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Chapter 313: Mad Dogs

The stranger's boots crunched against the uneven dirt path as he approached the outskirts of the city. The air grew heavier with the stench of unwashed bodies and cheap ale, mixed with the faint metallic tang of rusting weapons. Makeshift tents and crude campfires dotted the area, their flickering light casting jagged shadows on the grimy surroundings.

As the man stepped into the camp, conversations hushed, and the general air of debauchery stilled, replaced by a wary tension. Heads turned to look at him—some with open hostility, others with thinly veiled curiosity. A few of the rougher types licked their lips, their expressions promising trouble if he wasn't careful.

The stranger ignored their stares, walking forward with the same deliberate pace he had displayed in the guild. His dark cloak billowed slightly with the motion, revealing hints of the simple but practical gear beneath. He stopped at what seemed to be the center of the camp, surrounded by a mix of lounging figures and men sharpening their weapons.

Then he spoke, his voice calm but loud enough to carry through the silence.

"I'm here to see the Mad Dogs. Is this the right place?"

For a moment, no one answered. The camp seemed frozen, as if waiting for a signal. Then a grizzled mercenary leaning against a barrel barked a laugh, his yellowed teeth glinting in the firelight. "And what if it is, eh? You here to join or to die?"

Another mercenary, this one with a scar running across his bald scalp, spat on the ground near the stranger's feet. "Got a death wish, walking in here like that? You don't look like you can afford us."

A third mercenary, a wiry man with a crooked grin, added, "Maybe he's lost. Or maybe…" His grin widened, his eyes flicking to the stranger's belt. "He's carrying coin we can lighten him of."

The stranger remained unfazed, his pitch-black eyes sweeping over the gathered men and women. His calm demeanor seemed to irritate them even more, the hostility in the air growing thicker.

"If this isn't the right place, I'll leave," the stranger said evenly. "But if it is, then fetch your leader. I'm here to talk business, not waste time."

The grizzled mercenary leaned forward, his yellowed teeth bared in a grin that promised trouble. "Our leader's a busy man, stranger. You can't just walk in here and demand to see him. There's a cost for taking up his time."

The wiry mercenary with the crooked grin chimed in, his voice dripping with mockery. "That's right. Call it a… guarantee. Show us you're serious, or turn around and crawl back to wherever you came from."

The stranger tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes narrowing but his expression otherwise calm. Slowly, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a single gold coin. Without a word, he flicked it onto the ground in front of the grizzled mercenary.

"Would this be enough?" he asked evenly.

The camp seemed to hold its breath for a moment as the coin clinked against the dirt, its golden sheen catching the flicker of firelight. The grizzled mercenary's eyes widened briefly before a wicked smile spread across his face. He bent down, scooping up the coin with a quick, greedy motion, then exchanged a look with the others. The wiry mercenary licked his lips, and the bald one cracked his knuckles.

"Well, well," the grizzled man drawled, his voice full of mockery. "Looks like the pup's got some bite. But…" He pocketed the coin and smirked. "You think one little coin's enough to deal with the Mad Dogs? Oh, you're in for a lesson, boy."

As if on cue, the surrounding mercenaries began to rise, moving closer and tightening the circle around the stranger. Their eyes glinted with malicious intent, and their hands hovered near weapons or clenched into fists. Some chuckled darkly, while others openly jeered.

The wiry mercenary leaned closer, sneering. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. But not much sense, eh? Coming here all alone, flashing coin. What did you think was gonna happen?"

The stranger remained still, his posture unchanging, as he asked calmly, "Is this how it's supposed to be?"

The bald mercenary grinned, his scarred face twisted with cruel amusement. "Damn right it is. You walk into the Mad Dogs' den, you play by our rules. And rule number one? Don't show weakness."

The wiry one let out a cackling laugh. "It's your fault for coming here, pal. We're the Mad Dogs for a reason, after all. Ain't that right, boys?"

A chorus of chuckles and jeers rose from the gathered mercenaries, their confidence bolstered by the stranger's apparent lack of fear. The grizzled leader stepped closer, looming over him with a smirk.

"You made a mistake coming here alone," he said, his voice low and menacing. "Now let's see how deep your pockets really go."

For the first time, the stranger moved—his head tilting slightly to one side as he exhaled a soft, almost disappointed sigh.

"I see," he murmured, his voice barely audible but enough to quiet the laughter around him. Then, he straightened, his eyes scanning the group with cold detachment. "I was under the impression I was dealing with professionals. Perhaps I was wrong."

But then suddenly his mouth widened.

SWOOSH!

"Or not!"

As a sword was drawn.

The blade, slim and razor-sharp, shone with an otherworldly black hue, shadows coiling around it like living flames.

In an instant, he thrust it forward, piercing the grizzled mercenary's chest with pinpoint precision. The older man's eyes widened in shock, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as the black flames ignited from the wound, engulfing his body in an eerie, consuming blaze.

"Not professionals, then," the young man murmured, his voice carrying a biting edge. He yanked his blade free, the grizzled mercenary collapsing to the ground with a dull thud, his charred body crumpling into lifelessness.

"Kill him!" the bald mercenary roared, his voice trembling with both rage and fear.

The wiry mercenary lunged first, his dagger gleaming as he aimed for the young man's throat. But before the blade could connect, the stranger sidestepped with a graceful pivot, his sword slicing upward in a single, fluid motion.

SLASH!

The wiry man froze mid-step, his eyes flicking down to see a gash seared through his torso, black flames licking at the edges of the wound. He crumpled with a scream, his body consumed by the relentless fire.

"Two," the young man said softly, his tone almost conversational.

The next three came at him together, their weapons flashing in the firelight—an axe, a longsword, and a spiked mace. They moved with a crude but determined coordination, trying to surround him.

The young man didn't hesitate.

SWOOSH!

He ducked under the swing of the axe, his sword stabbing upward into the wielder's throat. Black flames erupted from the wound, consuming the man's head before his body hit the ground. Spinning on his heel, the stranger's blade met the downward strike of the mace, deflecting it with a sharp clang before slicing cleanly through the attacker's side.

CLANG! SLASH!

The fifth mercenary hesitated for a fraction of a second, his grip tightening on the longsword as fear flickered in his eyes. But the stranger gave him no chance to retreat. With a sudden burst of speed, he closed the distance, his blade slashing horizontally. The black flames followed the arc of the sword, engulfing the mercenary before he could even cry out.

Five bodies lay sprawled across the ground, their twisted, charred remains sending wisps of smoke into the night air. The other mercenaries, who had been so eager to jeer and mock just moments before, now stood frozen, their faces pale as they stared at the stranger.

He straightened, his sword still alight with the shadowy flames, and turned his gaze to the remaining mercenaries. His smirk was gone, replaced by a cold, detached expression that sent a chill through the camp.

"Anyone else?" he asked, his voice calm and almost mocking.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the crackling of the black flames.

"You….."

And there was one person who remembered who this guy was.

After all, there was only person who had used black flames while fighting. Someone whose name had spread quite far in the recent two months, after stirring trouble with all the people here.

"Are you the Sword Demon?"

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, as the last whisper of black flames died out, leaving only charred corpses and the acrid stench of burning flesh in their wake. The remaining mercenaries looked at the stranger with wide eyes, their earlier bravado replaced by a palpable fear that hung in the air like a storm cloud.

"You…" one of them finally managed, his voice trembling. He pointed a shaky finger at the young man, his face pale and glistening with sweat. "You're the Sword Demon, aren't you?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, mercenaries exchanging panicked glances as recognition dawned. The Sword Demon—a name that had carved itself into infamy over the past two months. Tales of a lone swordsman who had dared to provoke and survive a confrontation with the Cloud Heavens Sect had spread like wildfire. Some whispered he was a demon himself, while others swore he was an outcast from a sect, wielding forbidden techniques. Whatever the truth, one fact was undeniable: he was dangerous.

The wiry mercenary who had earlier mocked the stranger stumbled backward, clutching at his bleeding side. "The Sword Demon… here? Why… why the hell would he come here?"

The stranger's dark eyes swept over the group, cold and unfeeling, as if weighing their worth. He said nothing, letting the silence and their growing unease answer for him. The shadows of his sword still flickered faintly, casting an eerie glow against his stoic features.

One of the older mercenaries, a grizzled veteran with a patch over one eye, stepped forward, his voice gruff but tinged with apprehension. "If you're really him, then what the hell do you want with us? You didn't come here just to make a mess of my camp, did you?"

The stranger tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "I told you when I arrived. I'm here to see the Mad Dogs. Now, fetch your leader before I decide to finish what I started."

The threat wasn't loud or overt, but it carried a weight that made the remaining mercenaries flinch. The grizzled veteran nodded stiffly, turning to one of his subordinates and jerking his thumb toward the largest tent in the camp.

"Go get Zirkel. Now."

Chapter 314: Mad Dogs (2)

The subordinate didn't hesitate, sprinting off toward the tent as if his life depended on it. The rest of the mercenaries kept their distance, some dropping their weapons, others retreating toward the edges of the camp, unwilling to test their luck against the man who had so effortlessly dispatched five of their own.

Minutes later, heavy footsteps announced Zirkel's arrival. The leader of the Mad Dogs emerged from his tent, his fiery red hair and scarred face unmistakable. He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin that revealed his muscular arms, and his mismatched eyes—one a sharp amber, the other milky white from an old injury—surveyed the scene with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.

"What the hell is going on here?" Zirkel barked, his voice like the crack of a whip. His gaze fell on the bodies sprawled across the ground, then shifted to the stranger standing amidst the carnage, his shadowy sword still in hand. Zirkel's lips twisted into a smirk. "Well, well. Looks like we've got ourselves a guest."

The stranger sheathed his blade in a fluid motion, the flames extinguishing as he did so. He met Zirkel's gaze without flinching, his voice calm and unwavering. "Zirkel, leader of the Mad Dogs. I've come to hire you and your men for a job."

Zirkel barked a laugh, his broad shoulders shaking. "You've got some nerve, walking in here and cutting down my men, then asking for a favor. You're either insane or suicidal."

"Neither," the stranger replied coolly. "I'm practical. I don't waste time negotiating with dogs who can't listen. Your men had their chance to act like professionals. They failed."

Zirkel's smirk widened a glint of amusement in his amber eye. "And what makes you think I'll work for someone who thinks he can waltz into my camp and start swinging his sword around like he owns the place?"

The stranger laughed softly, a smirk curling his lips as he locked eyes with Zirkel. "Why not? It's not like you and your men don't thrive on this kind of thing."

Zirkel's smirk faltered slightly, his amber eye narrowing as he took a step closer. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"

The stranger spread his hands, his dark eyes glinting with faint amusement. "Swinging your sword like you own the place. Isn't that how the strong act? Isn't that why you're called the Mad Dogs? Because you don't bow to anyone, you take what you want, and you live by your own rules."

Zirkel's mismatched gaze hardened, his fists clenching at his sides. The truth in the stranger's words struck a nerve. It was their way—chaos and violence as a creed, strength as their only currency. It was why the Mad Dogs existed, why they were feared, and why Zirkel had clawed his way to the top to lead them.

But Zirkel's pride burned hotter than any truth. He wasn't about to let this smug bastard throw their philosophy back at him, not when the corpses of his men still smoldered on the ground. "You've got guts, I'll give you that," Zirkel said, his voice low and edged with danger. "But don't think you can walk in here and lecture me like some high-and-mighty preacher. You just butchered my men like they were nothing. You think I'll let that slide?"

The stranger's smirk didn't waver. "If you falter now, then maybe you should. How could you call yourself their leader if you can't stand up to someone stronger?"

Zirkel's jaw tightened, and his knuckles cracked as his fists curled tighter. The stranger's words weren't just taunts; they were a challenge. A provocation.

But Zirkel wasn't a man easily cowed, and he wasn't about to let some outsider question his authority. There was a reason he led the Mad Dogs, a reason they followed him despite their unruly, violent nature. It wasn't because he was the loudest or the cruelest—it was because he was the strongest, the one who could hold the leash and snap it when needed.

Zirkel let out a short bark of laughter, his smirk returning. "You've got some nerve, Sword Demon. But if you think you can walk in here, spill blood, and turn me into your lapdog, you're even crazier than I thought."

"I have been called that a lot."

Zirkel's smirk deepened, his fiery red hair catching the light of the campfires as he stared down the stranger. "You've been called crazy a lot, huh? Makes sense. Only a lunatic would pull what you just did."

The Sword Demon chuckled, his voice low and dry. "Not wrong.

Zirkel's smirk turned into a grimace, his fiery amber eye burning with anger as he took a step forward, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over the stranger. The murmurs in the camp ceased entirely, and all eyes locked onto their leader. The tension in the air thickened like a storm about to break.

"You've shown what you can do," Zirkel growled, his voice low but brimming with barely-contained rage. "And you think that's enough? You think killing a handful of my men makes you untouchable?"

The stranger tilted his head slightly, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Zirkel's building fury. "Not untouchable. Just strong enough to make you submit."

The words hung in the air like a spark near kindling. For a moment, silence reigned as the meaning settled over the gathered mercenaries. Then Zirkel let out a booming laugh, a harsh, mocking sound that carried through the camp.

"Submit? To you?" Zirkel said, his laughter subsiding into a sneer. "What kind of nonsense is that? You think we bow our heads just because someone's strong? Is that what your golden-spoon upbringing taught you?"

The stranger's eyes narrowed slightly, but his smirk remained in place. "Heh….Bold of you to assume that I was born with a golden spoon."

Zirkel's laughter faded, replaced by a sharp, skeptical glare. He leaned closer, his amber eye narrowing as he studied the stranger. "If you weren't born with a golden spoon, then what? What else explains the way you walk in here, acting like you own the place?"

The crowd of mercenaries stirred uneasily, their attention bouncing between their leader and the stranger, whose calm demeanor hadn't wavered.

"I've seen plenty of men like you," Zirkel continued, his voice dripping with disdain. "Arrogant, smug bastards who think the world owes them something because they've got power. Most of them born rich, flaunting their golden spoons like they earned it. And you? You're no different. Strong or not, you reek of the same rot inside."

The stranger's smirk softened, though his dark eyes remained sharp, almost amused by Zirkel's words. He folded his arms across his chest, his posture relaxed despite the tension simmering in the air.

"Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice calm, almost conversational. "That power always comes from privilege? That anyone strong enough to walk into this den of yours and challenge you must've been handed everything on a silver platter?"

Zirkel's scowl deepened, his fists clenching. "Don't talk to me like I'm a fool. I've clawed my way out of the gutter, fought tooth and nail to lead these men. I know the difference between earned strength and the kind that's bought or stolen. You might have skill, Sword Demon, but that attitude of yours stinks of entitlement."

The stranger chuckled softly, the sound low and dry, as if Zirkel's words had hit something close to the truth but not quite. "You've fought your way here. Good. That means you know what it takes to survive. But if you think I haven't done the same, you're sorely mistaken."

Zirkel raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite himself. "Oh? Then enlighten me. If you didn't come from a golden spoon, where the hell does someone like you come from?"

"Wanna see? Then, let's do it your way. And since lunatics seem to thrive in places like this, I'll cut to the chase. I request The Iron Circle."

The moment his words left his mouth, Zirkel's eyes were widened.

"Iron Circle."

The camp fell silent. Whispers spread through the gathered mercenaries, their faces shifting from curiosity to shock. The Iron Circle was not a challenge thrown lightly, even among the most hardened fighters.

Zirkel narrowed his amber eye, suspicion and intrigue flickering in his expression. "The Iron Circle? You really are insane. You know what that means, don't you?"

"I do," the stranger said calmly. "One weapon, one circle, and no room to run. Pure skill, strength, and will. Isn't that what you respect?"

Zirkel's smirk returned, this time tinged with something darker—anticipation. "You've got some nerve, really…. But don't think I'll go easy on you just because you've got a fancy nickname."

The stranger stepped forward, his posture relaxed but his presence radiating quiet intensity. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

Zirkel barked another laugh, turning to his men. "Clear the center! Draw the circle! This bastard wants The Iron Circle, so let's show him what it means to fight a Mad Dog."

The mercenaries scrambled to obey, clearing a space in the middle of the camp. Using the flat of a sword, one of them scraped a large circle into the dirt, its radius measured by the combined length of Zirkel's shoulders and the heavy battle axe he carried.

Zirkel stepped into the circle, his massive frame looming over the stranger. His fiery red hair gleamed in the firelight as he hefted his axe onto his shoulder. "You better have picked your weapon carefully, Sword Demon. You won't get a second chance."

The stranger removed his cloak, revealing a lean but muscular frame and a long estoc strapped to his body. He unsheathed it with a fluid motion, its polished blade gleaming. His movements were precise, every motion deliberate and calm.

The referee, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward. "The rules of The Iron Circle are simple," he announced. "Each fighter gets one weapon of their choice. The circle is your battlefield—step out, and you lose. No mana, no tricks. Fight until one of you can't stand."

Chapter 315: Mad dogs (3)

Just as Lucavion was walking towards the chamber, Vitaliara was watching everything unfolding right before her eyes.

The murmurs of the Mad Dogs carried on the breeze—half awe, half challenge—but he paid them no mind. His focus remained sharp, the weight of the moment pressing against him.

Vitaliara approached quietly, her presence a soft whisper against the tension brimming in the air. Her tail flicked lazily behind her as she gazed at him, her expression unreadable. [Lucavion, why are you doing this?] she asked, her voice tinged with a mixture of curiosity and concern. [What could drive you to such lengths to bring them under your command?]

Lucavion smirked faintly, his dark eyes glinting with faint amusement as he tilted his head toward her. 'Why?' he thought, his words forming silently in his mind. 'Because these lunatics are exactly the kind of people I need.' His gaze swept over the camp, where men whispered nervously but still held the gleam of defiance in their eyes. 'Even after I cut down four of their own in front of them, they're still looking for a fight. Most would have run, but not these idiots. They see death as an invitation.'

[You admire that?] Vitaliara pressed, her tone sharper now as she watched him. [What could you possibly need them for, these broken men?]

Lucavion paused, his smirk fading slightly as his thoughts took on a more serious tone. 'For what else, Vitaliara? For the promise I made to you.'

Her expression shifted, her golden eyes narrowing slightly as surprise flickered across her face. [The promise…]

'When we first met,' he reminded her, his mind's voice softening as the memory stirred. 'I told you I'd go to the Azure Blossom Sect. That I'd save what remains of them.' His gaze lingered on hers, unflinching. 'I don't make promises lightly, and I don't break them either. No matter how much trouble they might bring me.'

Vitaliara's breath hitched slightly, and her usual sharp retorts faltered as the weight of his words settled over her. [Even after all this time, you still…]

'You make it sound like too much time has passed.'

[Well, it has been nearly a year.]

'…..Time sure flies.'

[In any case, I really thought you had forgotten about that.]

'I did not. There were just some more pressing matters, that was it. Now that, I have time, why not.'

Vitaliara sighed softly, her golden eyes flickering as she observed the unruly camp of Mad Dogs. [What is this Iron Circle you're stepping into?] she asked, her voice a blend of curiosity and faint exasperation. Her tail swayed lazily, betraying her intrigue even as her tone suggested she expected another of Lucavion's peculiar explanations.

Lucavion paused, the faint smirk on his face tightening as he stepped closer to the center of the camp. His thoughts moved like quicksilver. The Iron Circle—a relic of soldiers hardened by war, where brute strength and survival instincts ruled. A tradition born in the military, taken to extremes by mercenaries.

The memory of bloodied fists and the echo of wild laughter resurfaced in his mind. The soldiers used to call it entertainment in hell.

'And here I am, walking into it like it's a stroll through a park,' he mused dryly, his expression betraying no such sentiment.

Lucavion's gaze rested on Zirkel, unwavering despite the growing tension in the camp. Around him, the murmurs of the mercenaries formed a background hum, but his focus was singular, locked onto the Mad Dogs' leader. As the massive axe rested against Zirkel's shoulder, its brutal weight a promise of devastation in the confines of the Iron Circle, Lucavion's mind churned with calculated thoughts.

'It's a game.' he mused silently, his dark eyes narrowing as he evaluated the man before him. 'A spectacle meant to solidify authority through strength. A relic of simpler minds who mistake raw power for control.'

Zirkel's mocking grin widened as he hefted his axe, the heavy blade glinting wickedly in the firelight. "Your sword might look fancy," he jeered, "but in here, it's the weapon that claims the space. And my axe is made for places like this."

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, the faintest smirk curling his lips. 'True, the small circle favors his reach. One wide sweep, and he can dominate the entire radius. For someone who lacks finesse, it's perfect.' His hand flexed briefly on the hilt of his estoc, the polished blade designed for precision rather than brute strength. 'But for me, such trivialities are just challenges waiting to be overcome.'

He could almost feel Vitaliara's exasperation as her voice floated through his thoughts. [You call this a game? This isn't strategy—it's madness. A closed space where his strength will reign supreme? You can't outlast him in sheer force.]

'Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Vitaliara,' he countered inwardly, his amusement sharpening. 'This circle doesn't favor the strongest weapon. It favors the one with the sharpest mind.'

The referee's voice cut through the thick air. "Begin!"

The moment the word was spoken, Zirkel lunged forward with shocking speed for a man his size, his axe carving a lethal arc through the air. The crowd roared as Lucavion sidestepped, the blade missing him by a hair's breadth. He moved fluidly, his every step calculated, his every motion deliberate.

'Heavy weapons always overcommit,' he thought, watching as Zirkel's momentum carried him a half step too far. 'All it takes is the right angle…'

SWOOSH!

Lucavion's estoc drove cleanly into Zirkel's side, the sharp tip piercing bare flesh with unnerving precision. Zirkel let out a guttural groan, his body jerking back as blood trickled down his side. He staggered slightly but managed to steady himself, his amber eye blazing with fury. The crowd erupted into shouts and gasps, a chaotic symphony of disbelief and excitement.

STAB!

"Damn you!" Zirkel growled, spitting blood as he swung his axe in a wild arc, aiming to cleave Lucavion in two.

Lucavion didn't flinch. He stepped back just enough to let the blade pass harmlessly in front of him, the heavy weapon whistling through the air with deadly force. Zirkel's momentum left him open for another instant, and Lucavion capitalized immediately, driving the hilt of his estoc into Zirkel's ribs, forcing another groan of pain from the larger man.

'He fights like a beast,' Lucavion thought, his dark eyes narrowing as he circled his opponent. 'Strength and rage, honed by instinct and sheer survival. But instincts are predictable.'

Zirkel's mind raced, frustration mounting with every exchange. How is this bastard this good? he thought, his breaths coming in sharp bursts. He moves like he's been in the Iron Circle before. Does he know how to fight here?

The Iron Circle was Zirkel's domain, the very symbol of his dominance. He had survived ten of these brutal, bare-knuckled fights, each one a testament to his strength and resilience. It was in this arena that he had killed the previous leader of the Mad Dogs, seizing his place at the top. The scars on his body bore witness to the countless battles he had endured to maintain his authority.

But now, facing this stranger—this so-called Sword Demon—Zirkel felt something he hadn't experienced in years: doubt.

Lucavion's strikes weren't just fast—they were precise, each one exploiting the smallest openings in Zirkel's defense. Every swing of Zirkel's axe felt heavier, slower, as if he were fighting not just Lucavion but his own mounting exhaustion. Meanwhile, Lucavion moved with the ease of a predator, each step calculated, each feint designed to throw Zirkel off balance.

Zirkel tightened his grip on his axe, the rough wooden handle digging into his calloused palms. No. I've fought too hard, spilled too much blood to lose to this bastard. I've killed men twice as strong. I'll kill him too.

With a roar, Zirkel lunged forward, feinting a high strike before pivoting into a sweeping low attack aimed at Lucavion's legs. It was a clever move, one that had felled many opponents before. But Lucavion saw through it, leaping effortlessly over the arc of the blade and twisting midair to land a shallow cut across Zirkel's shoulder.

The pain was sharp and immediate, but Zirkel ignored it, turning on his heel and swinging his axe upward in a desperate bid to catch Lucavion off guard. The stranger ducked, the blade passing inches above his head, and stepped in close, driving his elbow into Zirkel's exposed ribs. The force sent Zirkel staggering, his breath hitching as pain flared in his side.

The crowd roared louder, the mercenaries caught between awe and disbelief. Zirkel, the undefeated leader of the Mad Dogs, was being outmatched.

"Is that all the Iron Circle has to offer?" Lucavion taunted, his voice calm and cutting. He twirled his estoc lightly in his hand, its blade glinting with blood. "I expected more from the man who calls himself their leader."

Zirkel's teeth clenched, his vision blurring slightly as blood trickled down his torso. He spat on the ground, his amber eye blazing with defiance. "You talk too much, bastard," he growled, forcing himself upright. "This isn't over."

Lucavion smirked faintly, his expression unreadable. "No, it's not. But it will be soon."

Zirkel charged again, his axe raised high, but Lucavion didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped forward, closing the distance in an instant. His estoc flashed, the blade slicing across Zirkel's thigh, forcing the larger man to stumble. Zirkel gritted his teeth, using his momentum to spin into another wild swing, but Lucavion sidestepped once more, his movements fluid and effortless.

How? Zirkel thought, his frustration boiling over. How does he know exactly where to strike? Exactly how to move?

Lucavion's calm, unrelenting precision was a stark contrast to Zirkel's raw, brutal power. It was clear now that this was no ordinary opponent. The stranger fought as if he had been in the Iron Circle a hundred times, as if he had studied and mastered its brutal, confined chaos.

With each exchange, Zirkel felt his strength waning, his breathing growing heavier. Lucavion, meanwhile, remained unnervingly composed, his movements as sharp and deliberate as ever.

And then, with one final, decisive strike, Lucavion drove his estoc into Zirkel's shoulder, forcing him to drop his axe. The massive weapon clattered to the ground, its weight a stark reminder of the power Zirkel could no longer wield.

Zirkel fell to one knee, blood dripping from his wounds as he glared up at Lucavion. The stranger stood over him, his estoc poised to strike again, but he didn't move. Instead, he looked down at Zirkel, his dark eyes unreadable.

"Anyone else who wants to try?"

"….."

As the crowd were silent, a wide smirk appeared on Lucavion's face.

"Good…..Now, let me tell you why I am here for."