Chapter 51: Soaring Like a Dragon in the Night Sky (Part Two)

The atmosphere in the Hairy Bear Tavern grew increasingly heated under the emcee’s fervent promotion. More and more people gathered, eager to witness this lopsided match, hoping for the visceral thrill of flesh meeting flesh and blood splattering across the ring.

“The odds for your win are now five to one!” The bookkeeper, seeing that it was the so-called Chicken Boxer making inquiries, grinned with gloating delight.

But Victor smiled even more broadly upon hearing this, and said to the young woman beside him, “Angoulême, place a bet for me—one hundred Orens on myself.” The odds were decent; it would help recoup some of his losses.

As she prepared to hand over the money, she caught Victor, now stripped of his iron-plated leather armor, pulling out two vials from his pouch and downing them.

She immediately remembered she had some pocket money as well, and quickly changed her bet at the table. “A hundred and fifty Orens on him,” she declared.

Meanwhile, the emcee, having finished hyping up the Ultimate Killing King, turned to introduce his challenger. “And today, facing the Ultimate Killing King, is…” He took the note Victor had just written. After reading it, his expression turned odd, but he still announced as written, “The Fist of the Eastern Star, the Dragon of Bell Town!”

As the host drew out the words “Dragon of Bell Town,” Victor ripped off his last linen shirt in a flash, revealing a well-proportioned, battle-hardened physique—the muscles that had carried him through one-against-three, even one-against-five brawls without faltering.

The spectacle of two men squaring off bare-chested, fists raised, inspired a mischievous thought in Victor: perhaps next time he should get a fierce tattoo decal. Imagine stripping his shirt to reveal a dragon coiled across his back—he’d be the talk of the tavern.

The announcer continued, “...That’s right! This man with four scars on his face, his fighting name is the Dragon of Bell Town! Quite an imposing title, isn’t it? Look at those muscles! Far more than we expected for his height—he’s no mere chick, he’s a fighting cockerel! Ah, yes! Our Ultimate Killing King may be facing a real challenge tonight...”

Victor paid little heed to the emcee’s continued attempts to rile up the crowd. Good or bad, it was all just to spur more betting.

Scanning the bustling tavern, Victor spotted the stocky Gryffin, still leaning against the bar, arms crossed, watching from afar.

He saw a gang of rams, all clad in gray canvas trousers, red corset belts, and open hemp jackets.

He also noticed several barmaids surrounding a newly arrived guest—a particularly stunning woman with long, wavy hair, pointing and whispering as she approached the ring. As she drew near, the men around her instinctively parted, giving her a wide berth—none dared try their luck with her.

What truly surprised him, though, was the sight of Siegfried—Siegfried of Densow. Who would have thought the noble of the Blazing Rose would show up in such a place? Siegfried raised his glass in salute, then beckoned the bookmaker over and pointed at Victor. Sharp eye! It seemed the Rose Knight was destined for a small windfall tonight.

Snapping back to the moment, Victor realized the emcee had finished his spiel and was conducting the pre-fight interviews: “Now let’s ask the Ultimate Killing King, do you have anything to say to your opponent before the match begins?”

“Roar! You little whelp, you’ll soon be nothing but a bloody pulp!”

His murderous declaration, combined with a crowd largely betting on his victory, drew thunderous cheers—one voice in particular shriller than the rest: “Big guy, take him down and I’m yours tonight!”

Victor glanced sideways; the shout came from a busty barmaid, her assets as formidable as her betting purse. Pity she hadn’t wagered on him.

As the commotion settled, the emcee turned to Victor. “Dragon of Bell Town, do you have anything to say?”

“You are already dead,” the youth replied flatly. There was no need for more words; ever since the Killing King had refused his offer, the outcome was already sealed.

The crowd erupted in derisive laughter. The few who had bet on Victor stayed silent amid the tide of boos and jeers. The particularly high-spirited barmaid managed to make herself heard again: “You little virgin chick, run home to your mama’s milk!”

Victor ignored the insults. She was too young to understand true greatness.

With the pre-fight banter concluded, the emcee, now acting as referee, returned to the center of the ring. “I now announce: Ultimate Killing King versus the Dragon of Bell Town. The match begins!”

As the last word fell, the Killing King let out a war cry, raising his massive fists and charging forward. Some in the crowd already pictured the Chicken Boxer’s teeth flying as his face met the Killing King’s fist.

They were destined to be disappointed.

Having downed two potions before the fight, Victor’s mind was now perfectly clear. “Blizzard” heightened his reflexes, so the Killing King’s attack seemed to move in slow motion; “Thunder” unleashed his latent strength—his fists as heavy as mountains.

“As always,” Victor mused, “the outcome was decided before the first blow. Since you made me waste two rare potions, I’ll give you a discount: two punches to finish you.”

In the next instant, under the audience’s rapt attention, Victor shifted his weight low and to the left, barely avoiding the Killing King’s right fist. Planting on his left foot, he rebounded with a powerful left hook straight into his opponent’s side.

The speed and power of the blow were extraordinary.

Bang—the sound of Siegfried’s chair tipping as he leapt up.

Crash—the beautiful wavy-haired woman’s wineglass hitting the floor.

“Killing King is finished,” muttered Gryffin.

Angoulême smirked. Anyone who talked back to her captain and even spat at him deserved this. He might seem easygoing, but when it came to ruthlessness, he was ruthless indeed.

Most of the crowd hadn’t even caught the punch; they couldn’t yet tell who had the upper hand. But the experts knew—the Killing King would be utterly defenseless for several seconds from the pain. Taylors had demonstrated it professionally; Victor had felt it personally: a well-placed liver shot was enough to decide life and death.

The Killing King, a seasoned brawler, realized the crisis he now faced. Sensing the next attack would come straight, he quickly crossed his arms to shield his face.

But it was already too late, and the direct punch was a feint.

Victor lunged forward, powering through his legs, quadriceps, and glutes, his body coiled low like a leaping antelope. The explosive force coursed from his toes, through his knees, to his waist, springing him into a spinning assault.

Antelope Fist!

Bang!

Before the eyes of the entire tavern, the Killing King’s mouth filled with blood and teeth as his muscular body was lifted off the ground, then crashed heavily to the floor with a dull thud that echoed in every spectator’s heart.

The Hairy Bear Tavern fell utterly silent, as if someone had pressed a mute button. The result had come too suddenly. The once-mighty Killing King now lay motionless, and the Chicken—not anymore, the Dragon of Bell Town—had displayed strength beyond belief.

As the crowd gaped in shock, Victor gazed at his own fist, his face devoid of a victor’s smile.

The Killing King would live; Victor had held back. In the split second of the antelope leap, he had again heard that faint voice urging him to kill—quiet, but real.

He reached down, felt the Killing King’s breath at his nose. The referee gently patted the loser’s cheek, confirming he was unconscious, then nodded and shook his head to the host.

The emcee shouted, “I now declare! The winner is—the Fist of the Eastern Star—the Dragon of Bell Town!”

His declaration was like pressing play again, and the tavern was filled at once with raucous noise—delight at the underdog’s victory, rage at lost bets, and the Killing King’s blood venting their dissatisfaction.

But when Victor raised both hands, the noise fell away. Everyone prepared to hear the winner speak—the privilege of the champion.

He spoke.

“I, the Fist of the Eastern Star, the Dragon of Bell Town, now stand here with but one question: Is—there—anyone—else—?”

His words, brimming with dominance, echoed through the room. All murmured conversation ceased; after such a lopsided fight, no one felt the urge to challenge him.

In the heavy silence, Victor turned to the organizer and spread his hands. “Forgive my impatience, but perhaps you can now declare the champion of tonight’s ‘Iron Fist Tournament.’”

...

In the stillness, the beautiful wavy-haired woman was the first to applaud.

Then Gryffin, the innkeeper, joined in.

Siegfried, the Rose Knight of Densow, began to clap.

And finally, as the entire tavern erupted in applause, Victor raised his hands high.

He—the Dragon of Bell Town—was the undisputed “Iron Fist” of the Hairy Bear Tavern tonight.