Performance

Richard unfastened the buckle and tossed the longsword aside together with its belt. Then he took off his boots and stood barefoot on the cold, smooth volcanic rock floor.

The two backed away from each other until they were two or three steps apart. Then they bent down simultaneously and lunged at one another.

Judging by their builds alone, it looked like a contest between a cheetah and a tiger. Any expert could see at a glance that the enormous difference in their weight had already decided this would be a one-sided battle.

Their four arms locked together. Gunther's arms bulged with solid muscle as he prepared to show this Pompeian what wrestling truly meant. Then he suddenly felt the left side of his body give way, and he toppled helplessly to the ground.

Big Wart covered his eyes. Hearing only the sound of flesh hitting the ground, he could not bear to look at the gruesome scene in the arena. It was probably no different from a ripe red persimmon being smashed on a chopping board. What a waste of the freshly scrubbed floor.

No matter what, a noble had died. Those damned people from Noble's Estate would certainly demand accountability. Lord Sauron might not protect him, so his property and land had to be transferred as quickly as possible to...

"Look! Sir won!" A servant beside him tugged at his sleeve and shouted in disbelief.

Sigh, so he really died, huh? I told you not to fight that barbarian... Wait, he won? He won! He really won! How was that possible?! Ahhh!

Big Wart and the servant embraced each other and cheered loudly.

Gunther's face turned frighteningly grim. With a flip, he climbed back to his feet.

He was a warrior who had emerged from the perilous snow mountains. Countless brushes with life and death had long taught him composure. No matter how weak an enemy appeared, facing them seriously was the only choice for a Snow Mountain Warrior. Just as a lion would still give its all when hunting a tiny rabbit.

He knew he had not underestimated his opponent. Even if Richard looked thin and small, even if Gunther's arms were thicker than Richard's thighs. Yet precisely because of that, he understood even less why he had been thrown.

The only theoretical explanation was that this Pompeian might truly be a Master-level Expert. He must have possessed a profound understanding of force and balance, using his strength with such skill that Gunther had lost his footing.

Like a thousand-pound boulder balanced at just the right point, it could be toppled by the lightest push of a little finger. Human movement was not as rigid as a rock, but it was indeed constrained by similar principles.

To apply such a technique, one that existed only in theory, to actual combat represented an awe-inspiring pinnacle of mastery. Gunther knew he was far from that level. But in a wrestling match, technique had its limits. Strength and weight were the true hard currency.

And when it came to strength and weight—Gunther looked at Richard's slight figure and smiled silently. Master, the gap between us in strength is as vast as the gap between our realms.

"Again!" Gunther's eyes were as sharp as a hawk's.

"Hey, you barbarian! You still refuse to admit defeat?" Big Wart was so anxious he was nearly fainting, yet he forced out a line in the style of Far East opera.

Although he had no idea how Richard had won just now, in his eyes, a win was a win. Anyone who fought that barbarian again had to have a hole in their head.

"Then let's go again." Richard crooked a finger at him.

Even after one round of wrestling, his gaze remained calm and his breathing steady. Clearly, he did not take his opponent seriously at all.

Gunther was no fool. Or rather, every Snow Bear Hunter was a ruthless figure blessed with both wisdom and valor. He played a small trick: the moment they began, he firmly braced Richard's arms and dragged the contest into a pure test of strength.

There was nothing wrong with that plan, and it did initially achieved his intended goal. But once they began to strain against each other, Gunther suddenly felt as though he was not gripping arms, but two solid bronze statues!

Good heavens!

Gunther exerted every ounce of strength, veins like earthworms bursting across his muscles! His extraordinarily powerful body unleashed force enough to tear tigers and leopards apart barehanded! Yet he clearly felt himself being lifted inch by inch by his opponent!

Bang! A graceful backward throw.

Lying on the cold ground once more, Gunther finally understood one fact—his defeat had nothing to do with supreme technique or lofty realms of mastery. It was simply because the strength he had always been proudest of had been utterly overwhelmed by his opponent!

Yes, it sounded unbelievable, but it was the truth. Gunther, Snow Bear Hunter, pride of the icy plains, the strongest Highlander, had been defeated by a short Pompeian.

The Highland Barbarians' worship of strength ran deep in their bones. Since this Pompeian was more valiant than the Snow Bear Hunter, he was qualified to become a leader the others would follow.

Gunther climbed to his feet, his mind already made up. He opened his mouth, but the heavy blow to his back left him unable to speak for the moment.

"Hahaha, you're a true man!" Richard threw back his head and laughed three times. "Since you refuse to admit defeat, then let's go again!"

Side throw! Shoulder throw! Arching back throw!

Dull impacts of bodies striking the ground began to ring out continuously through the arena, making the floor tremble slightly. The watching servants stood frozen like statues, their tools slipping from their hands and clattering all over the ground.

"H-Hercules..." Big Wart stared blankly at the scene, both hands trembling uncontrollably.

He had witnessed how valiant that little giant of a fighter was. He was no mere showpiece. Yet before that relatively slight figure, he was being tossed around like a rag pillow, less capable of resistance than a wooden target.

Gunther found Richard's performance inconceivable, never realizing that Richard himself was equally astonished.

Based on his experience in the fighting arenas of the Southern Province, ordinary warriors would understand after taking two hard hits that they were merely pitiful mantises trying to stop a carriage. They would obediently concede defeat and give up.

Even those knights with lengthy titles and lofty status, who shouted that honor was their life, were actually quite practical. At most, they would say a few grand words before surrendering.

Compared with them, barbarians were truly terrifyingly tough. After being beaten helplessly for a quarter of an hour without any ability to fight back, Gunther still showed no sign of surrendering. He was still struggling to rise from the ground again and again.

What gave you such fighting spirit? Wrestling was exhausting work, especially when throwing a little giant more than two blades tall. Richard could not help breathing slightly harder.

Was it the howling north wind across the snowfields, or the endless fighting of the hunt? Was it a lofty sense of responsibility toward your people, or the eternally burning, surging heart of a warrior?

He had long regarded these barbarians as future subordinates, so he had always held back. Now, however, he could not help wondering if he ought to teach them a lesson.

"Enough!" At last, one of the watching barbarians could no longer bear it and leaped out to stop him. "You tyrant! He surrendered long ago!"

The heavy body crashed down for the final time. Gunther struggled to turn over and lay spread-eagled on the ground. This time, he truly could not get back up.