The fight began with the sound of the bell and yell of the announcer, the challenger making the first move. Rushing forward like a stampeding bull, he kept his left arm raised, the wooden scutum shield leading the charge. It was an instant later that the towering figure struck out with his left, aiming to bash and stun the champion. However, all he found was empty air, stepping back and twisting his body the champion showcased his extreme flexibility, avoiding the strike by the slimmest of margins.

This wasn’t everything though, the one-handed bronze sword came next, just as the older man had regained his footing from avoiding the shield attack. If struck there was little doubt in anyone’s eyes that the man would be split in two, the sheer strength behind the attack causing the air in its path to whistle. Yet rather than metal meeting flesh, there was a brief clang of iron and the sword struck sand and dirt.

Concealed by the flowing garments were a pair of metallic forearm guards, revealed by the blade cutting away parts of the sleeves. The instant the blade was brought down, the champion had twisted his body, placing his left into a slightly angled downward position. With the challenger committed to the blow, there was little chance to switch the angle of attack, using this overextension, and the bare minimum of strength he deflected rather than blocked the strike. Redirecting the sword into arm the ground below and opening the enemy’s flank for an instant.

For a brief instant, in the second that the blade hit the ground and the challenger lost his footing the champion's eyes flashed with a silvery light. Then similar to how a cobra strikes its prey, his right fist lashed out with inhuman speed, striking the center of his opponents’ ribcage, just below the left armpit.

The man had no time or chance to get his shield into place, the fist struck with the force of a cavalry charge, the impact from the blow reverberating through the body. He was not even able to release a howl of pain as his ribcage collapsed inwards, shards of bone ripping up his insides and piercing the heart. None in the crowd would have seen this, noticed the depressed chest cavity on the left side of the massive Galian warrior. All they would notice was the missed strike, followed by the staggering warrior, and then his impact with the ground.

Blood began to pool under the eyes, nose, and other pores around the body. This death pose held some resemblance to those who had been poisoned by venomous snakes, hence the origination of the champion’s arena name. The method of his opponents’ deaths, and the speed of his strikes coupled with the flexible elasticity of his movements mirrored those of the deadly serpents of the southern deserts.

Turning away from the cooling corpse, the victorious champion made his way back to the gate by which he entered. The arena in turn was silent, the jeers and cheers from earlier gone, as if they had never existed in the first place. Contrary to the audience’s expectations, the fight had lasted a mere instant, the monstrous juggernaut who had inspired fear and dread within the viewers now lay silent and still.

Even the announcer seemed at a loss, what had been hyped as the possible dethroning of the king, had instead ended with a silent whimper. The “savage beast” would now be viewed as nothing more than a sick puppy, a visually imposing figure at best. After today it was unlikely for any of the spectators to bet on anything other than the champion, who could defeat such a creature, at this point some even questioned whether he was human at all.

None of this mattered to the victor, he had completed his task, sent another unnecessary soul to the cycle to be reborn. The raucous chorus of the crowd brought neither joy nor pain, he had long since passed the point of reacting to anything, his face completely flat and devoid of emotion. Save for a slight hint of pain, as he disappeared below the arena, he undid the straps to the arm guards. Below the metal covering on his left arm the skin had become swollen, a slight discoloration present.

The strike of the sword had not been completely ineffective. In his prime, Vishnamitra the champion would have had little issue deflecting the blow. However, age brought low all men, time would weaken anything and anyone, he was no exception. Had that fight lasted longer, the loss of his left arm would have become apparent.

His opponent luckily had been overly reliant upon his strength and ferocity, charging in like a blind boar and underestimating him based on outer appearance. A more cautious and levelheaded challenger would have been able to drag out the fight, wearing down the aged fighter and perhaps winning through attrition. None of which mattered anymore.

“Teacher, teacher, I heard the cheers! You are victorious again?” The young boy came running down the dark and dirty hall, coming to a complete stop before the aged victor. A slight smile graced the lips of the elderly man, as he used his right hand to ruffle the child’s hair. The action left the boy complaining and grumbling under his breath, the thick head of hair left as a disorganized mess.

“Of course, I won child, would I be here if I hadn’t? Don’t answer that question, we both already know the answer.” Vishnamitra and the child made their way through the winding halls of the slave pens, guards gave the two a wide berth, while the other fighters saluted in reverence.

“Master, how did the fight go? Who was your opponent, was he strong?” The boy was curious, but this was normal for a child his age. However, he had a strong survival instinct, and an insatiable appetite for strength. It was that drive that had initially convinced a broken, depressive, and suicidal man to take on a young slave child as his disciple. The decision had been a godsend, allowing Vishnamitra to focus on something other than the fact he would never again see his family or homeland.

No, he had reached the furthest he could go, his skills mediocre when compared to his own master’s. He would try his best to confer what little skills he possessed onto this boy, the child would be the evidence of his existence, a fragment of himself that would live on through the boy and hopefully those that came after.

“Haha… do not fret child, there will be plenty of time for stories when the sun sets. For now, we have much more training if we are to have you learn the methods of harnessing prana.” This would be the final leg of the boy’s training, the foundations of his skills, after which the boy would need to adapt them to best suit his own needs.