The second round ended with an unexpected decision… a draw.
The referee's voice rang out as he announced it, while the crowd barely had time to process what had happened before four men in white medical uniforms rushed into the arena.
They moved quickly, their faces devoid of expression, as if they had witnessed scenes like this dozens of times before.
They approached Visper and the thin man, both lying motionless on the ground, then carefully lifted them onto thick cloth stretchers and carried them out of the arena.
The crowd's voices rose louder and louder—a mix of admiration and concern, applause and whistles—as if no one wanted the spark of excitement that had just ignited to fade away.
I followed the men with my eyes as they walked down a long, dark corridor at the edge of the arena.
It led to a place I couldn't make out… it seemed so far away that my eyes couldn't even tell where it ended.
Perhaps a medical room?
Or some hidden place reserved for injured fighters?
I didn't know.
Even though neither of them had lost consciousness, their bodies were completely unable to move.
In Visper's case, it made sense… his body was covered in bruises, his face a canvas of blood.
But what truly puzzled me… was the thin man.
He had only taken a single punch!
He hadn't been struck anywhere else, and yet his body collapsed as if he were utterly incapable of resisting.
Was he sick?
Or suffering from some internal weakness we hadn't noticed?
Maybe… that would explain it.
But the referee's loud voice cut through my thoughts as he shouted with forced enthusiasm:
"Wow! That was a blazing match!"
The crowd erupted in agreement, applause echoing like thunder throughout the hall.
Then the referee waved his hand and continued:
"But the show isn't over yet! It's time for the third round! Get ready!"
I immediately turned toward Zairos.
It was clear his turn had come—but his face held no trace of confidence.
Overwhelming tension gripped him.
Sweat trickled down the sides of his forehead, his hands trembling as he nervously shifted his feet.
His eyes darted everywhere—toward the crowd, then the arena—as if searching for an escape that didn't exist.
The referee's voice rose again as he pointed to the left side:
"From the left team… we have the muscular man!"
A massive man stepped forward, his body carved like stone, every muscle sharply defined.
He wore a wide, arrogant grin and waved confidently to the crowd, as if victory was already his.
The arena roared:
"Muscle man! Muscle man!"
Then the referee turned to the other side, his voice booming:
"And from the right team… the man who looks like a gangster."
Zairos froze for a moment at the nickname.
Confusion flashed across his face, but he had no choice—he stepped forward.
His steps were heavy, his body leaning slightly forward as if even the ground resisted carrying him.
He entered the arena under countless eyes, sweat increasing on his brow even before the fight began.
The crowd was no less excited for him—if anything, their voices rose louder as they repeated his new title:
"The gangster-looking man!"
But the echo of their cheers wasn't comforting—it felt like walls closing in on him from all sides.
The referee raised his arm high:
"Alright… the third round will begin after the count!"
Then he said:
"One… two… three… go!"
He quickly left the arena, leaving the fighters face to face amid deafening noise—as if the entire hall had become a volcano on the verge of eruption.
And once again, the arena ignited as the third round began.
But from the very start, it was clear things were taking a frightening turn.
Without giving his opponent a moment to breathe, the muscular man charged forward like a beast unleashed, veins bulging in his arms, arrogance etched across his face.
In an instant, his heavy fist came crashing down toward Zairos.
But Zairos —despite his fear and trembling—managed to slip to the side just in time.
"Thud!"
The fist struck the arena floor.
The ground shook—and a small crater formed where the punch landed.
I gasped, my breath freezing.
What if Zairos hadn't dodged?
That single blow could have shattered his skull.
The referee shouted excitedly:
"What was that?! His punch left a mark on the floor itself!"
The crowd roared—some cheering for the muscular man, others applauding the brutal display.
As for Zairos… fear had clearly taken hold of him.
His eyes were unsteady, sweat pouring down his face as he stumbled backward, trying to buy time.
But the muscular man gave him none.
He advanced with heavy steps like small earthquakes, cornering him until he was pinned against the edge of the arena.
Zairos stiffened, raising his arms awkwardly into a shaky fighting stance, his trembling fists barely held in front of him.
A mocking laugh escaped his opponent—deep and beastly:
"Hahaha… You think you can stand against me? You think that fist of yours can stop me?!"
Zairos said nothing.
He stayed silent, trying desperately to hide the tremor in his body.
But suddenly—
The muscular man threw a punch at his face—and at the same moment, Zairos struck back.
"Thud!"
Both fists landed at the same time.
They staggered backward.
The muscular man touched his cheek.
Zairos wiped his face, eyes locked on his opponent.
The referee shouted:
"Ohhh! What a fiery round! Both landed clean hits!"
The crowd went wild.
But the moment the muscular man lowered his hand…
His expression changed completely.
His arrogant smile vanished—replaced by pure rage.
Veins bulged across his face, his skin flushed red, his eyes burning like sparks.
Zairos saw it—and his fear deepened.
He stepped back, his hands trembling even more.
The muscular man stepped forward and growled:
"Surrender now… or I'll break you."
Zairos swallowed hard.
"I… I…"
He hesitated, glanced at us, then looked back and said weakly:
"I… won't surrender."
A sinister smile spread across the muscular man's face.
"Then you've chosen your own destruction."
Suddenly—
"Thud!"
A devastating punch struck Zairos's face.
His head snapped to the side, blood bursting from his nose, one of his teeth flying out and hitting the ground.
My heart shook at the sight.
Zairos remained standing for a moment, stunned, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
Honestly… neither could I.
But his opponent didn't give him time.
Another punch.
Then another.
Zairos tried to retaliate weakly, but the muscular man swayed effortlessly, dodged, and struck again—shattering his defense.
Zairos staggered, coughing, blood spilling from his mouth and nose—yet he still tried to raise his hands.
The muscular man laughed with contempt.
He grabbed Zairos by the collar, lifted him like a weightless doll, and unleashed a barrage of blows.
A punch to the face.
Another to the stomach.
Then one to the forehead.
Each strike echoed loudly.
Each strike shattered a piece of his body… and his spirit.
The referee laughed as if enjoying a show:
"Hahaha! It looks like victory will belong to the left team this time!"
The crowd screamed wildly, craving more—as if thirsty for blood.
Huntar smiled arrogantly.
Beside him, the ordinary man smiled too—but his was calm, not arrogant.
The mysterious woman sat quietly, as if in another world.
Our employer angry—but tried to hide it.
As for me…
I sat frozen, fists trembling, screaming inside:
Are these people even human?!
How can they cheer for something this cruel?!
I turned to Aureus, my voice shaking:
"Sir! You have to stop this match!Zairos is in real dangers"
Aureus was silent for a moment, watching the arena with rare seriousness.
Then he said coldly:
"It's not my choice… If Zairos surrenders, or loses consciousness, only then will the match stop."
My eyes widened in shock.
What kind of logic is that?!
Does Zairos have to be beaten to death before this madness ends?!
I could do nothing.
I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms, biting my lip until I tasted blood.
And in the arena…
Zairos kept taking the blows.
His face was disfigured with blood, his body shaking with every strike, his breathing broken.
And yet…
He didn't utter a single word of surrender.
He fought in silence…
He fought until his very last breath.