English Version: Sands & Sparrow

41

The Past of Aveline.

Part 1

Once there was a fighter, and they called him...

"Goliath!"

A man shouted the name of his enemy as he entered the arena, fury blazing in his eyes. He stood his ground and smirked, "I'm Ravin!! I'm here to win!" His voice was laden with confidence, his blood-stained pants clinging to his form. In the center of the ring, he drew his dagger and raised it upward—a salute to the hundred spectators gathered around.

On the other side of the circle stood Goliath, shirtless, clad in black pants. His muscular physique, glistening with sweat and streaked with blood, was imposing. Standing at six feet three inches, a long scar marred his cheek, adding to his fearsome appearance. His face was a mask of indifference; he stood in silence, seemingly in a world of his own, detached from the roaring crowd and the electric atmosphere of anticipation.

The audience's excitement reached a fever pitch. Bets were placed, with everyone eagerly anticipating a fight to the death. Despite its illegality, the game thrived under the protection of powerful men and corrupt leaders. In this lawless environment, anything was possible. The rules of the fight? There were none. Death was always lurking, a constant companion in the brutal ballet of combat.

The gong sounded, signaling the fight to begin.

Ravin lunged at his enemy, delivering the first punch with tremendous force to Goliath's jaw. He unleashed a torrent of blows, but his opponent stood unwavering, like a statue. Blood coated Ravin's knuckles, and a bruise formed above Goliath's right eye.

Ravin hammered punches onto Goliath as if aiming to obliterate his very existence. Yet, Goliath held his ground, eliciting loud curses from the crowd. The odds skewed, presenting Ravin an opening. It was never a fair fight, but in a game devoid of rules, only the death of the enemy could decree its end. Ravin gripped his dagger tightly, poised for the kill. Goliath, in response, armed himself with a hammer, awaiting Ravin's advance.

A bead of blood traced a path down Ravin's forehead as he charged forward, dagger aimed with lethal intent. Goliath, with a swift blink, dodged and countered with a powerful swing of his hammer to Ravin's cheek, sending waves of pain through him. The hammer struck again, this time crashing against Ravin's jaw, splattering blood. Ravin staggered momentarily before lunging with renewed determination. Goliath evaded the dagger's thrust, then delivered a hammer blow back to Ravin's face. Ravin's eyes widened too late to dodge the impact. A sickening crack sounded as his skull fractured, blood leaking from his nostrils, his nose grotesquely disfigured.

Attempting one last punch, Ravin's effort fell short. Goliath's hammer struck his stomach with the force of a train. Internal damage was immediate—guts smashed, blood vessels ruptured. Choking on his blood, Ravin collapsed onto the sand, his breathing shallow until it ceased altogether.

Silence fell for a moment before the crowd erupted into cheers. Death had concluded the match.

Goliath dropped his hammer, the battle over.

"Get Goliath," Gomez commanded, one of the members who owned the fight club.

"Yes, boss," a man of average height nodded. His name was Tunying, the coach and guardian of Goliath. He approached the arena and took Goliath's hand to lead him away. "Boss is very proud of you, Domeng. He won the bet. Today, I'm going to buy your favorite food," Tunying addressed the fighter by his real name.
Domeng was the name Goliath assumed each time he entered the fight.