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"Too crazy! Way too crazy! That's the craziest fighter I've ever seen in any melee!"
The crowd packed along the ropes was stunned. Leo had taken on the whole field alone, never slowing down, dropping one man after another.
"Yeah, exactly! Ser Neo is the Warrior reborn! He's gotta be blessed by the Seven!"
The "Warrior" they meant was one of the Seven Gods most of Westeros worshipped—one deity in seven aspects: the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger.
The Warrior stood for strength in battle. People prayed to him for courage and victory.
That's why they compared Leo to the Warrior himself.
"Damn right! If you hadn't seen it, you'd never believe it. And people are still spreading that bullshit about him only training two months? Those crooked bookies just want our coin!"
"Good thing we spotted the scam early and bet on Ser Neo! I'll wager if Barristan the Bold had jumped into this group melee, he'd have been buried under the pile already. No chance he'd still be standing like this."
"I say we double down. Scrape up whatever silver you've got and throw it on Neo taking the joust crown tomorrow. Easy money."
"Smart. I'll go find some coin right now!"
"Why wait?"
"You idiots? Look—everyone's still swarming him. What if he drops? What if he gets hurt bad? Then how's he fighting tomorrow?"
"Hey, good point. Let's watch a little longer."
"Yeah, let's watch."
"…"
Everyone around them nodded.
Up on the high dais the nobles were just as shocked. They leaned in, whispering fast.
Littlefinger watched with a rare tight frown, face dead serious.
This Neo is that strong?
Then tomorrow's final… could he actually win?
Need to rethink this whole thing…
He kept running the numbers in his head.
Time dragged on. The melee was finally winding down.
More than two hundred men had started. Only thirty or forty were still on their feet.
Every one of them was bleeding, covered in mud and blood, weapons heavy, breathing hard.
"Anyone else?!"
Leo sent the last man charging at him flying, then stood tall among the bodies sprawled everywhere. He threw his head back and roared, the sound shaking the field.
He looked like he'd crawled out of a blood pit—armor black with gore and dirt, left shield cracked wide open, warhammer dripping dark red.
His roar made the survivors take an involuntary half-step back.
They stared at the hellish figure with complicated eyes.
Leo's rampage had terrified them all.
Every man who'd rushed him had ended up on the ground.
The rest were either scared shitless or had never planned to join the dogpile.
Now his roar came out loud and strong, forcing them to rewrite everything they thought they knew about him.
This guy…
Forget sword skill. His raw power and stamina alone made everyone's blood run cold.
Wonder how he'd stack up against the Mountain?
What they didn't know was that Leo had nearly tapped out minutes earlier. Wave after wave of attackers, constant knockdowns, steady EXP rolling in—eight hundred here, two or three thousand there—until he leveled up again.
Leveling healed his wounds and refilled his stamina like a full restore.
That's why, at the breaking point, he suddenly powered back up and started dropping bodies again, scaring the hell out of everyone.
He kept going until he reached this moment.
Of course most of the bodies on the ground weren't his alone. Most came from the general chaos. Leo himself had probably dropped thirty or forty.
Still an insane score.
At his roar the survivors traded looks. Nobody moved to attack.
They all knew rushing him now would just get them flattened.
Who knew how much fight he had left? It felt like he had an endless supply.
But if they didn't beat him, the championship was gone.
So they stood frozen, weighing their options.
The group melee had hit a rare, tense pause.
Robert's squad was down to Leo, Robert, and two other knights.
Those two were wounded and barely holding position around the king.
Robert laughed loud, shoved his guards aside, clutched his gut, and walked straight to Leo.
"Your Grace!"
"Neo! You're full of surprises—and I love every damn one!"
Robert clapped an arm around Leo's shoulders, close and easy.
Then he looked at the remaining fighters still standing there staring.
"You lot… still want to fight? Come on then! Don't waste our time!"
Faced with the king's challenge they just looked at each other, lost.
"Fight or yield? Give us a straight answer!"
Robert roared again. The shout pulled his wound, twisting his face into a savage scowl.
Seeing the king pissed, one man clutched his slashed arm and dropped his weapon.
"I'm done… my right arm's wrecked. Need a maester. I yield!"
One dropped out, the rest followed with their own excuses, weapons hitting the dirt.
When the last man quit, only Robert's four-man team was left.
"Hahaha!" Robert threw his head back and laughed, then grabbed Leo's right hand and raised it high. "I declare this group melee won by Ser Neo!"
"No!"
Leo cut in loud and clear.
Robert's brows shot together, confused.
"The winner should be His Grace the King!"
Leo caught Robert's left hand instead and raised it. "I fought for the king! So this victory belongs to the king!"
The two remaining knights weren't about to miss the chance.
They started cheering right away. "Victory belongs to the king! Long live King Robert!"
"Victory belongs to the king! Long live King Robert!"
"Long live the king!"
The whole crowd exploded into the same chant.
Robert grinned like a two-hundred-pound kid, laughing his ass off.