˗ˏˋ 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝 ᵛᵐⁱⁿᵏᵒᵒᵏ

2 • 𝘫𝘰𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯

7.3.19

❧

Thud!

Cheers and cackles and hoots of triumph filled the arena, men all buff and scarred from endless years of hard labor or brawling on the streets throwing their fists to the air with mugs of ale in their hands, its contents slushing vigorously against the brim.

The men's uproar seized the night as the two fighters- both in opposing colours of blue and red, flashed by in a blur when a giant figure out of the two went flying, slamming into the ropes that upheld them in the ring.

"Python! Python! Python!" They all bellowed only one name, only one winner, only one fighter who would win the money, who would win the night all over again and again and again-

"Argh!" Snap. The rope gave in to the sheer weight of the massive brawler, his big body falling through the barrier and crashing into a wooden table below, sending splinters flying everywhere.

The blue materials tied around the guy's wrists and forehead was nothing but an indication, already a predicted mess of failure in the fight with Python.

No-one gave a damn about the bloodied, bruised and probably unconscious- if not dead- burly guy lying motionless on the broken table with his nose most likely smashed in and face crippled from being overthrown.

Instead, all the howling men chanted the winner's name, chanted like a crowd of mantras like they always did and will always do for Python and his success in staying as the champion of every fight ever.

A flicker of red being waved in the air shut the crowd up immediately, silencing the excited atmosphere into nothing but stifled drunk ecstasy as the crowned champion held his two bloodied and mauled fists up in the air, one hand clutching the significant bandanna that he always wore in every ringed battle, wrists wrapped in the same red.

"Your king," Python made the act of curtsying towards all the men down there with mugs of ale still raised like kindling fire, being as smug and powerful as he wanted to be, "will keep his crown."

He bowed to all of them like a person who would've finished their performance in front of an audience, before disappearing behind heavily draped blood-red curtains and celebrating backstage- but no, this wasn't some sort of delicate show and display.

He was a brawler, a fist-fighter, a sadist in all of his ways, and the people who loved him for that, who held him high for that, who worshiped him for all of his blows and punches and killer intents he had bestowed upon challengers or people who were unfortunate enough to be shoved into that ring to face him, were just as cruel as he was.

But he didn't care, he didn't bother when these people saw him as if he was saviour, as if his hands didn't strangle others for the pleasure of it but to help others out of their shells, he didn't give a damn when they shouted his name, holding it on their tongues like he was the greatest celebrity, the greatest idol in the world when really, in reality, they were celebrating the deaths of those who died at his own hands, who lost everything because of him.

But then there will always be only one winner in this world, and it's the survival of the fittest, the strongest of them all.

He was just here to make a living, to earn enough money to survive and bid. And fighting was his malice; his ignition.