Chapter 6

- Have you decided who will be the fighter? - The dragon looked worriedly at the faces of his soldiers, who had formed a semicircle around him. - Is there something I don't know, or have you got a strong fighter? Do you know who they are fielding? No? I'll tell you. There is a real prize fighter there. They say that he joined the army because he killed someone in a tavern brawl. Or somewhere else. Haven't they already told you that all your crimes are nullified when you join the army? Yeah, they did... no wonder there are so many street scum among you! So who will fight?

The crowd parted and the Dragon saw a guy snoring carefreely near the fence. He covered his face with a rag, and it rose slightly in time with his breathing.

- Him?! This oaf? - the Dragon was amazed - oh gods! Now I know who to bet on... you are such idiots... You were too embarrassed to refuse, huh? Now the whole company will be disgraced! Well, I'll tell you... hold on! If you didn't find the courage to refuse in time, you'll run around the parade ground until you die! I'll give you a fun life!

Annoyed, Drancon walked away, to the physical training area. He was annoyed and disgusted. The army had turned into some kind of garbage dump due to the fact that a stream of criminals and idiots had poured into it. The king had not only allowed criminals to be taken as soldiers, but also by a special decree, five years ago, he had ordered that anyone who served in the army for a certain period of time would be exempt from responsibility for the crimes committed.

This decree stirred up society, there were many protesters, but after two severed heads of dissatisfied people appeared on the city wall, the chorus of protest died down. The king needed new soldiers. These internecine wars between the three kingdoms took a lot, a lot of strength and human resources. So why not send criminals to fight, and solve two problems at once? The problem of the lack of the required number of soldiers, and the problem of crime. Since these thieves and murderers are not hanging around the streets, does that mean there are fewer crimes committed on the streets of cities?

There was just one thing that King Iunakor did not understand, or did not want to understand - the army trained and educated fighters who would become bandits - after serving. If before they were inept bandits who did not wield weapons well, then after going through training camps they inevitably became real killers. If there was one thing that Dragon and his kind knew how to do, it was train. However, not all of them survived until the end of their service. Well, if half. The majority died in the very first battles. Moreover, no one pitied this mass of soldiers. And why should we pity these stupid blockheads? Now - they got involved in a obviously losing business, well, what was it worth to refuse? They would have laughed at them and calmed down. And now they will laugh at Drankon, who trains such idiots...

- Mr. Drancon! Mr. Drancon! - the sergeant called out from behind him - wait! I have something important to say!

The boy with his hands tied caught up with him from behind, and the sergeant looked at his hands with displeasure:

- What, donkey-headed - did you jump on the fence? What a moron! You can't sit still! Every call-up, at least a dozen morons try to climb over the fence! What do you need there? The same parade ground, the same morons! Only a little luckier, since they were able to survive a couple of fights with Isfir last year! What do you want, blockhead?! Just don't tell me that you can't hold a spear! However, I can see it anyway. Tell me, why are you standing there?

- I just wanted to tell you - bet on Ned. He's my friend, and I know what I'm talking about. I'm a watsu master, I have a thark. So - Ned took me out in two heartbeats and almost killed me. Bet - you can't go wrong!

- Yes? Hmmm... I'll think about it - Drancon chuckled in confusion - Okay, get out of here. Let them come to the physical training ground. They're already preparing everything for the fight there.

Drancon turned around, wiped a drop of acrid sweat from his forehead, and walked toward the duel site. His mood had improved a bit, and he even began to doubt – was it really so wrong to recruit all sorts of punks into the army? And indeed – the streets would be cleaner, and after going through the army, many of the guys would become smarter and give up their criminal trade. Some would die (Also good! The prisons were free!), some would stay to serve, and as practice showed, bandits made excellent soldiers, brave, proactive, skilled, and not afraid of blood.

To be honest, Drancon himself was one of those street punks. Twenty-five years in the army had made him what he was now – a tough, absolutely unsentimental warrior, a pedant and a servant to the core. The army was his family. Of course, there were some idiots in the family, but overall, Zamar's army, it had to be admitted, was very combat-ready.

To begin with, they shut up the Ards – and it's not easy to fight the Ards. Each of them would kill almost any warrior of Zamar one-on-one. But Zamar's army is discipline and the ability to work in a group. Zamar's regiments have sometimes defeated enemies that were much more numerous – thanks to the organization of the battle, the right tactics, and the most modern structure of the army.

Lost in his thoughts, Drancon didn't notice how he had reached the exercise area at the very end of the training ground. It was nice here - cooler than anywhere else in the camp. The shadow of the huge Black Mountain sheltered him from the scorching sun, which, although it had begun to lean toward the horizon, was still roasting as if it wanted to turn the people on the trampled parade ground into ruddy steaks.

Drancon sighed, took off his cylindrical cap with the king's coat of arms and the insignia of the Marine Corps, wiped the sweat from his face, smoothed his hair, put his cap back on and, with an almost ceremonial march, approached the table at which the colonel and the other senior officers were comfortably seated.

- Colonel! A fighter named Ned will be participating from the third company. Sergeant Drancon reporting!

- Oh, come on, Drancon... - the colonel waved it off good-naturedly - no need for such formality. Thank you, sergeant.

"I serve the king and the fatherland!" Drancon raised his hand in a clear salute with a clenched fist, and quietly added, "And what are you thanking me for?"

– For the opportunity to get away from the routine of service, – laughed the colonel, who was in a great mood, – when else can you watch a prize fight, and for a decent amount, from what I heard. By the way – I want to see how the company will crawl on all fours across the parade ground, shouting glory to the victors in bad voices! Did you come up with this, Drancon? You have always had a peculiar sense of humor, haven't you, gentlemen? – he turned to the other officers. – Remember how last year he made one recruit run around the parade ground naked, shouting – "Glory to Sergeant Drancon, the kindest of all sergeants in the world!" Can you imagine – it even reached the capital! One lady in Madame Maubor's salon asked me: "What, the soldier was completely naked? And what – were there ladies there? And he was naked? Completely, completely?!" It would be interesting to see…" And she licks her lips… – the officers burst into laughter, and Drancon slightly lowered the corners of his mouth in a smile – the colonel is joking – it's customary to laugh, even if it's not funny.

- Drancon, sit down at the officer's table! - the colonel cordially offered - pour some wine, cold water, don't be shy!

"I won't have any wine, but I'll drink some water with pleasure," the sergeant nodded gratefully. "It's hot today, very hot."

- Hmm... I hope there is no storm - the colonel nodded in agreement, and immediately switched to the subject for which everyone had gathered - tell me, Drancon, what kind of fighters will be fighting now? Could you describe them? At least your fighter, from the third company? Is he strong? Fast?

– To be honest, Colonel, I don't know the fighter of the first company at all, I saw him a couple of times on the parade ground, and that's it. They say he's a beast. A murderer. As for our fighter, what can you learn in a week? They showed me he was a strong fighter. The company itself put him up. Personally, I didn't see anything strong in him. A boy of eighteen or twenty, thin, sinewy – tall, really… What else… Yes, he gives off a feeling of strength, and his fellow soldiers seem to respect him very much and are a little afraid of him. But that's just my observation. Otherwise, he's a country bumpkin, the kind that come to us in the hundreds and thousands. Nothing special.

- Really? - the colonel drawled, slightly disappointed. - At this rate, the fight will be over in two heartbeats... he won't be able to hold out against a prize fighter. Too bad. I was hoping for a long and beautiful performance.

- Maybe the kid will hold out a little longer? - suggested Major Nivor, the commander of the first battalion. - Maybe we should talk to this prize fighter, let him play with the kid? What's so interesting if he knocks him out in two heartbeats! We were planning to see how long it lasted!

- No, gentlemen - Colonel Heverad resolutely rejected - this will not be military, it will be a deception. Only a real fight. And nothing else. Who will take the bets? Drancon, will you take it?

- Sorry, I can't, - the sergeant shook his head, - I will be judging the duel, besides, I keep the cash register - three hundred gold. So, alas... Forgive me, gentlemen! - Drankon rose from his chair, - it's time for me to provide the duel. Enjoy the show!

"Thank you, Drancon," shouted one of the lieutenants, stuffing his cheeks with a bunch of grapes and a flatbread as if he had been starving for a whole week. "We're waiting!"

Drancon walked quickly away from the table with the officers and walked towards the crowd of fighters standing near the fighting area, a hundred paces from the commanders.

The swordsman who had started the duel stood with a bag in his hands, talking to Sergeant Dufar, the commander of the first company of swordsmen, next to Arnot, with a similar bag, into which the fighters threw their hard-earned gold.

Finally, the last coin jingled as it was swallowed by the neck of the bag, and the boy carefully tied the heavy purse.

- That's it! It's done! I counted - everyone's put in. One hundred and fifty gold pieces! A tidy sum! Ned, once you knock the wind out of this guy - you owe each of the boys a mug of beer, and two for me!

"Why two?" someone from the crowd shouted.

- For the experience! I don't have that kind of money, but he will! Maybe I'm upset about it!

- Chatterbox! - Dufar laughed - you'll win yet. You haven't seen our fighter, otherwise you'd wet yourself with fear. Your oaf is still asleep - what spearmen, what sleepyheads! He came - he's sleeping, he left - he's sleeping, he came again - he's sleeping again! These are the kind of soldiers you have, Drancon! Soon they'll be crawling across the parade ground, praising our company!

"It's important for a soldier to eat on time and, when he has a free minute, to sleep, otherwise he might not have to – that's what one veteran taught me," Arnot answered instructively. "Mr. Sergeant Drancon, am I right?"

- That's right - Drancon grinned - give me your money. Yes, a good jackpot - the sergeant weighed the bag in his hand - it weighs no less than a zusan. By the way, for those who don't know - you can hand over extra money for safekeeping at the regiment office. The service is free. It is not recommended to carry large sums of money with you, just as it is not recommended to leave money in plain sight in the barracks. I don't want to hang those who are tempted by other people's coins. And I will have to. If we catch you. That's it, guys, let's go. Time. Get this sleepyhead up.

- I'm not sleeping anymore - Ned smiled slightly - I'm here. Ready. How are we going to fight - in our clothes, or should we take off our shirts? I saw how the fighters fight at the festival in the village. They're naked to the waist - should I take my clothes off too?

- In the village... - the sergeant sighed - naked to the waist, yes. You can be barefoot, or in boots - it makes no difference. And there goes your opponent. Look who you're fighting.

- It's too late to refuse now! - Dufar hurriedly said - if you refuse now, all your money goes to us - it's considered a loss!

"No one is going to refuse, Mr. Sergeant," Ned said calmly, looking at the guy approaching them.

Tom was about twenty-five years old. Until he took off his uniform, there was nothing remarkable about him. He was a typical guy, long-armed, with strong, well-developed leg muscles, covered by his uniform pants, broad-shouldered. The only thing that drew attention to him was his very wide, thick wrists and hands intertwined with blue veins, large enough to break a horseshoe. Ned had the same kind, only Ned's were more bony and claw-like, thin. The guy seemed slightly, as if... stout, or something. It became clear why when he took off his uniform.

A mountain of muscles. But not flabby, like the loaders who lift heavy sacks and then, after work, pump themselves up with beer while eating fatty pork and fried eggs sizzling in lard, but knotted, elastic steel muscles, developed by special training at the limit of the body's capabilities. This guy looked like a deadly machine, like a catapult throwing stones the size of a cow at a distance of five hundred paces. Even Oydar, always so cheerful and self-confident, whistled and said dully:

- Damn it... Where do they even get such monsters? He'll beat a man into the ground up to his neck! Maybe you'll refuse? To hell with them, with the money! And what if our beloved comrades come after you - we'll fight them off somehow? He'll kill! Look at his wrists - that beast could break a horseshoe in one heartbeat!

"What will be, will be," Ned answered, and also took off his shirt.

No, he didn't impress with the power of a prize fighter, didn't amaze with the width of his chest and the swelling of his muscles - a strong guy, thin but sinewy, with large hands and broad shoulders - an ordinary developed guy of about twenty. Or maybe even younger. He seemed older because of his unsmiling and his hard, somehow piercing gaze.

Despite his not particularly impressive dimensions, the guy left a feeling of confidence, strength, and there was an aura of danger around him... he moved like an animal - carefully, sparingly, precisely. And most importantly - he was confident in himself, like an old, experienced fighter.

Drancon looked at both fighters carefully and smiled slightly - and the guy from his company is not simple, oh, not simple... And the smile on his opponent's face would soon evaporate, like rainwater on a stone under the scorching rays of the sun.

- Ready? Follow me! - Drancon commanded, and the two fighters, followed by the entire crowd of recruits, went to the place where the battle would take place.

It was a ground for hand-to-hand combat and wrestling.

The slightly loose soil was half sand and small pebbles, compacted by numerous rains and the strong legs of the boys. In front of her stood a table of officers, looking with pleasure at the soldiers, whose torsos were blown by a fresh breeze from the mountains, bringing the coolness of distant glaciers.

The edges of the white tablecloth covering the table with drinks swayed, slightly tipsy officers excitedly talked to each other, anticipating the spectacle, the fighters gathered in a semicircle around the place of the battle laughed joyfully, from behind the fence, through holes and cracks, the old-timers peeped to at least catch a glimpse of the interesting fight. They heard everything when the swordsmen came with their proposal, and they were no less interested in the fight than the recruits. Boring. Everyone here is bored. And such a duel is simply a holiday.

Drancon motioned with his hand for the fighters to come out onto the fighting ground, but the colonel waved, canceling his order and calling the sergeant to him:

- Wait! Colonel Zaid also wanted to see it, and Colonel Evore! And a few more officers... or rather, everyone who could! Wait. And one more thing, Drancon - are you going to place bets? Lieutenant Sirdon is taking the bet. How much are you going to bet, if it's not a secret? And on whom? I understand that this is a little unethical on my part, but still?

- It's okay. I'll put ten, no, twenty gold on... on... Ned! - Drancon concluded unexpectedly.

- Patriotic, no words - the colonel drawled with a grin. Don't you think that it would be... hmm... impractical? No? Well, well... you're an old warrior, there's no reason not to believe you. Hmm. Maybe we should bet on Ned too? They're taking bets on him at one to twenty. Do you have any information about him? Who is he and where is he from? What kind of fighter is he? Or is it just the instincts of an old warrior?

- Rather, it's a hunch, - Drancon smiled slightly - okay, we'll wait for the officers. I'll go and tell the soldiers, they're probably already worried.

- I don't see them worrying, - the colonel grinned, - and yours has a face like it was carved out of granite. At least one emotion would be reflected. A statue is a statue. And the other one is smiling - a cheerful killer. Do you know who he reminds me of, gentlemen? A wolfhound! I saw one like that - it seemed cheerful, happy, and then - rrrrr! And the wolf tore it to pieces! Dangerous people. Both of them. Very, very interesting! Let's raise a toast to our Drankon - he knows how to bring joy to his fellow soldiers! He just doesn't like feasts - his element is battle, war!

- To Drankon! - the officers raised their glasses and drank together for the slightly bowed sergeant.

The wait dragged on a bit, but soon a group of people appeared on the parade ground – about twenty people, coming out of the gates guarded by watchtowers. Officers from the entire military base, except for those who were supposed to be on duty.

They approached the table, greeted their fellow soldiers, and then began the wait for more tables and chairs to be brought from the officers' mess.

The soldiers quietly talked among themselves, glancing at their commanders and muttering under their breath, calling the officers the most offensive curses they knew.

Ned sat in the flower pose – as Oydar had taught him – and tried to absorb this very tsu that fighters were filled with through some holes. He never understood what holes, although Oydar had tried to explain it several times. Ned simply did not have enough data to understand. After all, his interests had been spinning in a completely different plane all his life…

He sat with his eyes closed and listened to the thoughts of those around him. From the cacophony of thought-sounds, he tried to catch the ones he needed – for example, the thoughts of the one he would soon have to fight. After several attempts, he managed to suppress the noise coming from all sides, muffle it, concentrating on the thoughts of his opponent.

- Dead guy. I'll break him in five heartbeats. A two in the solar plexus and a punch in the jaw - and he's done. Or maybe I should play with him? Look at how many people have gathered! I'll be the hero of this year! Maybe they'll give me a sergeant? They'll pay more, and they won't make you climb into hell so much. However, it would be better to stay at the base and run the canteen. It's always safer to be closer to the food. And why is he smiling like that? What an idiotic smile! You redneck! You'll smile at me! You'll be the fifth one I've killed. In the arena. Well - sorry, boy. That's life. Some hit, some die. If you make it look nice, everyone will be happy. Oh, I wish I were lying on clean sheets with Elra now... What the hell did her husband come home for so early? Why did he start fighting me? Demonism... I shouldn't have hit him. It would have been better if he had hit me – there would have been no loss. What is his pathetic poke to me? See how bad it turned out. Five years now with these idiots, five long years! Okay, Hart, stop crying! Being a corpse is much more disgusting than beating up a country boy for the officers' amusement. And here, at the base, I can get a job, if I think. I'm a smart guy, strong – I'll get through here too. Well, finally, they're coming... I wonder – is there a brothel in this town? With a hundred and fifty coins I can have a good time with the girls! Why is that idiot smiling like that?

Ned smiled one last time and rose to his feet, following Drankon's gesture. He was fresh, his body was rested and sated, and every corner of him was sending signals to his brain - I am ready! Master, I will do whatever you demand!

And Ned stepped into the middle of the fighting area, to the delighted howls of the crowd and the applause of the officers.

Ned himself did not know why he had gotten involved in this business. Why did he need this fight, why did he need this money... He did not know the value of money - copper or gold - it was all the same to him. He was indifferent to his salary. If a man has never paid for a single thing in a shop in his entire life - how can he understand the value of money? Well, yes, nice little circles, ringing and beautiful. A man is beaten on them. So what? What can he do with them? What does he need them for? Here they feed him, give him clothes, shelter, do not make him work harder than he was used to doing at home. Everything according to schedule, everything on the stroke of the bell - in comparison with his previous life - the palace of the gods!

Ambitions? What ambitions could he have? He, lower than the lowest, dirt under people's feet - what ambitions does he have? Do his comrades rely on him? Is he afraid that they will be offended by him and will not respect him? He lived for seventeen years in a state of war with the whole world! The whole world was constantly trying to offend him, insult him, hurt him - can he be afraid of his comrades' disrespect?

Then why did he need all this? He himself did not know. Something inside him was pushing Ned forward. Pushing him to do things that he personally, on his own, would never do. Something dark, strong, squeezing his will into a fist, was forcing him: "Go! Go! Punish this idiot! Show how strong you are! Make the crowd howl with delight, so that they carry you in their arms! Isn't this the way of a man? Isn't it right? Be calm – you are strong. You are the strongest! No one can resist you! Don't be afraid of anything, give free rein to your subconscious, and everything will be fine!"

And Ned wasn't afraid. He was in a strange state of elation and calm at the same time, as if he were going out not to a mortal fight, but to a merry game, like the ones he had seen on the youth playground in the village - round dances, dances, "streams". In his soul there was a certainty that everything would be just wonderful, and he could not separate his own, unfulfilled thoughts from the strange, new ones that were not inherent to him.

Ned's opponent began his warm-up - he was bending, waving his arms, jumping, delivering instant crushing blows to the air, looking sideways at Ned - did he see how terrible he was? Had the cruel fear awakened in him, gnawing at his insides and depriving him of his will? And he was convinced, to his displeasure - it had not awakened. He grinned like a suifari flower. A stupid guy...

Ned stood there for a second, watching his opponent's manipulations, then suddenly began to slowly make circular movements, bending so that his joints and vertebrae cracked. His hands moved of their own accord, building figures in the air so bizarre and exotic that everyone around him fell silent - what was this guy doing? Even his opponent froze, his mouth open in surprise - what a performance!

Oydar, standing next to Arnot, squeaked and squeezed his friend's hand painfully, his eyes fixed on Ned, who was shimmering in the air like a flexible blade of grass in a stormy wind.

"What is he doing?" Arnot asked quietly, his lips curling in confusion. "Why is that?"

- What is he doing? - Oydar repeated in a strangled voice - he, he... the beast! He refused to teach me! He is a master of shantso! He pumps the energy of tsu into himself with special exercises, like a pump! I feel the energy hitting him - can't you feel the movement of subtle matter? Don't you get goosebumps? I will never forgive him. For refusing me! Pig! Snake! I dreamed, dreamed all my life of finding a teacher of shantso, and here - a country boy, a oaf - is a master of shantso?! And he refuses to teach me?! I want to cry... I feel so small, so humiliated... such a gray mouse...

- You're so high! Have you been smoking maze? - Arnot's eyes widened in bewilderment. - All I see and feel is Ned writhing like a snake and waving his arms like a windmill, and you're looking at him, sweating so much that you stink like a goat! What's so strange about that?

- You're a fool... - Oydar said regretfully - look what's going to happen now! I don't envy that guy!

A wave of Power washed over Ned. He felt like a stuffed sack, bursting at the seams, saturated with power, bursting with it like a bottle of sparkling, fizzy wine. His hearing, his sight, all his senses were heightened, and he saw far, far away, on the ridge of the headquarters building, a small bird holding a grasshopper in its beak, the legs of which hung down on either side of its thin beak.

He heard subtle whispers in the crowd of guys: "What is he doing? Look, look what he's doing!"

I heard the quiet voices of the officers, admiring what was happening and getting dressed up about the bets - one of them, during the "performance", immediately placed a bet on Ned, fascinated by the movements he made.

I felt the subtle smells coming from the heated, dusty earth, and the smells brought by the wind from the mountains - the smells of mountain meadows, melting snow and eternal, gray glaciers.

He was different, and it seemed like forever. The thought struck him in the heart, so that Ned shuddered, realizing the truth, and tried to resist it in fear...for which he almost paid.

The enemy struck instantly, aiming for Ned's jaw, determined to finish off the strange guy in a split second - who knows what to expect from this freak? A good fighter will not play with his victim. He knows that no matter how strong he is, there are always too many surprises in the world that can lead to defeat, accidents from which no one is insured. And the best way to victory is the shortest - a straight punch to the jaw, crushing it into small pieces.

He missed. The crazy guy deflected the blow with a slight movement of his hand, letting it pass so far from his cheek that it was blown by the wind from the fist flying past. From the side it looked as if Ned lazily raised his left hand and waved away his opponent as if he were an annoying fly – with a bored expression on his face and eyes looking vaguely into the distance.

The crowd began to make noise, shout, and the fighter became furious, turning red like a feshang fruit. But he immediately pulled himself together, realizing that everything was not so simple, and he needed to be extremely careful.

A series of three punches aimed at the opponent's liver and head also ended in nothing - the guy somehow turned around, lightly touched the fighter's hands, and they just senselessly flailed in the air. It was reminiscent of a strange dance in which the prize fighter played the comic role of a clown fussing around a positive hero, who comically easily repelled the blows of a stupid and awkward character.

The blows whistled one after another, the fighter increased the speed to the maximum limit, and beyond - but his opponent stood as if bewitched, paying no more attention to him than a bull chasing away an annoying gadfly with its tail. And the most interesting thing - Ned had not yet struck a single blow! A minute had passed since the start of the fight, no less, dozens of blows whistled through the air, but not a single blow reached the target and not a single blow followed in response.

Ned was in a daze. He watched from his eye sockets, as if from windows open after a dark night. This was not happening to him.

The one who was sitting in it enjoyed what was happening. He played with the guy, watching how the opponent blushed, turned pale, breathed heavily and became enraged by such mockery.

Ned wanted to finish the duel as soon as possible; he was not pleased with such increased attention to his modest person, but the one inside him did not allow him to do this.

A strange thought flashed through my head: "Don't rush. Remember the terms of the agreement. According to them, you have to stand for a thousand heartbeats. If you put him down now, they might find fault and give you only one gold piece. But you have to get EVERYTHING! When the time is up, you will kill him."

"But I don't want to kill him!" Ned thought, and immediately received the answer: "You must kill him. You must! He said nasty things about you, he thought nasty things about you, and besides, he WANTED to kill you! Isn't that enough? Doesn't the one who wants to kill you deserve to die? He only wanted to kill you because it would be more profitable to end the fight, so that everyone would see what a great fighter he was and give him a good position so that he could live better than others. Doesn't THAT deserve punishment? Death? You must kill him, and in such a way that the others will shudder with horror! So that they will know – you are not to be trifled with! So that no one will dare to hurt you again, never! Never! Never! If you really can't stand it, knock him down a little. Just be careful, don't hurt him before the right moment…"

Hot sweat was pouring off the boy, scattering like raindrops. He was breathing heavily, giving it his all, already hating this cold, arrogant statue named Ned with all his soul.

Suddenly, when another series of blows was supposed to knock this man down, he grabbed the fighter by the arm, twisted it in an unimaginable way, and... the prize fighter, like a doll made for a village child, flew into the air and, having turned around its axis, crashed down on the platform. It was unexpected and quite painful - air flew out of the guy's chest with a hacking sound, and snot jumped out of his nostril, sticking to his lip.

For a second all the spectators were silent, and then they started shouting, making noise, and laughing:

- Snot! Hey, freak, get up, you'll choke on your snot! Hey, your snot is in the way, it's getting in your way!

The fighter jumped up from the ground in one bound. His trained, strong body surpassed itself in a furious impulse to kill, tear apart, trample the enemy! Arms, legs, flashed in the air, merging into misty ghostly shadows, and each time the fighter rushed at Ned, he flew head over heels, covered in bruises, dust and blood.

After five minutes of such wallowing, the prize fighter, who had killed five opponents in the arena, a proud, strong and mocking man, who had cherished and nurtured his ambitions, was a piece of meat covered in dirty streaks and blood.

The spectators were yelling, raging, screaming so loudly that some of the more zealous ones were foaming at the mouths, like racehorses after a long run. The officers at the table rose from their seats, whooped, knocked, forgetting about the honor of their uniforms, about the fact that they were in front of their subordinates - everyone merged in one, single impulse of the spectator, completely immersed in the spectacle.

Colonel Heverad enthusiastically squeezed the white tablecloth in his well-groomed fist, decorated with precious rings, and exhaled, saying:

- Excellent! The best fight I've ever seen!

"Enough!" - the thought flashed through Ned's head that it was time to end the game. Once again, when the staggering and sweaty fighter stepped towards him to carry out a series of powerful, but absolutely senseless blows, Ned with a fluid movement screwed himself into the space next to the enemy's body, and putting all the accumulated Strength, all the power of his young, powerful body into the blow, struck the guy with his hand in the Adam's apple, aiming at the point behind him.

The effect was astounding. The hand, like a damask sword blade, passed through the flesh of his opponent, tearing, crushing, crumbling soft tissue and hard bone. Ned felt nothing but a slap and elastic resistance, as if he had slapped a sea wave.

The man's head came off and flew up into the air, describing an arc, falling with a dull thud right in front of the officers' table. The body stood for a second, gushing from the severed veins and arteries, then softly settled on the platform, shuddering several times in a final impulse - to live! To live at all costs!

You could hear the buzzing of bees rushing about their bee business, and somewhere far away, on the mountainside, in the thickets of thorns, an unknown bird was screaming – drink-weed! Drink – weed! In the city, the bell rang, gathering people for the evening prayer to the creator god, and its priest in a thin, piercing voice began to chant mantras befitting the solemn sacrament of worship. Only on the physical training ground of the Marine Corps base, everyone was silent, frozen like marble statues.

And then - the silence exploded with shouts, screams - an excited crowd rushed towards Ned and, lifting him in their arms, carried him around the area, trampling the remains of the fighter who gave his life for the amusement of the spectators.

Ned seemed to wake up from a spell, looking in bewilderment at those who were tossing and tugging at his body, turning his head as if he saw the platform and the spectators for the first time, enthusiastically showing him signs of love and respect. The officers joined in the general celebration by clapping their hands, and Colonel Heverad took a purse with several coins from his pocket and shouted:

- An additional prize from the command! Ten gold coins! (It should be said that the colonel did not risk anything by handing over the coins. Then he used this prize as an incentive for service, issuing fifty gold coins. The total profit was forty gold coins.)

The crowd roared and carried Ned, lying on his back like a corpse, with his arms crossed over his chest, straight to the command table.

Following the colonel's example, each officer took a certain amount of money out of his pocket and put it on the table, where a decent pile of coins formed (Try not to put it when the commander did it! It would be considered disrespectful. It could harm your career.).

Sergeant Drancon carefully poured them into a bag of money intended for payment to the winner and stepped aside, watching Ned being honored. Then, when he was released, he went up to the boy and handed him the bag, saying dryly:

- It was interesting. But was it worth killing the guy? This isn't a real fight with the enemy, it's just a competition! Why did you do that? I didn't expect that from you...

- Oh, come on, Drancon! - Colonel Heverad, who had come up from the side, chuckled cheerfully. - This fight will be talked about in every unit of the royal army! These are the kind of fighters we are training! Let the enemy be afraid! He took the guy's head and tore it off with his bare hands! Well done! Here's a ready-made corporal for you, Sergeant! You haven't appointed any corporals yet, have you? No? Here's a ready-made one for you! I'll order the order to be prepared today! Now, lad, you will receive one and a half gold pieces a week, instead of one gold piece! It would be more that way, but you have little service, and you haven't participated in combat. Are you literate? No? The sergeant is an omission. Teach him to read and write. We'll train him to be an officer! He will make a great sergeant!

- Hardly - Drancon answered just as dryly - the officer's task is to ensure that the command's task is accomplished and the soldiers are saved as much as possible. There is nothing in the officer's tasks about the senseless killing of his soldiers.

- Stop it, you're like a virgin - murder, murder! Better order the first company to fulfill the terms of the agreement - let them crawl across the parade ground on all fours, and we'll watch! Gentlemen! - the colonel shouted to his fellow soldiers - now there will be a most curious spectacle! Fill the glasses, it will be impossible to watch this without laughing!