«Spartacus to the ring!» echoed the voice of the announcer.
In the middle of the trampled-down field, surrounded by a rough crowd, stood a man nearly two meters tall, warming up his massive frame. He looked to be about thirty-five, with a powerful build and a sharply trimmed beard. Cracking his knuckles, the fighter stared unblinking into the eyes of his approaching opponent. Everything about him screamed predator—merciless, calculated—missing only the tiger's roar.
Across from him stood Spartacus. He was smaller in build, though his muscular body was solid and battle-ready. Shaking out his arms, he clenched his fists and stepped forward. Both men lowered their stance, ready to fight. The makeshift night ring was set far from the city, in a desolate clearing lit by the headlights of surrounding cars. The crowd—mostly men placing bets—buzzed with anticipation. It was nearly dawn. Time for the final round. The fighters already defeated had joined the spectators, their bruised faces watching in silence.
«Ironhead versus Spartacus! Place your bets, gentlemen!» the announcer—also serving as referee—called out. After a brief rundown of the fighters, he reminded the crowd: no rules in this fight.
«Come on, Spartacus!» someone yelled from the crowd. «I’ve got my money on you, bro—don’t let me down!»
Ironhead, Spartacus’s opponent, growled lowly, locking his eyes on him with open disdain.
Spartacus raised his fists to guard his face and began circling slowly, preparing to defend. His opponent mirrored him, following every step. Then, without warning, Ironhead lunged forward, delivering a long, straight punch aimed at Spartacus’s head. The blow knocked him sideways. A sharp pain pierced his eye, and swelling blurred his vision. Before he could recover, he was slammed to the ground—Ironhead’s leg striking the inside of his knee with a vicious snap. Spartacus collapsed.
Ironhead quickly moved to wrap his arm around Spartacus’s neck from behind, trying to lock in a chokehold. But Spartacus turned his head, jamming his face into Ironhead’s side, preventing the squeeze. Reaching behind with one free hand, he grabbed his opponent’s jaw and violently shoved it backward. Ironhead’s grip loosened instinctively.
In that moment, Spartacus pushed off with raw force, twisting out of the hold. At the same time, he landed a brutal punch straight into Ironhead’s liver. Ironhead staggered back, finally letting go.
Without wasting a second, Spartacus spun around and leapt—driving his knee into Ironhead’s jaw.
Ironhead hit the ground. Knockout.
Sitting on the edge of a large, weathered tree stump—once a proud century-old pine—Spartacus stuck a blade of grass between his teeth and stared into the distance. Ahead lay a ravine, and beyond it, a small river flowed. Behind him, across the field, stretched the village where he was born and raised.
His sun-bleached hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead. His broad, tanned back, slick with sweat like oiled leather, shimmered under the soft glow of the rising sun.
After jogging along the dusty, winding paths and working out at his makeshift pull-up bar, he allowed himself a short break. His stomach already grumbled with hunger, but he wasn’t in a hurry to go home. Being alone with nature was his favorite time—especially in the early morning, when everything around was just beginning to wake. No one disturbed his thoughts, his dreams, or his inner peace. He sat there, letting the warm breeze of summer's end cool his overheated body. His mind drifted far beyond the horizon. So lost in thought, he didn’t notice someone approaching.
