Fighting hearts

Thirteen

Shura said Evie would attend the game, but Roth couldn't spot her face anywhere among the audience. Was she there, or was she not?

There was no time for questions or concerns now, though, because the bell rang, and the doors on the other side of the field opened.

"Well, show us what you got, Donald," Roth whispered as he looked through the security bars of his door, which would always open last, as he was the first-placed fighter.

His opponent, a twenty-year-old from the South known as Gol, came through the open door and received loud applause from the spectators.

Like the rumors said, Gol was huge—perhaps the biggest guy Roth had ever had to compete with. But Gol's tall physique didn't intimidate him, as he knew taller fighters were often slow. Plus, he was still the champion and had been for a while now, so it would take someone special to take him down.

"Damn, Roth," Shura said, eyes on the younger orc. "I'll make sure to greet your sisters at your funeral."

Roth scoffed. "Maybe you should not talk with that busted lip."

Shura chuckled but began to laugh when he noticed what Gol was doing. "Will you look at that?"

Gol slammed himself on his chest several times, shouting Roth's name and asking him to "show himself and meet his equal."

The current champion wasn't impressed. "Quite the showman, I see."

"I guess so," said Shura. "I take back what I said about your funeral. You'll probably bust his ass within minutes. Someone who needs to show off like that has no real skill." He slapped Roth's back when the door in front of them opened. "Show him how it's done, my friend."

Now, it was Roth's turn to enter the field, and the crowd's screams became louder than ever. Two of the most vociferous among the people were Rhys Steel, a heavily overweight man in his sixties, and his wife, Mrs. Aurora Steel. They were perhaps Roth's biggest supporters.

Rhys was twice as old as his wife and ten times as heavy. He was also bald, and not just on the head. He had no hair on his body—no eyebrows, lashes, arm hair, none—making him look like a pink toad. A pink, wealthy toad, to be precise. The man was a self-made millionaire who loved dressing in expensive clothes, as did his woman.

But even though his appearance was that of a wealthy man, Rhys had always refused the excellent box seats that Carlisle had often offered him, because he wanted to experience the match like any other man and sit as close to the field as possible. For that, and for gaining his fortune by working his ass off instead of being born into a wealthy family, Roth respected him a lot. Of course, Roth also appreciated the couple's tip money, although Carlisle kept around ninety percent of that. Still, ten percent was more than zero percent.

Roth nodded at the couple, indicating his appreciation for their support, and joined Gol at the center of the field.

"Ready to lose a battle today?" asked the younger orc.

Roth smirked. "I could ask you the same question. I've heard you haven't lost a match since you started working for Donald."

"You heard incorrect," Gol replied. "Because I haven't lost a match ever in my life."

"Ever? That is quite impressive."

"I know."

"In that case," Roth said, "I'm honored to give you your first defeat."

The other laughed loudly.

"Silence!" Carlisle's voice rang through the microphone, making the audience's noise subside. He stood in his seat box, watching over the entire field. "I know you're all excited, but my dear ladies and gentlemen, I'd like your attention for a moment." He smiled when there was complete silence. "Thank you. We have a special match planned: a battle between two great fighters. One of them belongs to my friend, Donald Ferguson."