To prepare, I taught the remaining fighters quick, effective ambush techniques and strategies.
And then came the day of the event.
Under the watchful gaze of myself and Emera, the battles began.
The opening bout was critical, as it would determine the day's crowd turnout. Representing the Hanging Gladiator Corps was a renowned, formidable gladiator—a hulking giant with a menacing scowl. From the Sprex Gladiator Corps, a tall but wiry young man with dark skin stood to face him.
The two combatants, a stark contrast in appearance, moved simultaneously the moment they faced each other.
The giant advanced straight at the young man, swinging his sword. The youth, circling to the left, persistently targeted the giant’s sword hand with slashes.
The difference in reach was significant—the youth’s strikes kept him safely out of the giant’s range. Using a thin, long thrusting sword, he continuously attacked from a distance.
Frustrated, the giant charged with sword and shield raised to protect his body.
All as planned.
Charging in a straight line made the giant’s movements predictable, while leaving him vulnerable to counterattacks.
The young man deftly slashed at the giant’s legs as he dodged to the side. Then, maneuvering behind his opponent, he targeted exposed areas like the temple and waist with rapid slashes.
One deep cut caused the giant to collapse in agony. Calmly, the youth smashed the fallen giant's head with his shield, securing victory.
One win.
In subsequent matches, the fighters used techniques I had taught them. Those reliant on brute strength transitioned smoothly from grappling exchanges into arm locks, securing victory.
At midday, my own match was simple. I shattered my opponent’s sword, landed a solid kick, and claimed an easy win without a scratch.
The afternoon saw four matches where our fighters won decisively. Each match ended with locks or submissions—scorpion holds, ankle locks, and even body scissors.
Though scrappy and relentless, they succeeded by forcing their opponents to discard their weapons, following my instructions. The Hanging Gladiator Corps fighters who lost would be unable to compete for some time, thanks to broken limbs and severe injuries.
The highlight of the day was Cradle's performance in the final match.
While he could have won effortlessly, Cradle—who had eagerly asked me to teach him techniques—mastered the backdrop in mere hours.
Highly athletic and intuitive, Cradle's aptitude was unparalleled. Even among gladiators familiar with grappling, his grasp of joint manipulation and technique setup was extraordinary.
In his final showdown, the Hanging Gladiator Corps gladiator, clearly pressured by their leader’s rage-filled glare, faced Cradle with desperation.
The opponent roared, swinging a powerful, focused strike.
But Cradle dodged effortlessly, stepping onto the blade as it swung down, forcing the enemy to drop their weapon.
Continuing his attack, Cradle struck with his sword, prompting the opponent to use their shield. With their vision blocked, Cradle smashed their face with his shield.
Disarming and disorienting his foe, Cradle quietly moved behind him and executed a perfect backdrop.
Amid the roaring crowd, Cradle planted a foot on the unconscious opponent's head and raised his fists triumphantly. I couldn’t help but clap.
That evening, as we celebrated our victories with drinks, Emera tugged at my sleeve.
Her body, wrapped in makeshift bandages, was still recovering. Looking up at me, she spoke:
“...Please, teach me how to fight.”
Both Cradle and I were stunned.
“Whoa, whoa... Emera, that’s—” Cradle hesitated, glancing at her petite frame.
Small and frail, she didn’t seem capable of fighting. But her eyes held a resolute strength.
“I want to protect myself and the things I hold dear... Please.”
Hearing her resolve, I nodded.
We’d already trained together casually before, practicing swordplay and running. And it wasn’t like she’d face gladiators in the arena.
“Alright. I’ll make you strong. But it’ll be tough.”
She nodded silently.
“Are you serious, Matt? I mean, it’s Emera...” Cradle still looked uncertain.
Though initially underestimated and treated as a pet, Emera had become a beloved member of our group, cherished like a sister or daughter. Over time, the men had grown protective of her, sometimes excessively so.
If Emera wasn’t content with this, then it was up to me to honor her wishes.
I resolved to train her—not just as a fighter but as a force to be reckoned with.
A smile crept across my face as I imagined her future. Cradle groaned.
“...Don’t turn her into some monster, alright? I’m not dealing with that.”
“Relax,” I retorted, “She’ll be strong, not scary.”
Emera's journey to strength had begun.
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