22. First step towards the real power

Harsh had no intention of waiting for his enemies to act again.

They had sent an assassin, but not their best. That meant they were watching him, testing him, waiting to see what he would do. If he reacted poorly—if he cowered or showed hesitation—they would send someone better. Someone who would not fail.

He couldn't let that happen.

He had to move first.

The funeral pyre of the assassin had served its purpose. The city was talking about him now—not as a helpless noble clinging to a fragile title, but as a man who had been targeted. A man who had survived.

More importantly, the lower classes had noticed.

He had seen it in the way they watched him when he passed through the streets. Not with awe, not yet. But with curiosity. They were uncertain. They didn't know what to make of him.

That was an opportunity.

And if there was one thing Harsh knew, it was that opportunities had to be seized.

---

The slums were nothing like the palaces of the nobles.

There were no grand halls, no fragrant gardens, no delicate silks and gold-lined walls. Here, life was raw, brutal, and short.

Men fought for scraps of food. Women bartered their dignity for survival. Children learned early that kindness was a weakness, that the strong took what they wanted and the weak died forgotten.

Harsh had been here before, but not like this.

Not as someone looking for power.

The underground fighting pit was hidden beneath a crumbling warehouse, a place where the desperate and the damned gathered to watch blood spill for entertainment.

Torches lined the walls, casting flickering shadows over the crowd. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and cheap liquor.

Harsh stood at the entrance, arms crossed, watching as two brawlers beat each other to a pulp in the center of the pit. The crowd roared as one man went down hard, his face a mess of broken bone and blood.

This was not the world of nobles and politics.

This was the world of fighters. The world of survivors.

And if he wanted men who would follow him not because of his birth, but because of his strength—this was where he would find them.

A large man approached him. A brute. Tall, broad, covered in scars that told stories of past victories and defeats. His knuckles were split open, fresh from another fight.

"You don't belong here," the brute grunted, his voice deep and rough.

Harsh met his gaze without flinching. "I'm here for a fight."

Laughter erupted around them. A few men jeered. Someone threw a piece of old bread at him.

The brute, however, did not laugh.

"You think your noble blood will protect you in the pit?"

Harsh smirked. "No. My strength will."

The brute's eyes narrowed. For a moment, it seemed like he might throw a punch right there.

Then, he grunted. "Fine. Let's see if you bleed the same as the rest of us."

He turned and gestured toward the pit. "If you want respect here, you earn it with your fists."

Harsh nodded once. "Then let's begin."

---

The pit was nothing more than a circle of packed dirt, surrounded by men who had long since forgotten what it meant to fight for anything beyond survival.

His opponent was already waiting. A brute of a man, larger than Harsh, his body thick with muscle. A veteran of these fights. A killer.

Harsh rolled his shoulders. His twice-strong body would give him an advantage, but strength alone wasn't enough.

The brute lunged first. Fast. A heavy swing aimed straight for Harsh's ribs.

Harsh dodged, his enhanced speed just barely enough. The wind from the swing brushed against his side.

The crowd jeered.

The brute came again, fists like hammers.

Harsh ducked, weaving past the attacks. He couldn't afford to take too many hits—his body was stronger, but not invincible.

Then, he struck back.

His fist connected with the brute's side—a precise blow to the ribs. The man grunted but barely staggered.

Too much bulk. He needed to go higher.

The brute roared, swinging again. Harsh twisted out of the way, dropping low, and this time—he struck at the jaw.

A solid hit.

The brute stumbled.

The crowd gasped.

Harsh didn't wait. He surged forward, fists moving faster than his opponent could react. One, two, three sharp strikes.

The brute tried to raise his arms—too slow.

Harsh ended it with a brutal uppercut.

The man fell hard, dust kicking up around his massive body.

Silence.

Then—a roar of approval.

Harsh stood over his fallen opponent, breathing hard but unshaken. He had won.

He turned to face the crowd.

"I am not here to rule you," he said, his voice cutting through the noise.

Murmurs. Some confused, some intrigued.

"I am here because I know what it means to fight."

He let his words sink in. These men had been fighting all their lives, but for what? For money? For entertainment? For the amusement of those who would never dirty their own hands?

"What if you fought for something greater?"

A pause.

And then, to his surprise, the brute on the ground let out a low, painful chuckle.

"Say more, noble."

Harsh met his gaze. This was the beginning.

The first seeds of loyalty had been planted.