far too predictable."
Max limped, but lifted his guard again. His pride burned hotter than the pain. He charged once more, throwing body shots, sharp blows to the face, then leapt with an explosive jump-kick that nearly grazed Arald's chin.
Arald tilted his head slightly, amused.
Arald: "Not bad…" Then he disappeared again.
The next instant, Max was lifted by the throat and slammed against the ground. The air burst out of his lungs. He tried to rise, but a heavy strike hit his shoulder. Pain jolted through his body. He stumbled, fell on his back, and landed in front of the knights watching. Their laughter erupted like thunder.
Knight (mocking): "That's it? I've seen squires hit harder than this!"
Knight: "Look at him, he's already crawling!"
Laughter shook the arena.
Red with shame, Max forced himself up, staggered forward, and threw one last desperate punch with all his strength. Arald caught it with one hand, grabbed his face, and shoved him back like he was nothing.
Arald: "Pathetic."
A sharp kick to the stomach sent Max rolling across the dirt until he stopped at Anthony's feet.
Max stayed down, eyes half-shut, gasping. The knights laughed louder. Anthony's chest grew heavier. He knew his turn was next… and that it would be worse.
Anthony stepped into the arena, his walk fast but stiff, his shoulders heavy with tension. His black scythe rested against his shoulder, but everyone could already see it was too heavy for him. His hands trembled just holding it.
Arald: "Oh… you." His smile curved with pity. "Very well. Let's see."
Anthony gritted his teeth and charged. He swung his scythe in a wide arc, aiming to slice the air right in front of Arald. The blade passed a full meter away. Arald dodged with a bored step.
Anthony struck again, lower this time. The scythe buried itself deep into the dirt. He pulled hard, face straining, arms burning with effort. The knights roared with laughter.
Knight: "Careful! He's going to plow the whole arena!"
Knight: "Maybe he wants to plant crops!"
The mocking voices cut into Anthony's ears sharper than any blade. His face flushed crimson.
Arald smirked.
Arald: "What is this? Fighting me, or farming the land?"
Anthony's rage pushed him forward. He freed the scythe and began swinging wildly—wide horizontal cuts, clumsy overhead strikes. Each one slower, heavier. His breath grew ragged.
Arald barely moved. A small step back, a tilt of his head, a flick of his wrist. He blocked casually with the flat of his wooden sword. It looked like a dance, and Anthony was the fool spinning in the middle.
Knight: "He can't even hold it right!"
Knight: "What kind of assassin trips over his own weapon?"
The crowd howled.
Anthony tried to focus. He feinted high, then suddenly dropped low, aiming for Arald's legs. For one heartbeat, he thought he had him—
—but Arald was gone.
THUD! A brutal strike hit Anthony's back, throwing him flat on his stomach. Dust filled his mouth. He pushed up, dizzy, humiliated, but forced himself to stand.
Desperation lit his eyes. He spun his body, using the scythe's long reach in a full rotation, hoping to at least land one hit. The swing looked powerful—until the blade dragged too low. His foot tangled. He lost balance and fell to one knee, almost dropping his own weapon.
The knights burst into laughter so loud it shook the stands:
Knight: "He's fighting the ground now!"
Knight: "Someone stop him before he kills himself!"
Anthony's chest heaved. Shame burned hotter than the exhaustion. He lifted the scythe again—only for Arald to step in, faster than his eyes could follow.
A sharp strike to his hand. The scythe flew from his grip.
A crushing blow to his stomach. Air exploded from his lungs.
Before he could collapse, Arald seized him by the collar and threw him to the dirt, raising another wave of laughter.
Anthony lay sprawled, arms spread wide, dust clinging to his face. He didn't even feel the pain—only the humiliation. The laughter stabbed deeper than the strikes.
Max turned his head away, unable to watch. Rehann and Matheo lowered their eyes in silence. The arena was filled with nothing but cruel laughter and Anthony's trembling breaths.
Arald sheathed his wooden sword and looked down at them with a calm, almost cheerful smile.
Arald: "There. Now that you've all had a taste of reality… we can begin the real training."