The morning of the spectacle arrived not with the usual brutal commands by guards, but with a different kind of tension that crackled in the cold air.
The routine was altered; chores were finished quickly, conversations were hushed, and every face, both prisoner and guard, carried a familiar, knowing glint.
Even the guards seemed to have a looser grip on their authority, a cold excitement in their eyes as they moved through the aisles.
This was not a day of misery, but a day of morbid entertainment. For the prisoners, it was the only thing that broke the brutal monotony, and for Nico, it was the day he would either receive renown or be broken.
Leoill felt a knot of dread tightening in his stomach. He was a soldier trained for combat, but a savage, one-on-one prison fight was a new kind of terror, not to mention the fact that all of these guys were also trained soldiers within their respective fields.
He found himself watching Nico, his earlier anger replaced by a desperate, agonizing hope that his new, strange ally would not fall. He searched for any sign of fear in Nico's eyes — a flicker of doubt, a twitch of anxiety — but found nothing.
It was unnerving; a man should be scared facing a known killer.
The sheer difference in their reactions felt like a betrayal all its own, a chasm that Leoill didn't dare to cross.
Nico didn't warm up. He sat on the edge of the filthy cot, his hands folded in his lap, simply waiting. His face, as always, was a mask of composure. He caught Leoill's eye and gave a nearly imperceptible nod, a simple gesture that said, "I've got this."
It was clear to Leoill that he wasn't doing this for pride or glory.
The call came with a loud clang of a metal pipe against a railing. The guards began to herd the prisoners toward the center of the outpost's main courtyard, where a small, open area had been cleared of snow.
It was a makeshift arena, a circle of hardened earth surrounded by a ring of cheering, jeering men. The hooting and hollering from the prisoners mixed with the laughter of the guards, creating a symphony of bloodlust.
Nico stood up as he was called forward by a guard. The crowd parted, and he walked into the center, his eyes fixed on the immense figure waiting for him.
This man was a mountain of muscle, his bald head covered in scars, his hands massive clubs. He was Brutal Sloth, and he was the undisputed king of the pit.
"So?" he asked, in a heavy tone with arrogance.
Nico, standing in the center of the pit with his usual unnerving composure, simply replied:
"Hm?"
Sloth's grin widened, revealing a missing tooth.
"Everyone's got a tournament name, youngster. I'm Brutal Sloth. What's yours?"
Nico paused, his eyes briefly scanning the jeering faces in the crowd before settling back on his opponent. The silence was long as he considered his answer, a single moment of vulnerability in an otherwise impenetrable demeanor.
"Lai," he said.
"Lai? That's a dumb name, no power in it at all," he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. "I'll call you 'slave' instead."
The taunt landed like a physical blow. To the guards and the other prisoners, Nico's face remained a perfect, unreadable mask, but Leoill, watching from the edge of the crowd, saw the clench of Nico's jaw.
The sneer on Sloth's face was the only warning Nico received. In the span of a single blink, Sloth was already in motion, his massive fist, a sledgehammer of bone and muscle, aimed directly at Nico's face.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd as Nico narrowly side-stepped the attack, the wind of the missed blow ruffling his hair.
He let out a slow, deliberate breath, his composure as normal as it had ever been.
"Nice moves, slave!" Sloth roared in a mocking tone.
He charged again, a low jab aimed for Nico's chest, but Nico was already in motion. He met Sloth's advanced with an open palm to his opponent's chest, redirecting the momentum as he stepped to the side.
As Sloth lumbered past, Nico's body rotated, his leg launched a reverse roundhouse kick that connected with a sharp crack just below Sloth's rib-cage.
A gasp went through the crowd.
But Sloth didn't even flinch. A sadistic smile crept across his face as his hand shot out, a vice that caught Nico's leg. With a grunt of effort that seemed effortless, Sloth twisted, his immense strength throwing Nico several meters across the pit, which tumbled him like a discarded doll.
Leoill, from the edge of the crowd, said nothing, his eyes wide with a quiet, desperate terror as he watched his friend get to his feet.
Sloth began to approach, his every step simply a menacing stomp. Just as he seemed to be closing in, Nico, who had been on the ground a mere second ago, shot up to his feet with an impossible, nearly instant burst of motion.
A trickle of blood was visible on the right side of his forehead from the fall, but his face showed no pain, nothing but its usual blank mask.
Sloth gave a contemptuous scoff.
"You're durable, aren't ya, slave? People usually fall against me after my first attack."
A collective murmur went through the crowd as Nico simply replied:
"I'm... Lai."
Sloth's eyes widened with a sudden, bloodthirsty rage at the defiance. He let out a roar and charged, throwing an all-out punch, a full-body assault that promised to shatter bone.
But he was met with nothing but air. In a flash of agility that contradicted his earlier endurance, Nico narrowly leaped over the charging giant. He landed lightly behind Sloth and, without hesitation, delivered a precise, surgical kick to the side of the opponent's cheek.
The blow connected with a thwack, and the mountain of a man was stunned, swaying in place for the first time in the fight.