Darkness hangs heavy over the village, the pale sun skimming the horizon like a timid stranger unwilling to fully rise. The muted twilight offers little distinction between night and day, casting the world in a perpetual gray that gnaws at the spirit. It reminds Oleksandr of his youth in Siberia, the endless nights, the fleeting, weak light of day, and the bone-deep chill that seemed eternal.

  Around him, the men’s voices rise, eager and spirited, the chatter bouncing off the frost-laden trees and carrying over the stillness of the frozen ground. Their breath plumes in bursts of misty white as they discuss the coming games, their words laced with anticipation. Laughter cuts through the chill, a jarring contrast to the brutal landscape surrounding them.

  Oddvarr sits nearby, perched on a sturdy bench. He leans forward with a groan, his hands resting on the haft of his axe, the weapon upright between his boots like a king’s scepter. His keen eyes scan the scene before settling on Oleksandr, who stands apart, a lone figure cloaked in wolf pelts. “How’s some wrestling for entertainment?”

  Oleksandr quirks an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Wrestling, huh?" He steps forward, his arms crossing over his chest in an easy, relaxed posture. "That actually sounds like good fun." He stands a few paces away from the gathering, his gaze cutting through the crowd of men who have formed a loose circle around him. They watch him with varying expressions—some with the glint of challenge, others with something more wary, unsure of the man they’re about to face. Oleksandr meets their eyes without flinching, his stance a quiet dare, his muscles coiled and ready.

  Samorix pushes his way through the crowd, his heavy boots crunching in the snow. The old warrior claps Oleksandr’s shoulder, the familiar weight of his hand grounding him for a moment. Samorix leans in, his voice low, edged with concern.

  "Oi, lad," Samorix murmurs, his one eye scanning the crowd. "You seen Ivan?" Oleksandr’s gaze flicks over the gathering, noting the lack of the familiar figure. He frowns, his brow furrowing slightly as a subtle unease twists in his gut. Ivan’s absence is unexpected, and not a thing Oleksandr is used to. He shakes his head, his voice steady but laced with a hint of concern.

  "I thought he was with you." Before Samorix can respond, the clang of sword on shield rings out, cutting through the murmurs of the gathered crowd like thunder.

  “Gather, men, who want to show your worth!” The noise reverberates across the frozen ground, and a cheer rises from the onlookers as the call to test strength is issued.

  Oddvarr’s eyes scan the ring, his smirk widening as he pats Oleksandr’s shoulder. “That’s your cue, lad,” he says, voice thick with approval.

  Oleksandr steps forward, parting the crowd as he approaches the ring. The crowd begins to spread out, sixteen men stepping forward to claim their place, eager for the challenge.

  The organizer, a grizzled warrior with tattoos crisscrossing his face, steps into the center, raising his hands high. "No weapons!" He barks. "You know the drill. Just put your opponent on his back! One winner from each pair. We keep going 'til only two remain! The strongest will stand last!" Oleksandr, his eyes sharp, stands tall, arms crossed over his chest, as he surveys the competitors. His heart beats steadily in his chest, unperturbed by the chaos swirling around him. His gaze locks with the man he’s set to face. An imposing figure, a giant with a shaved head and a braided beard.

  Oleksandr waits his turn, watching the earlier matches with sharp eyes, taking note of how the men fight. He notices the savage way they wrestle. It's something he's used to. Finally, it’s his turn.

  Oleksandr stands tall in the center of the ring, his broad shoulders squared, his body flexed and ready. His opponent, a massive Viking with the bulk of a bear, prowls around him like a wolf, searching for an opening. The crowd murmurs, sensing the tension between the two giants. With a roar, the man lunges, his powerful arms reaching for Oleksandr’s throat, aiming to crush him with brute force. But Oleksandr moves surprising speed, his massive frame shifting like a boulder in motion. He sidesteps the attack, grabbing the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip, twisting it until his opponent stumbles forward.

  Without hesitation, Oleksandr drives his knee into the man’s ribs, the force of the blow knocking the air from his lungs. The man gasps, his grip loosening just long enough for Oleksandr to twist him around, using his own weight against him. In one fluid motion, Oleksandr throws the man to the ground with the force of a mountain crashing into the sea. The Viking crashes onto his back, his breath knocked out, and before he can recover, Oleksandr is on him, pinning him with the full weight of his immense body. The crowd falls silent as Oleksandr’s opponent struggles beneath him, but it’s clear—he’s defeated.

  Oleksandr stands in the center of the ring, his movements fluid and measured, as though he had barely exerted any effort at all. The blood still running hot in his veins feels familiar, an echo of the pit, of the countless battles fought in darkness, under the watchful eyes of slavers and bloodthirsty spectators. Seems he's back in the same position. The roar of the crowd is distant to him now, and the wrestle with his opponent feels like another game he has mastered long ago. His fist might have been the weapon of choice in those days, but his body serves just as well now. His opponent stumbles away, unwilling to accept Oleksandr’s offered hand, his pride wounded more than his body. His opponent grumbles something unintelligible and disappears into the crowd.

  The murmurs around him grow louder, a mix of admiration and quiet animosity. Oleksandr feels the eyes of the men like sharp arrows, some watching with a begrudging respect, others with simmering resentment. He knows what they see. Strength, power, the kind of force that either inspires fear or envy. His eyes flick to Oddvarr, who remains silent, his gaze calculating. There’s no hint of approval or condemnation on the Chieftain’s face, only the cold, appraising stare of a man who has long since learned how to hide what he truly feels.

  After the first process of elimination ends, the crowd quiets as Oleksandr steps into the ring for the second round, the atmosphere thick with anticipation. His opponent is leaner than the last, wiry and quick, darting from side to side like a wolf circling its prey. The man’s eyes glint with confidence, a cocky smirk curling at the edges of his lips. He moves like lightning, shifting his weight with ease, hoping to use his agility to his advantage. But Oleksandr is faster, despite his size.

  The fight is a blur of motion—twists and turns, the scraping of boots against snow, grunts of exertion. The lean man makes his move first, rushing in with a feint and a quick jab. Oleksandr parries easily, grabbing the man’s arm and twisting it, his grip like iron. The Viking’s eyes widen in surprise as he realizes just how strong his opponent is. Oleksandr uses his size to his advantage, pulling the man into a crushing bear hug, lifting him off the ground. With a grunt, he throws him backward with all his might, sending the lean man sprawling out of the ring with a thud. The crowd erupts in stunned silence before breaking into thunderous applause.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Oleksandr stands tall, barely winded, his face set in grim satisfaction. He raises his arm in victory, but the gesture feels almost hollow. It’s just another fight won, another body toppled. His gaze scans the crowd briefly before he spots Samorix on the edge of the ring. The older man’s face is hard to read, though his gruff voice can be heard hollering a hearty cheer. But even as his friend celebrates, Oleksandr catches the weariness in Samorix’s eyes. Where's Ivan? The thought lingers, gnawing at the edges of their minds.

  His eyes flick to Oddvarr, who stands at the far end of the ring, watching him with an expression that is far too measured, too calculating. For a brief moment, there’s something else. Pride, perhaps? Oddvarr’s lips twitch in something resembling satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with the kind of admiration usually reserved for a prized possession. Oleksandr nods, acknowledging the silent approval.

  The next opponent steps forward, a hulking figure with a thick, braided red beard and a crooked nose, clearly broken and still healing from some past battle. His eyes are wild with a mix of rage and determination, a fighter who is used to dealing out pain. As he approaches, Oleksandr can sense the difference in this man. His stance is solid, grounded, his muscles coiled and ready for the fight. This isn’t the same as the previous rounds. This man knows how to wrestle, how to use his weight and strength to his advantage.

  The two lock grips, and for the first time, Oleksandr feels the full force of his opponent’s power. They struggle, their bodies tangled in a dance of muscle and sweat, the sound of grunting and straining filling the air. The man’s fists are like iron, slamming into Oleksandr’s sides, trying to dislodge him, but Oleksandr’s body is a fortress—too accustomed to pain, too used to the violence of the pit. He doesn’t give an inch. They stagger and twist, grappling fiercely as the cold wind cuts across the ring. The other men shout encouragement, their voices rising in a chaotic chorus as they cheer on their favorite contender. “Get him, Herald! Put that Slav in his place!”

  For a while, it seems like neither will gain the upper hand. The burly man’s raw strength is almost overwhelming, but Oleksandr’s experience tells him how to shift his weight, how to use the man’s force against him. After what feels like an eternity, Oleksandr seizes an opening. With a brutal twist, he lifts the redhead off the ground, slamming him into the snow with a thud. Oleksandr’s grip on him doesn’t loosen until the man is flat on his back, pinned.

  As the men around him roar in approval, Oleksandr stands, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. His tunic, already torn from the rough wrestling, finally gives way with a loud rip as he pushes himself upright. A collective murmur runs through the crowd, followed by a sharp intake of breath. The scars across Oleksandr’s back are visible now—long, jagged marks from years of brutal lashings. Each scar is a ghost of his past, each one a painful reminder of the suffering he endured.

  Oddvarr’s gaze lingers on Oleksandr’s exposed back, his expression unreadable. There’s something calculating in the way he watches the young man, as if the sight of those scars stirs deeper questions within him. Oleksandr doesn’t look at him. He can feel the eyes of the crowd, the hushed whispers, but he won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him falter. He wipes his brow, his eyes hard. He's got to divert attention.

  "Come on, Oddvarr. You expect to conquer lands with boys such as these?" Oleksandr calls out, taunting. His words carry with them the confidence of a man who has already proven his strength, and the challenge rings clear in the air. The reaction is immediate. Some of Oddvarr's men scowl, their eyes narrowing with irritation at the insult, while others chuckle, finding humor in Oleksandr's audacity. The tension rises, the divide between respect and resentment palpable in the group. Yet despite the hostile glares and low mutterings, Oleksandr stands firm, his stance unyielding, his eyes locked with Oddvarr’s, daring the chieftain to respond. He knows that the men here are watching, testing him, and he won’t flinch.

  Oddvarr, for his part, remains stoic, his expression unreadable except for the slight grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He takes a slow swig from his mug, his eyes never leaving Oleksandr as he lets the silence stretch.

  Finally, after a long pause, Oddvarr responds. "Patience, my strapping friend," he says, his tone calm but carrying an undercurrent of respect. "We’ll find the strongest soon enough."

  The atmosphere is tense as Oleksandr stands across from his final opponent. The crowd falls silent, the last two men of the tournament now locked in an unspoken war. His opponent is a towering brute, muscles coiled tight, a feral look in his eyes. The man doesn’t wait for the signal; with a roar, he charges, throwing a wide punch aimed straight for Oleksandr’s head.

  Oleksandr dodges, moving with the fluidity of a predator. His opponent tries again, more measured this time, but Oleksandr’s speed outmatches him. The two clash, fists colliding with bone, the sound of punches landing reverberating through the ring. Oleksandr takes a hit to the ribs, but it doesn’t slow him. His rage, that primal fire from his days as a gladiator, rises to the surface. Every punch he throws, every strike that lands, is fueled by years of pain and bloodshed, a nightmare from the past that refuses to die.

  The fight is brutal—blows exchanged with the fury of two men who know no mercy. Oleksandr's hand is cut, blood streaking down his knuckles, but it only adds to his resolve. His opponent, powerful but slower, tries to use his sheer size to his advantage, but Oleksandr’s quickness is too much. With a brutal slam, Oleksandr drives the man down, bringing his back to the cold ground with a thud.

  The crowd erupts in a wave of noise, but Oleksandr doesn’t stop. The adrenaline coursing through his veins pulls him into a violent haze. His opponent, dazed, lies on the ground, but Oleksandr’s fists keep coming, hammering down on the man’s skull. Each punch is a reminder of his years in the pit, the place where his opponents rarely left with their lives. The man’s face is bloodied, his breath ragged, but Oleksandr’s fury doesn’t wane.

  It’s only when a pair of hands grabs his arm, pulling him back that Oleksandr’s rage is shattered. He blinks, suddenly aware of the scene around him, the shouts and the frantic calls from the onlookers. His pulse still pounds in his ears, the aftermath of his fury still raw. For a moment, he stands there, chest heaving, staring down at the broken man beneath him. Breathing heavily, Oleksandr looks up at the chieftain, his adrenaline still coursing through him, his body trembling with the intensity of the fight. Oddvarr's eyes glint with something dark, his grin widening.

  Oleksandr glares at him, his breath heavy, still pulsing with the raw energy of the fight. His finger jabs towards Oddvarr, a bloody and bruised point of defiance. "MORE!" He barks. Oddvarr chuckles as he surveys the crowd, his gaze sweeping over the onlookers as their whispers grow louder.

  “Very well,” Oddvarr announces, the challenge clear in his voice. “Let’s see just how far your bloodlust goes.” Oddvarr’s nod sends a ripple through the crowd as a nearby man scurries off, likely to fetch the next opponent. The tension in the air thickens, his men watching with growing interest, clearly intrigued by Oleksandr’s primal drive, his unrelenting nature.

  Oleksandr squats in the snow, his broad shoulders heaving as he pats his fists and face with snow, numbing the pain and icing over the rage that still burns in his veins. Each cold touch is a reminder—this is who he is. This is what he was made for.

  Samorix, his face a mix of concern and admiration, crouches beside him. "What are ye doing, lad?" He asks, his voice low, cutting through the tension.

  Oleksandr’s gaze is steady, unwavering as he meets Samorix’s eyes. “Showing these men I’m not one to be trifled with,” he replies, his voice rough and firm, still tinged with the remnants of his battle frenzy.

  Samorix’s frown deepens, his weathered features creased with worry. “Ye’ve already proved yer point, laddie. Ye almost killed that poor bloke!” He gestures toward the man still lying in the ring, barely conscious, his body a crumpled heap. “There’s no need to keep this going.” Oleksandr’s eyes flicker briefly, a cold, almost dismissive gleam flashing in them.

  “I can handle myself.” His voice is final, leaving no room for debate. Then, his gaze shifts, sharp and purposeful. “Go find Ivan.”