Loopbreaker

L looked to be about thirty, maybe younger, but the scars on his upper body and face were a testament to the hard life the man lived.

He had shaved his head; the shadow of growth that set in was intentional and not due to a lack of ability to grow.

L was only a few inches taller than Francis. He wasn’t large like Vella, but moved with a natural grace.

I should be faster and stronger than he is. The problem is fighting hand-to-hand. If he has that skill.

The time to think was gone as L stopped circling and came forward.

Shouts continued to come, the crowd eager for one of them to move.

All Francis had done was set himself, using the knowledge he had from sword fighting to get into a position where his balance was good and he could move without issue.

The small arena they were in was only twenty feet or so, wooden crates shoved about to make a crude ring. Around it was a mob of people, all calling for blood.

L sent a quick jab with his left. As soon as the jab ended, the fighter immediately attacked with a right hook.

The speed was impressive, though Francis managed to block both with his hands, shifting his feet and staying low.

Another salvo came, this time four punches in rapid succession. Francis let one land, feeling the impact against his stomach.

It hurt, but not in a way that mattered. His Pain Resistance made it almost negligible, and the truth was that compared to Francis’ physical fitness, L was outclassed. Only a punch to his jaw or privates would affect Francis enough to matter.

He fought the urge to smile, letting more strikes through, while also throwing a few of his own.

Each time L connected with a punch, the crowd roared.

L kept sending body shots, and Francis blocked or dodged what he could. He did his best to determine the timing so that it appeared the fight was close. He had seen someone do what he was attempting to do before in another town.

He wanted to sell the fight so that when he won, everyone would believe it was luck.

I need to not overpower him. Afterwards, I’ll need to look like an idiot and ask for a second fight immediately. Maybe I can get a slightly better opponent and then quit after winning again.

Pain was a welcome friend. It reminded him that he was alive and that he could feel.

The pain from where the priestess had grabbed him was finally gone. Now, he just felt frustrated. So much had seemed like it would go right in that last loop until that final moment.

Then came the knowledge that he was tainted.

Is this you… Or whatever you were?

No voice replied -- ever since the very first death, there had been nothing. His mind still felt empty in spots. He knew there were things he should remember about his past but couldn’t.

Taint or not, Francis would save his brother and, in turn, as many of these idiots calling for him to be knocked out in this warehouse.

Dozens of punches came, and he allowed more of them through.

Finally, the sound of a bell rang out and L stepped back, breathing heavily and studying him.

“To your seat! We have a second round,” the pudgy man called out.

Francis pretended to take deep breaths, wincing as he moved to where his stool, which looked ready to fall apart, waited.

Plopping down onto it, he sighed.

“Well, at least you didn’t get knocked out immediately,” Lourana said as she held up a wooden cup. “Maybe L likes you and wants to play. Regardless, the crowd and bookies are liking it.”

Francis could see many people clamoring around the fat man who had taken his bet. “I guess I should be grateful?”

She laughed and shook her head. “You would have made a decent payout had you not bet on yourself. Sure, you’ll get a few extra coins from the bets just for fighting, but giving up a silver… Eh, that’s what being young will make you do. No common sense.”

Taking a mouthful of the liquid, he immediately spat it out, gagging. “What is that?”

“A fighter's drink. Bad alcohol and water. Helps dull the pain.”

Shaking his head, Francis stood and started touching the areas on his stomach and ribs where L had used him as a training tool.

“I’m ready,” Francis grunted.

Another minute passed, and finally, what he had been hoping for came.

[ New Skill - Brawling (Common) - 1]

Taken from NovelFire, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Smiling, Francis immediately felt himself understanding how to punch better. Part of him had expected it to come sooner, though he never truly understood how all this worked. He and Michael had spent summers working in fields, yet hadn’t acquired farming skills.

His strikes hit truer, and after another minute, Francis was rewarded again.

[ Brawling - 2 ]

L was breathing hard; it was obvious the man wasn't used to a fight going on this long. He couldn’t keep his hands held as high, and his body was covered in sweat. No longer did his strikes have the same force.

“Looks like you’re going to lose,” Francis stated over the din. “Guess you’ll lose to a nobody.”

A little bit of rage filled those brown eyes, and L came forward, swinging wildly at Francis’ head, trying to end the fight before running out of energy.

Stepping to the side, Francis read the strikes like they were the thrust or swing of a sword.

With his left hand, Francis pushed down one of L’s punches and delivered a blow to the man’s jaw.

His opponent stumbled two steps and then fell face-first into the sawdust at their feet, his deep breaths sucking the chips into his mouth and nose, causing the man to choke.

A second or two of silence came as Francis stumbled, doing his part to sell the lucky side of all that before the crowd groaned – a total of three people cheered.

The fat man came waddling out, shaking his head as he moved to where Francis stood, breathing heavily and wiping his face.

“I won!” Francis exclaimed, holding his side.

“You did… You did, boy,” the fat man replied.

“And my silver?”

Grunting, the man spat and then fished in his pocket.

He held out his hand with three silver coins.

“I was told five to one odds,” Francis said, pointing at the coin. “My ticket.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” the man hissed. “You should take these and be happy I don’t have you beaten and sent back to your trainer.”

Grabbing the silver coins, Francis felt the fury and rage that was growing threaten to take over.

“You’re welcome to try. I’ll make sure he knows I bet and you stole. I’ll make sure this whole god damn town knows, and then–”

The fat man leveled a thick finger at him. “Words like that will get your throat slit! This isn’t some game, boy!”

“I’m not playing a game, ” Francis replied, moving closer so that his sweaty skin touched the extended finger. “Tell you what. Give me another fight. Right now. Whoever you want. Tell me the odds, and I’ll bet on myself again. Don’t, and I’ll shout how you stole and be out that door and to my people before you can do anything.”

Francis glanced around, the noise of the room having dimmed, and he saw the crowd watching both of them. The fat man’s face turned red, and he spat on the ground before speaking in a low growl.

“Fine! Sit there, and I’ll be here in a few minutes, your next opponent, and to take your bet. But when they carry you out in a cart, don’t complain to the gods.”

Two more silver coins appeared in the fat man’s hand and were tossed at him, striking Francis’s chest and falling to the floor.

“WE HAVE ANOTHER FIGHT!” the pudgy man shouted. “This young boy has asked for another right now!”

Everyone stood there momentarily after the fat man announced his plans, then laughed; some cheered, while most made fun of his decision.

Picking the coins up, Francis pocketed them all, moving to the chair where he had been directed, and Lourana was waiting.

“You’re a fool. A bloody fool!” she exclaimed as he sat down. “I warned you! You know who they’re going to bring!”

“Cutter?”

“Yes! Do you have any idea what that man will do to you? The last one ended up with a broken leg, arm, and jaw!”

“All I care about are the odds. Once you find out, let me know.”

She stared at him, mouth open and apparently flabbergasted at his lack of concern for her warning. “Men! This is why I never got married! Fools, the lot of you!”

As she moved off, he started wiping the sweat off his face. He wasn’t tired—sore but not tired. Even better was the knowledge that he had gained two points in brawling.

Maybe doing this every time I die would be worth it. Of course, I have to choose between letting David run away and knowing he will be hunted or getting extra silver for winning the race that I can bet with.

Lost in those thoughts, he heard the sound of a bell much sooner than he’d expected.

***

Francis stood up on his stool as the bookie came to where he was and held up his hands.

“Ten to one odds! I must be better than I imagined!” Francis exclaimed.

Laughter came as he motioned to himself.

“I am going to wager five silver on myself!” Francis hollered out so everyone could hear. “If I win, drinks are on me!”

The crowd stood there, stunned.

He wasn’t sure if they were surprised he was going to bet five silvers, had five silvers, or had offered to be generous with his future winnings.

Either way, soon they all shouted and yelled.

“What was that?!” the bookie asked.

Francis smiled as he climbed down and held out the five silver coins. “A guarantee that if I win, I get paid all fifty.”

The fat man spat and growled, handing him a piece of paper that he stuck with the other that had never been collected. “Cutter is going to break you.”

The growl the pudgy man made as he stomped away didn’t bother Francis in the least.

He had faced worse before—and even if he lost, there would be a day that he won. When he did, he’d make sure to get revenge on this man who seemed to enjoy taking advantage of others.

***

Francis spat, sending another glob of blood to join the rest absorbed by the sawdust.

Cutter smiled and cracked his knuckles again.

“You’re tougher than most, but I’m still going to make you suffer.”

Francis didn’t respond, as talking hurt. Two ribs were broken, possibly a third.

Why this man was here and not fighting on the front lines was a mystery. He easily matched Vella in height and had about fifty pounds of extra muscle. Worse was the size of his hands. In all his life, Francis couldn’t remember seeing hands this large—each time he got hit by one, it felt like someone had taken a hammer to him.

L had been nothing compared to Cutter.

Even worse was the fact that the man had some activatable ability of sorts. Occasionally, three swings came faster than all the rest in rapid succession. The only good news was that Cutter had only used it once.

Francis wanted to take a breath and get more air, but each movement ached, and the truth of how bad this fight was reflected by the two points he had gained in pain resistance in the first round alone.

There had been no time to fight back. Cutter had simply beaten him from every angle, choosing to occasionally punch his face simply as a way to open up his midsection.

The man’s long arms made it difficult to get close, and the one time Francis thought he had succeeded, two quick uppercuts came, each sending him flying backward.

Now, punches struck his arms and shoulders. Cutter wasn’t trying to knock him out. This was a lesson in pain.

Blows continued hammering him with massive fists that never slowed down, no matter how many times the large man swung.

Even with his rank in Pain Resistance, it hurt.

Getting pierced, cut, or bitten was completely different than having one's body pummeled to death.

When the third round started, Francis struggled to stay standing.

Francis’s pain resistance had climbed from a 16 to an 18 in the last two minutes, a testament to the extent of his suffering. His vision was so blurry from all the blows to his head.

Another strike came, shattering his shoulder, causing his left arm to hang free, and leaving him completely open for what came next.

“It’s nothing personal,” Cutter said, grinning the entire time. “I just enjoy getting paid to hurt people.”

Three fists came in rapid succession, striking Francis’ face. The world quickly became dark.