"Please forgive me, young man," the priest said solemnly, sliding his prayer bead into the folds of his waistband. His towering frame loomed over Ali like a mountain, casting a long shadow as the two faced each other in the quiet before the clash.
"FIGHT!" the swordsman shouted.
The priest moved instantly. With a surprising burst of speed, especially for a man of his immense size, he surged forward—eyes still closed, lips whispering some silent mantra. He committed everything into an overhead strike, his entire body twisting with the motion as his fist dropped toward Ali.
Ali stood with his arms loosely raised, a passive posture that betrayed none of the readiness beneath his still expression. The priest's punch collided with his guard—but not cleanly. Ali shifted just enough, slipping the blow's full force, and in the same movement drove two stiff fingers into the priest's left shoulder with surgical precision.
There was no visible wound, no blood. But the priest's eye twitched in pain, even as he pushed forward, absorbing the strike like a machine and using the momentum to grab Ali's waist and attempt a takedown.
Ali's feet skidded backward across the dirt. The sheer force behind the priest's forward drive was staggering—he was stronger than expected, far stronger. Ali dug in his heels, adjusting his posture to absorb the pressure, but even he couldn't hold out forever. The priest roared, lifting Ali off the ground effortlessly, muscles bulging, breath steady, aura pulsing with divine energy.
"Protect yourself," the priest shouted with an odd kind of warmth—almost like a teacher pushing a student, even while trying to slam him into the earth with crushing intent.
'What strength…' Ali thought. 'He's physically overpowering me…'
But his face remained impassive, unreadable. It was the eerie calm on his face—even as he was hoisted into the air—that unnerved the four warriors watching from the sidelines.
'How is he going to get out of this one?' they all thought.
In that decisive second, the priest's shoulder spasmed—pain surged where Ali had earlier struck. His grip loosened instinctively. Ali twisted mid-air like a phantom, slipping free and launching a sharp spinning kick that landed flush across the priest's jaw, snapping his head sideways.
'That earlier attack… it struck a nerve,' the priest realised as he staggered back, his jaw already bruising.
He didn't hesitate. With control returning to his shoulder, he rebalanced and unleashed a heavy right hook. Ali caught it clean, absorbing the blow with a reinforced guard, the impact sending vibrations through his frame. They separated briefly and squared off again.
The priest shifted into a textbook boxing stance—legs grounded, hands raised. He advanced slowly, calculating.
Ali blinked once. Then, as if in acknowledgment, mirrored the stance perfectly. Shoulders lowered, fists up, steps silent. He accepted the challenge wordlessly.
They edged toward each other, circling in tight arcs like two veteran gladiators awaiting the perfect opening.
BOOM
The priest struck first, a jab with blinding speed. Ali slipped the blow with a tilt of his head and retaliated, his counter a precise jab toward the chest. The priest parried with an open palm, his fingers acting as a shield, and followed up with a series of rapid punches.
Ali danced around them all.
PUNCH
PUNCH
PUNCH
Each strike sent shockwaves through the air, and dust kicked up around them as their feet scraped and slid over the ground.
"He's keeping up…" the orange-haired boy whispered with an excited grin, eyes wide.
"No," the swordsman muttered, eyes narrowing. "He's not keeping up…"
The barbarian's expression grew serious. The assassin crossed his arms.
"He's toying with him," the swordsman said flatly.
Right then, Ali slipped another punch, then stepped in close and delivered four quick jabs to the priest's abdomen. Each one thudded into the same set of ribs, a calculated strike to weaken the body's core.
The priest stumbled slightly but threw another punch—Ali dodged again, almost lazily—and drove three more strikes into the exact same spots, drilling deeper this time. It was surgical. Ruthless. Efficient.
The priest grunted and stepped back, frustrated but impressed.
Abandoning his boxing stance, he threw a wide forward kick. Ali ducked under it.
A spinning back kick came next. Ali matched it with a sweeping kick of his own, but was outmuscled, spun mid-air, and caught himself with one hand on the ground, using the momentum to whip back into a low stance.
The priest charged again, raining down a barrage of punches and sweeping kicks, each with enough force to flatten most men.
But Ali… Ali didn't budge.
His martial arts mastery was simply overwhelming. Every punch was redirected. Every kick was countered. His footwork was divine. His timing, otherworldly. It wasn't just strength or speed—it was intuition honed in life-or-death fights across worlds now.
The battle pressed on for another two tense minute. The priest panted, muscles straining, air rippling with every breath. Then the priest lashed out with a wild, feral punch—one born of desperation. Ali sidestepped easily, motion fluid and controlled. In one graceful arc, his left hand flickered forward like a bullet, striking square into the priest's abdomen with pinpoint precision.
The priest's eyes snapped open. Pain detonated through him, and he collapsed onto the ground, gasping and clutching his stomach. The air around him hissed as his body gave out under the impact.
"The Lord wins."
The swordsman spoke. With that word—Ali stood alone, victorious.
'It must be said that no one down here could match them in martial skill or raw strength,' Ali thought, surveying the three who had fought so fiercely. 'Fainter would be utterly embarrassed if he faced them… They'll be of great use to me. I'll deal with everything today, then train tomorrow.'
Ali extended his hand to the fallen giant and gently helped him to his feet. Their eyes met for a heartbeat, a silent exchange of respect and acknowledgment.
"It looks like I won. I hope you will honour your word."
He addressed the five gathered fighters. The swordsman nodded calmly. The priest bowed his head slightly. The assassin gave a sharp nod. The barbarian scoffed loudly and spat on the dirt. The young thief—eyes darting, eager—simply watched.
Ali cleared his throat and continued, voice steady and clear:
"My name is Ali. I am the new lord of these lands—up to the forest's edge. Currently a baron, soon to become a viscount."
The declaration caused a ripple of surprise. The swordsman, well-versed in the politics of this kingdom, looked particularly intrigued.
"From this moment forward, you will work for me. You will be paid weekly with generous wages. Your duties will include assisting with launching the new Knight's Academy I'm creating—training young would-be knights."
Silence fell. They didn't protest—until the barbarian clicked his tongue in annoyance.
"But that responsibility will only take up a day or two each week. I have other missions—some tailored to each of you. Not only will you earn coin, but if you excel at the academy, you may request personal training sessions from me."
At this, expressions shifted. Eyes widened. Interest flickered across faces. The swordsman smirked internally. The assassin leaned in. The priest's jaw clenched in thoughtful appreciation. The barbarian's smirk grew harder, teeth curling in anticipation.
'Now that's more like it…' the swordsman thought.
'His technique—his presence—there's almost nothing there. But when he moves…' the assassin marvelled.
'Incredible. Monstrous strength with refined control…' the priest considered.
'So I get to pummel him, huh?' the barbarian thought, grinning wide.
Ali cleared his throat again.
"Now then. I won't ask about who you were before—but tell me your name, your specialty, and your aura level."
They stepped forward one by one:
"Rook Vess. I'm not much of a fighter, but I can build you an information network in the South—and I can borrow things from time to time." Rook smiled with eager confidence.
"Thorgar Brimjaw. Upper third level. I fight—and bathe—in the blood of my enemies.", He growled it out, attempting to intimidate, but Ali let him pass without comment.
"Cassian Vale. Early fourth level A swordsman drifting from one war to the next." He leaned back, putting the wheat stalk back in his mouth.
"Elden Marris. Early Fourth level. A servant of the Eternal Flame. I guide the lost to the righteous path.", He spoke softly, though massive muscles rippled under his monk's robe.
"Keith Darn. Upper Third level. I'm better at striking from the shadows.", He nodded subtly toward Ali, who inclined his head in acknowledgment.
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