35: The Bandit Lord

Ulrich Claw. That wasn't the name he was born with—it was the name he chose. A name that carried no chains, no weight of the past, no expectations. A name that belonged to no one but himself.

He had been born into nobility, raised in the wealth and privilege of the Free Cities. He never wanted for anything—at least, not anything material. His parents were not cruel. They weren't unkind. In their own way, they even loved him. But they were absent more often than not, always entangled in affairs of state, in the endless obligations that came with their status. And even when they were present, there was something missing. Something no amount of wealth, comfort, or affection could provide.

Freedom.

As a noble, his life had been dictated from the moment he drew breath. He was expected to behave a certain way, to speak with refinement, to sit through endless conversations with people he had no interest in. He was expected to marry someone he had never met, to uphold a legacy he had no part in choosing. He had everything except the ability to choose for himself. And the more he observed the world beyond his estate, the more he envied the commoners—those his family dismissed as lesser.

To him, they had what he lacked.

Or so he thought.

The more he watched, the more he realized—even they were bound. Society dictated their lives just as much as it did his. They had customs to uphold, reputations to maintain, laws they were forced to follow. No matter their status, no one was truly free.

For a time, he gave up on the idea altogether. He accepted his fate, played the role expected of him. He resigned himself to the life he had been given. Until he met them.

Outlaws.

They were the first people he had ever seen who lived without rules—who existed beyond the reach of society, beyond the law. Even with the threat of imprisonment, execution, or worse, they lived on their own terms. They did as they pleased, took what they wanted, defied the world without care for consequence.

And Ulrich wanted that. Desperately.

So one night, he walked away from everything. He abandoned his name, his family, his responsibilities. In that moment, as he severed himself from the life he had always known, he felt something he had never felt before. The void in his soul, the aching emptiness, began to fill.

He joined the outlaws—the very criminals who had shown him what true freedom looked like. And for a time, he was happy. He lived without rules, without expectation. He stole not out of necessity, but because he wanted to. He fought those he chose to fight. He answered to no laws, no obligations.

But eventually, he realized—this too was an illusion.

Even among outlaws, there were rules. A hierarchy. A leader to obey, tasks that had to be done to survive. He wasn't truly free. He had simply traded one set of chains for another.

So he left. Again.

This time, he struck out on his own, living a life with no masters, no expectations. His life, his way. And for the first time, he felt truly free. He did as he pleased. Took what he desired, not what he needed. Hid when he wanted to hide. Fought when he wanted to fight. He carved his own path, earning a name that became legend—the Bandit Lord, one of the most infamous criminals alive.

For ten years, he lived as a man unbound. The hole in his soul had been filled. But something else began to take its place.

Loneliness.

The path of true freedom was one that only he walked. No one else.

He wanted others to understand—to experience what he had. But convincing people to cast off the lives they had always known was no easy task. Most were content in their cages, too afraid to break free.

Then, one day, in the great city of Arcadicia, he saw a poster.

The Tournament of Greatness.

A competition that would draw the strongest, the boldest, those seeking power, glory, coin and purpose. And in that moment, he saw his answer.

What better way to prove the strength of true freedom than to stand before the world and win? To show them that a man unbound by law, by duty, by anything but his own will, could rise above them all?

That was why he was here.

That was why he fought.

And if, even after witnessing his strength, they still refused to understand…

Well, that was their choice.

After all—freedom was about choice.

---

The explosion rocked the coliseum, the deafening BOOM reverberating through the massive arena. Those in the front rows, hardened warriors and seasoned spectators alike, recoiled from the sheer force of the blast, hands instinctively flying up to cover their ears. Smoke billowed outward, momentarily obscuring the battlefield in a thick, swirling haze.

"W-Wow! Was that a bomb!?" Quincy shouted over the uproar, his voice barely cutting through the lingering echoes. "Did the Bandit Lord just use a bomb to take down his opponent!?"

Back in the fighters' waiting area, Mae let out a low whistle, a smirk tugging at her lips. "That man really wants to win, doesn't he?"

"We all do, don't we?" Calvinel replied, with a smile on his face. He turned his gaze back to the arena. "Still… I didn't expect him to pull out something like that."

Zeva scoffed. "He's scum. Tricks like that should be expected from him."

Bryanard, however, had a different perspective. "The tournament has no rules. He's just doing whatever it takes to win—like a true soldier." He shrugged. "Even if he is a criminal, you have to respect that kind of resolve."

Not everyone agreed, but the sentiment lingered in the air.

Xain, arms folded, remained silent as he mulled over the display. *I wonder if I'll be pushed to those lengths…* The idea didn't bother him—he was prepared to do what was necessary—but against most of these fighters, *It just doesn't feel right.*

His thoughts didn't last long.

The smoke in the arena began to thin, revealing Ulrich standing amidst the destruction, casually waving away the lingering haze. "Didn't expect to use one of those this early," he muttered to himself, exhaling sharply. "But, eh… worth it."

His gaze flicked to Gurion, slumped against the base of a tree. The martial artist was already pushing himself up, his breathing steady, his movements controlled despite the burns now marking the left side of his body. He looked roughed up—but nowhere near finished.

Ulrich let out a low chuckle, idly tossing another small, round object in his hand. "Holy shit. You reacted to that fast. You're something else, man."

Gurion hadn't been caught entirely off guard. The instant he recognized what was happening, he had done everything in his power to mitigate the damage—tucking in his head, shielding his ears, halting his breathing to avoid inhaling the smoke. It had worked. Mostly.

But he wouldn't let it happen again.

"Can you do it again?" Ulrich asked, grinning as he flicked his fingers, igniting the fuse of the second bomb before sending it hurtling toward Gurion.

This time, Gurion was ready.

The moment he heard the telltale hiss of the fuse, he reacted. His fingers tightened around a rock—one he had discreetly picked up while getting to his feet. With a sharp inhale, he twisted his body and threw.

The stone struck true.

"Oh shi—" Ulrich barely had time to process before the bomb came flying back toward him.

BOOM.

The second explosion rattled the arena once more, sending a fresh wave of smoke billowing outward.

"ANOTHER BOMB!" Quincy shouted, the excitement in his voice barely containing the sheer shock of it all. "BUT THIS TIME IT HIT THE BANDIT LORD! JUST HOW LONG WILL THIS GO ON!? IS THIS ARENA ABOUT TO BECOME A WARZONE!?"

The crowd erupted, a cacophony of cheers and gasps.

As the smoke cleared, Ulrich stood amidst the scorched ground, arms raised to shield his face. His clothes were singed, a few smoldering embers clinging to the fabric—but he was still standing. And aside from a few beads of sweat rolling down his face, he looked almost completely unfazed.

He exhaled sharply, shaking off the lingering heat. "Funny thing about these bombs," he mused, rolling his shoulders. "They're not great against enhancers." A rough chuckle escaped his lips.

Then his gaze locked onto Gurion.

"Hey, man, you can't beat me like this, y'know?" He extended his arms slightly, gesturing loosely. "Let go of that style of fighting. Come at me with everything you've got. Go for cheap shots—fight dirty. Be free. Like I was telling you earlier."

With a casual motion, Ulrich drew one of his cutlasses, the curved blade glinting beneath the sun. In his other hand, he pulled a four-foot length of rope from his sash, gripping it loosely.

"Let's just go at each other."

Gurion, still keeping his eyes shut, gritted his teeth, frustration evident in the tension of his jaw. He drew in a sharp breath, then another, steadying himself. His fingers uncurled slightly, shoulders loosening as he forced the tension out of his body. A slow exhale followed before he smoothly sank back into his stance, his movements deliberate, controlled.

Ulrich sighed, shaking his head. "I suppose I won't get through to you."

Then, with a sudden burst of movement, the Bandit Lord lunged forward.

And Gurion did the same.

"Both fighters charged in for what might be their final clash!" Quincy shouted as Gurion and Ulrich lunged at each other.

Ulrich was the first to strike, his cutlass flashing in the sunlight as he slashed for Gurion's ribs. The blade whistled through the air, but Gurion, relying purely on his hearing, twisted just in time, the keen flick of his fox-like ears catching the deadly arc of steel. Another swipe came—a quick upward slash aimed at his face—but he ducked beneath it, the blade slicing through empty space.

Gurion countered immediately. His fists snapped forward, two rapid punches aimed at Ulrich's head. The first was blocked, Ulrich raising his arm just in time, but the second connected cleanly, his knuckles cracking against Ulrich's nose. A spatter of blood flew as Ulrich's head jerked back slightly.

But before Gurion could fully retract his hand, Ulrich struck.

The rope in his other hand lashed out, looping around Gurion's forearm in a practiced motion. With a sharp yank, he pulled Gurion forward, off-balance, and drove the pommel of his cutlass into his ribs. A deep grunt of pain escaped Gurion's lips as he staggered from the blow.

"Looks like the Bandit Lord has the upper hand! Could this finally be the end of the enigmatic martial artist!?" Quincy's voice rang out over the roaring crowd.

The cheers rose, but not from the entire audience. The loudest voices came from the criminals—the thieves, the outlaws, the gangsters—those who saw the Bandit Lord as one of their own. They roared their support for Ulrich, a man who embodied their way of life, their defiance of order.

Ulrich smirked through the blood dripping from his nose. "See? This is why you can't beat me," he said, yanking on the rope to tighten his grip on Gurion. "You fight too honorably."

He raised his cutlass high, the blade poised to cleave down onto Gurion's shoulder.

"I won't ever lose to someone like yo—"

"Shut up!" Gurion snarled.

His knee shot up.

Pain exploded through Ulrich's body as the strike landed squarely between his legs. His breath left him in a strangled grunt, his body instinctively hunching forward.

"I've never not tried to fight you dirty!" Gurion spat, grabbing a fistful of Ulrich's hair and yanking his head up. Their eyes locked for just a moment before Gurion drove a brutal jab straight into his throat. "I just never got the chance to!"

Ulrich stumbled back, coughing, his grip on the rope loosening.

"What is this!? The momentum has completely shifted! The enigmatic martial artist has turned the tables!" Quincy bellowed.

In the stands, the leader of the Stormclaws had been watching in silence, his expression unreadable. At the start of the fight, he had wanted Ulrich to lose—but now, as he stared down at the battlefield, something inside him twisted.

"You can't lose, you bastard," he muttered, his hands clenching into fists. "Not after you beat me."

The criminals in the crowd erupted into chants.

"Win, Bandit Lord!"

"Show them how strong we are!"

The leader of the Stormclaws closed his eyes briefly, then let out a growl before joining in.

"Show him, Ulrich Claw! Show him the man that beat me! Win, you fucking bastard!"

Back in the arena, Ulrich exhaled sharply through his nose, straightening up. His lips curled into a wild grin as he regained his footing.

Without warning, he yanked on the rope again—just as Gurion lunged in for another attack. The sudden pull disrupted Gurion's momentum, dragging him straight into Ulrich's forehead.

The headbutt landed with a sickening crack.

Gurion's head snapped back, blood trickling from his nose. But he gritted his teeth and retaliated immediately, slamming his own forehead into Ulrich's.

Ulrich grunted, stumbling slightly before chuckling through the pain. "Ugh… Why weren't you fighting like this before?"

Gurion answered by driving a knee into Ulrich's stomach.

"I told you already," he growled. "I just never got the chance."

Ulrich staggered back, but Gurion didn't let up. He sidestepped behind him in a swift motion, his foot snapping out to kick the back of Ulrich's knee. The Bandit Lord dropped slightly, catching himself before he fully collapsed.

"Now shut up and just fight!" Gurion shouted.

Ulrich let out a breathless laugh. "Gladly."

Then, they both surged forward, exchanging a furious barrage of blows.

The crowd roared louder and louder as their strikes landed with brutal precision—Gurion's fists snapping forward with relentless speed, Ulrich's cutlass moving in swift, controlled arcs. The outlaws in the stands continued their chant, their voices rising to a fever pitch as they began to chant Ulrich's title! "Bandit Lord! Bandit Lord! Bandit Lord! Bandit Lord! Bandit Lord!"

"Come on! Win! Win, you bastard!" the leader of the Stormclaws shouted, his voice nearly hoarse.

Down below, Gurion and Ulrich clashed again—this time, both landing simultaneous strikes. Gurion's fist crashed into Ulrich's face. At the same moment, Ulrich slammed the guard of his cutlass into Gurion's jaw.

They staggered.

Then Ulrich grinned.

"Let's finish this."

He dropped the rope, gripping his cutlass with both hands. Gurion shifted his stance, coiling his leg.

They lunged.

And then—

The coliseum erupted into a deafening roar, the cheers overwhelming even the outlaws' chant. The sheer volume of the crowd drowned out everything else.

Ulrich let out a low chuckle. "I guess that's it."

His cutlass slipped from his fingers, clattering to the ground. His eyes flicked downward—to Gurion's leg, pressed against his stomach.

"You win," he murmured.

Then, he collapsed.

Gurion panted, staring down at the unconscious Bandit Lord.

"We have a winner, everyone!" Quincy's voice rang through the arena. "And it's Gurion Wing!"