CHAPTER 86: CHAPTER 85. THE FIGHTING DAY

The Day, Fenclade Citadel’s Colosseum

The air around the Fenclade Colosseum in Gorhal is thick with anticipation and the scent of sweat, steel, and dust. The gathered beastmen had fallen silent. Not even the wind dared to stir as two figures faced each other in the wide stone circle: Leonhart, the Beast King, towering and broad-shouldered, his golden eyes glowing with wild hunger; and Roxanne de Borgia, the Demon of the North, calm and poised, her crimson gaze unwavering.

Both stood facing each other, no weapons. The beastman honors empty-handed battles more than those fought with weapons, and Roxanne respects this honor. The rule is clear: no magic, no weapons. Only strength, skill, and will.

The crowd fell into stunned silence as the air around Roxanne de Borgia shifted, thickening with raw power. The ground beneath her feet began to tremble, cracks spreading through the training arena as her power surged outward like a roaring tide. Her crimson eyes gleamed with otherworldly light, and her shadow stretched long and wild, swallowing the earth.

Leonhart’s breath caught in his throat, not from fear, but from the thrill that coursed through his veins. He had heard tales of her lineage, of the demon blood that mingled with her human form, but seeing it was an entirely different matter. When her horns broke through her dark hair, curling elegantly upward, and the faint shimmer of black markings crawled across her arms like living flame, the gathered beastmen could only stare, jaws slack.

"The Demon of the North..." someone whispered. The name spread like wildfire through the crowd, half in reverence, half in dread.

Roxanne stood tall, her body radiating a heat so intense that even the air wavered around her. Her once crimson eyes burned brighter, gold flickering in their depths as if two souls, two legacies, had fused within her.

Leonhart grinned, his fangs glinting under the torchlight. "Now this," he growled, rolling his shoulders, "this is worth fighting for!"

Roxanne only inclined her head, her expression unreadable. "Then don’t disappoint me." A ripple of laughter and growls stirred from the crowd, but it died the moment Leonhart moved.

He launched forward with beastlike speed, so fast that the ground cracked beneath his first step. His right fist swung in a brutal arc, aiming for Roxanne’s ribs. But she pivoted at the last instant, the air whistling past her ear, and countered with a palm strike aimed at his jaw.

Leonhart caught her wrist, twisted, and drove his knee upward. Roxanne blocked with her forearm, absorbing the impact that would’ve shattered a lesser fighter’s bones. The sound of their strikes echoed across the field, flesh against flesh, strength against strength.

Two superior alphas on the stage.

Leonhart’s attacks came in heavy bursts, a storm of muscle and instinct. Every movement is heavy, as his figure is massive, and he’s attacking through sheer power. Roxanne, in contrast, moved with precise, deliberate grace. Her every motion is measured and refined, her form that of a warrior who has mastered the rhythm of war.

The beastman king lunged again, aiming for her midsection. Roxanne stepped sideways, her heel sliding across the sand, then used his momentum to drive her elbow into his back. Leonhart snarled, twisting, his massive arm swinging back in retaliation. The blow grazed her shoulder, enough to make her stumble but not fall.

A grin flashed across Leonhart’s face. "You’re strong," he panted. "Stronger than I thought."

Roxanne straightened, brushing dirt from her jaw with the back of her hand. Her knuckles were bleeding, her breath steady. "You talk too much." Then she moved.

Her next strike is a blur—three hits in the span of a heartbeat. A jab to his ribs, a hook to his jaw, then a sharp knee to his abdomen. Leonhart staggered but didn’t yield. He roared, catching her arm, and threw her bodily across the arena. She rolled twice, sand flying, before landing on her feet again, her crimson eyes blazing.

The crowd erupted, howling in excitement.

Leonhart charged again, both fists hammering downward. Roxanne crossed her arms, blocking the hit with a grunt. The ground beneath her cracked from the force. Before he could pull back, she slammed her head forward into his chest, forcing him to step back.

Their rhythm became primal, a test of endurance and will. Each blow carried intent; each block, survival. Minutes turned into half an hour, then into an hour.

Sweat slicked their skin, and blood streaked their arms. Roxanne’s lip was split; Leonhart’s right eye was swelling. Both bore bruises blooming across their bodies like war marks. Yet while Leonhart’s breathing grew heavy and uneven, Roxanne’s chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm, controlled, calm, and unbroken.

He noticed.

"You’re... still steady," he rasped, wiping blood from his mouth. "What are you made of, woman?"

Roxanne tilted her head, a faint smile ghosting her lips. "Discipline."

He laughed, even as his legs trembled. "You’ll need more than that to beat me!"

He lunged again, his left hook colliding with her shoulder. The impact sent her spinning, but before he could follow through, she ducked under his arm, grabbed his wrist, and twisted it behind his back. Her knee slammed into his spine, forcing a grunt from him. Leonhart spun out, his elbow clipping her ribs, and they broke apart again, both panting, both bleeding.

Dust swirled around them, kicked up by the force of their movements.

Leonhart’s instincts screamed at him to finish it, to end this fight with one final blow. He roared, the beast within him clawing to surface, he planted his foot hard, then sprang forward, both arms swinging in a double strike. Roxanne met him halfway.

Their fists collided in midair—a sound like thunder cracked across the arena. The shockwave rippled through the watching crowd, knocking sand and debris into the air. For a moment, both stood locked in place, muscles trembling, teeth bared. Leonhart’s eyes burned gold. Roxanne’s flared red.

Then she exhaled. A slow, steady breath.

She shifted her weight, using his own power against him, and slipped under his guard. Her elbow struck his ribs, her heel slammed into his thigh, and before he could recover, her palm snapped upward, catching his chin with a brutal, perfect strike. His head whipped back.

Leonhart staggered, disoriented. Roxanne didn’t stop. She stepped in close, her movements fluid and merciless, a combination of raw force and precise control. A jab to his abdomen. A spin, her leg sweeping his knees out from under him. He fell, hitting the ground with a thunderous thud that shook the stones beneath them.

The beastman king tried to rise, his arms trembling beneath him. But before he could, Roxanne is already there, one knee pressed to his chest, her fist hovering an inch from his throat.

"Submit." She said, cold. The silence that followed was deafening.

Leonhart blinked up at her through the haze of pain and exhaustion. Then, slowly, he smiled, a deep, wild grin of pure respect. "Ha... ha..." He laughed weakly, coughing out blood. "Damn... you really are one of a kind. I, Leonhart Fenclade, the beast king, submit to you, Roxanne de Borgia."

Roxanne lowered her hand, standing. She offered him her other hand instead. "Get up, Beast King."

He took it. Her grip is firm, pulling him to his feet. Around them, the arena exploded in cheers and howls, thousands of beastmen bowing their heads in acknowledgment.

Leonhart raised Roxanne’s hand, still laughing hoarsely. "The North’s Demon has teeth," he shouted, his voice echoing. "And she’s earned the right to command!" Roxanne simply stood, her breath calm, her gaze steady as ever. Bruised, bloodied, and unyielding.

The fight is over. The victor is clear.

And from that moment on, every beastman in Gorhal knew—Roxanne de Borgia isn’t just a ruler of the North. She’s the Alpha above all.