Chapter 232
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Chapter 232: Sinner Ganis
Ganis strode onto the stage of the arena, empty-handed, his laughter ringing out as he waved to the crowd. The audience erupted in cheers, their voices following his every motion like a tide.
“I am your champion!”
“I am the ‘Fist of Duel’!”
Facing him were ten opponents—men and women alike—each gripping various cold weapons. Their expressions were conflicted, their bodies marked with black tattoos that hinted at their origins. They were sinners, captured in the wilds, likely caught attempting illegal border crossings.
Ordinarily, such captives would be sent to the abattoir, a place where only the strongest survived. Ganis had emerged from such a place—a legend, now known as “Fist of Duel.”
The rules were simple. The host, dressed in savage garb, bellowed:
“No extraordinary powers allowed! Physical strength is fair game, of course!”
Leaning into the arms of a girl, the host let out a final roar:
“Anything else is permissible!”
The crowd surged with excitement, their frenzied energy feeding the spectacle. Ganis stepped forward, a grin stretched across his face, taunting the sinners before him.
“Come on! Let’s fight!”
He spoke in the sinners’ language, his words striking a chord in one of the men. The burly figure frowned and asked, “Why do you, one of the Persecuted, serve the city dwellers? Why entertain them? Do you not long for freedom?”
Ganis’ grin faltered for a moment. His voice was low but resolute. “I have my reasons. In this place, my fists are all I can rely on. If I don’t want to die, I must keep fighting.”
Then, with a booming laugh, he raised his voice, calling to his opponents:
“Fight! Put on a show for them! At least this way, you stand a chance to survive!”
The sinners exchanged uncertain glances before charging, weapons drawn.
But Ganis was no ordinary man. Though prohibited from using extraordinary powers, his physical prowess was unmatched. His fists smashed through steel as though it were paper. When spears pierced his flesh, the wounds bled only lightly.
He moved with ruthless precision—breaking bones, crushing organs. One by one, his opponents fell, blood pooling beneath their lifeless forms. By the time Ganis had dispatched half of them, the remaining sinners hesitated, their fear palpable.
“This isn’t a duel,” one muttered. “This is an execution!”
And indeed, it was. Ganis, an awakened being, was leagues beyond them. His strength was enough to overpower thousands.
To mock the notion of fairness, Ganis tore a strip of black cloth from a corpse and tied it around his own hands. Then, with closed eyes, he surged forward, slamming into two more men with brutal speed.
The crowd roared in delight. To them, Ganis was more than a fighter; he was an entertainer, a performer who elevated slaughter into spectacle. They adored his audacious antics—once, he had killed an opponent with just one finger.
“Fist of Duel! Fist of Duel!” they chanted, their fervor unrelenting as the last sinner fell. Only a few terrified women remained, paralyzed with fear.
“Hahaha! It’s over!” Ganis declared, raising his fists triumphantly. “I am your champion! Fist of Duel!”
The host seized the moment, shouting into the chaos:
“Life or death adjudication, commence! Let the audience decide the sinners’ fates—mercy or cruelty! The power of judgment is yours!”
The survivors were displayed on the leaderboard, and the audience eagerly cast their votes.
After leaving the arena, Ganis’ exuberant facade dissolved into weariness. He walked to a makeshift bathroom, washing away the blood with cold water. Then, overcome, he began to vomit violently, purging not just the contents of his stomach but the weight of his performance.
Returning to his sparse room, Ganis found an older man waiting. Dressed in an extravagant red suit, with golden scales on his skin and serpent-like eyes, the man exuded an aura of authority. A cigar smoldered between his fingers.
It was Keno, a semi-dragon being of Rank Five and an agent of the Church in Annottales’ Seventh District.
“Ah, Ganis, my champion,” Keno drawled. “You requested an audience with me?”
Ganis took a deep breath. “Yes, Mr. Keno. I wish to see my sister. Just once.”
Keno’s gaze hardened, his voice cold. “Are you out of your mind?”
He took another puff of his cigar, then continued, “Your sister is fine. We removed the markings from her skin. Soon, she’ll apply for transformation—perhaps into a vampire or dragonkin like myself. Do you want everyone to know she’s a sinner like you?”
Ganis said nothing.
Keno pressed on. “If anyone reports her past to the Church, she’ll face divine judgment. Is that what you want?”
Transformation—a forbidden privilege for sinners—was the only way to ascend the social hierarchy in the Kingdom of Dark Light. But the Savior’s divine laws left no room for such defiance.
“You’ve already earned glory and admiration,” Keno said. “What more could you want? Women? Wealth? I can arrange it all for you.”
But Ganis’ voice rose with desperation. “I don’t need any of that! I just want to see her! It’s been years!”
Keno stood, brushing ash from his cigar. “Forget about her. Rest. That’s what you need.”
He left without another word.
Alone, Ganis sat on the bed,
his body trembling. A hoarse
scream tore from his throat as
he slammed a fist into the
ground.
She was five when they last
parted. Three years had
passed since. This was his
only hope, no matter how faint.
If only we had never come to
this city, he thought bitterly.
Perhaps dying in the wilds
would have been better.
His anguish echoed through
the sinners’ quarters, reaching
ears that had never heard him
cry.
At that moment, Ganis longed
for freedom more than
anything. Even if the devil
himself demanded his soul, he
would offer it willingly—for
strength, for escape.
And then, a voice cold and
irresistible whispered in his
mind:
[You have been chosen by
destiny, Fist of Duel
