Chapter 154: The Arrival of the Reincarnation Heavenly Ascension Divine Fist

Victor followed Flen's guide through the underground passage behind the arena and entered the Fist of Fury. Even deep underground, the fervent roar of the crowd boiling on the surface could be heard.

The young man wore a calm and unruffled expression. He patted the guide's shoulder and pointed upward, gesturing to ask, "Has the fight already started?"

Flemish understood and explained, "You are the grand finale. Before you take the stage, there will be some brawls among the young men, mostly to win a maiden's heart or settle fishery boundary disputes between villages, using this stage to draw a conclusion."

"Won't there be some village that is particularly good at fighting and deliberately provokes its neighbors?"

"For such dishonorable matters, the clan chief will teach them about honor."

The underground tunnel was reinforced with stone, and torches were embedded in the walls at short intervals. There was no stagnant water on the ground.

"This arena of yours is quite nice. The environment is well-maintained."

"For that, we must thank Birna. She donated quite a few jewels to sponsor the maintenance of the Fist of Fury. She is a good queen—good in every aspect. It's just a pity that she interferes too much and nags too much!"

"Interferes too much? About what?"

Flen stroked his bearded chin. "Let's speak of this in private. Svanrige should have come to the Fist of Fury to prove himself long ago, but due to Birna's interference, he hasn't even completed the Path of Warriors!"

Just then, a gust of wind blew through, making the torches in the tunnel flicker erratically.

"She says the king's son should not risk his life or do dangerous things. Heaven knows what goes through her mind. Even the king himself used to lead us out to raid Nilfgaard year after year."

After listening to the complaints, the young man covered his mouth and suppressed a yawn. He offered no comment on the archipelago's political operational model, nor did he retain many memories of his past life.

He dimly remembered that when he first played as Geralt and arrived in Skellige, stepping ashore meant attending King Bran's funeral, after which the various clans of the islands put forward their young nephews to vie for the throne.

The main plot involved the witcher helping An Craite's siblings build their achievements, gain prestige, and place one of them upon the throne.

Almost all other details had faded from his memory, much like Master Armorer Yoana or Master Dumpling Hattori, whom he would only recall upon meeting them.

Chatting along the way, they rounded a few corners, and Victor followed Flen into the preparation room. It was clearly a space prepared specifically for his grand finale, with a spacious interior housing as many as ten inspectors.

They were there to ensure the youth carried no edged weapons or magical items. Even if he had the latter, they would mostly be useless; the entire arena was built over an anti-magic metal vein, making the spell-disruptive effect extremely prominent, so the inspection primarily focused on the former.

Curiously, there was also an unexpected person in the room: Princess Svainy of Clan Hindarsfjall.

Noticing Victor's confusion, she smiled and explained, "I am a shieldmaiden. I am qualified to come in and participate in the inspection."

Her smile was gentle and serene, while her muscles were intertwined and knotted like tree roots—a veritable "muscle Barbie," which was truly terrifying.

Nodding in greeting, Victor opened his arms to let the shieldmaidens responsible for the body search conduct the security check. The first lady approached with a radiant smile, and that familiar sense of harassment suddenly reminded him of Ves, that woman from Vizima who never buttoned her shirt.

Sure enough, this elder sister opened with a masterstroke: "Catching a turtle in a jar."

...

Inside the arena's VIP box, Svainy was absent; now there were only the An Craite siblings and Svanrige.

Hjalmar shook his head, dissatisfied with the level of combat he had just witnessed, and tilted his head to ask, "Svan, how about it? When will we see you step into the ring? Does your mother still forbid you from participating?"

"Mother believes I should not take such risks," the king's son replied calmly.

"Freya preserve us! How can this be considered a risk? No weapons, just a regular brawl, and nobody is asking you to challenge the champion of the Fist of Fury..."

"The Queen believes it is beneath my station."

"You have no damn station to speak of. Heaven knows what Birna is thinking. You are a Skelliger; we are born fighters. Not challenging the Path of Warriors and not participating in the Fist of Fury will only harm your reputation."

"She is my mother," Svanrige replied with a flat expression.

Hjalmar shook his head and turned to his sister on the other side. "If you ask me, the king leading us out to attack Nilfgaard year after year over the past few years was probably because he didn't want to stay here and listen to Birna's nagging."

He spoke in a voice loud enough for the king's son to hear as well.

Cerys blinked and ignored her brother.

Svanrige's face remained as still as water, as though he had heard nothing. No one noticed that his fists upon his knees were clenched tightly.

...

In the completely isolated final preparation room, the Dovahkiin Victor now sat alone on a stone bench at the end of the tunnel, which extended forward for about a hundred and fifty feet. Beyond an iron gate lay the arena.

The youth wore tight breeches, sturdy long boots, and a thin cloth tunic on his upper body. Beside him lay two rolls of cloth straps, intended for wrapping his hands shortly.

These were all the items that remained after he passed inspection, and when he went out to fight later, only these could be on his body.

Recalling the inspection just moments ago, the corners of Victor's mouth curved upward. Compared to Ves's lawless teasing, the shieldmaiden's performance had been subtle and gentle. The reason was easy to understand: back then he was merely "scholarly walnuts," but now he was the "Dragonborn Pearl."

Moreover, according to the fragments of information Victor had overheard, it was obvious that whoever got to pull off that little stunt had previously competed through a coin toss.

"Come!"

"Pack come!"

Responding to the call, the ripples of the void shattered, and the herbal pouch fluttered into view.

He directly withdrew the trio of Thunderbolt, Blizzard, and Tawny Owl, opened the caps, and drank them down. Afterward, he produced the Dragon Shout potion and drained it in one go.

Although lacking the arena's echo would cause the power of the Dragon Shout to plummet vertically, roaring at point-blank range would certainly be enough to give Olaf a very hard time.

Besides, he was the Dragonborn! Not letting out a Dragon Shout would be unfair to the audience. Selling a persona is far simpler than selling mere talent. Let out a roar, make it look genuine, and they would reach a climax over it.

Though not as exaggerated as in the movie *Gladiator*, if you win over the audience, you win honor; if you win honor, you win Skellige.

The iron door behind him gave two muffled thumps—the signal that it was time to take the stage. Tossing the herbal pouch into the drainage channel and picking up the two rolls of cloth from the bench, Victor began to wrap his fists.

...

Footsteps sounded. Seeing the lady enter the box, Svanrige and Cerys rose to greet her, and even the somewhat haughty Hjalmar stood up.

There was no help for it. While Hjalmar was one of the few standout heroes of the younger generation, this woman was universally acknowledged as the undisputed first war goddess of their peers. Although she had already chosen to serve Freya and withdrawn from the competition for succession, everyone needed to respect her status—and the flail she carried.

Cerys spoke first. "Well? How was it? What was your impression after going down to the basement? What was his true expression? Having seen Olaf, surely he wasn't shivering down there, was he?"

"Didn't you all arrive several days ago? Haven't you had any contact with him?" Hjalmar asked.

"We haven't had the chance to drink and chat yet. The day before yesterday, Cerys and I went out to play, and yesterday he locked himself in his room and wouldn't come out."

Nodding in return and gesturing for the three peers to sit, the quiet maiden walked over to the railing and gazed at the combat nearing its conclusion in the center of the arena.

"The feeling he gives me is quite wondrous. His attitude is very calm, very composed, as if he has absolute certainty of defeating Olaf.

"I am eagerly looking forward to his fight now. That is a prime, full-grown grizzly bear. Without weapons, even I wouldn't know what to do. I am very curious to see what he will use to win."

Just then, the voice of the arena announcer rang out:

"Ladies and gentlemen!

"Combat is our sacred tradition! The blood shed in this arena is a testament to the strength of our clans!

"The victor shall become the champion, but I must say, anyone with the courage to enter this competition is already a hero!

"Now, let us welcome today's hero, the Dragonborn from the East: Dovahkiin, Victor Corleone!"

The prelude of the vocal chorus rang out once more as the hundred-man brawny choir took the stage, offering "The Dragon Born Comes" to the gathered crowd. Amidst their song, the youth, clad in his thin garments, stepped into the circular arena.

He noticed many natural stone pillars around; perhaps he could make use of them later.

As the song gradually transitioned into the chorus, many spectators joined in singing along. The center of the plaza felt like the very center of the world, and the cheers surged and crashed like a rising tide.

Bathed in the song and basking in the cheers of the crowd, the youth raised his high hands.

"Hahaha, look at him! Anyone who didn't know would think he'd already beaten Olaf!" The speaker was Hjalmar.

The other two remained silent, save for Cerys, who retorted, "Are you jealous that he's so popular? If you had enough heroic deeds of your own, you'd receive thunderous cheers too!"

"Oh, my dear little sparrowhawk, don't provoke me. I simply haven't encountered the right opportunity yet. Sooner or later, I will prove myself worthy of Clan an Craite's honor."

...

Finally, as the singing of "The Dragon Born Comes" gradually faded...

Victor grabbed the left shoulder of his thin cloth tunic with his right hand and gave it a forceful rip—*Rip—*

The spectator stands, which had been gradually quieting down, stirred into commotion once more. The youth, now bare-chested, revealed a full-back tattoo.

It was a mythical creature, difficult to describe and never seen before by the people there, possessing the characteristics of both serpent and lizard.

"What kind of creature is that?"

"I don't know..."

"Could it be a monster from the East?"

Amidst the whispering crowd, only Angoulême knew that it was a legendary auspicious beast from Beauclair: the "Dragon."

Whenever the leader had an episode, she would emphasize more than once that one day she would get a full set tattooed across her back for everyone to see.

The young girl instantly felt much more at ease. Since even such meaningless decorative props were fully prepared, the boy surely had a way to deal with the giant beast.

The commotion in the stands gradually subsided as the hardwood door slowly swung open, followed by the arena announcer's booming shout:

"It is time! Olaf, champion of the Fist of Fury, versus Victor, the Dragon of Beauclair!"

*Bang!* The door was shoved open, and Olaf the champion lunged out into the arena.

"Hoo! Hoo! Woo-roar!" It emitted a low, angry growl.

To stoke its fighting spirit, its rations over the past two days had been cut by two-thirds, and the effect was remarkably pronounced.

Dribbling saliva, it fixed its eyes on the youth as though it meant to devour him.

Well... "as though" could be dropped. It literally meant to devour him.

Raising his cloth-wrapped fists, Victor assumed his stance.

...

*Remember! Do not engage in hand-to-hand combat with a bear!*

A bear is larger than a tiger, its whole body is packed with sinewy muscle, and even the fatal spots of ordinary beasts—such as the "back of the neck" and the "spine"—are surrounded by thick, heavy layers of fat.

If you are forced by circumstances to duel a bear, please make sure to study the "North Star Divine Fist" in advance, an ancient and mysterious Eastern assassination martial art with a history of eighteen hundred years.

Its essence lies in striking the opponent's meridian secret points, destroying their physical body from within. The most famous practitioner of the North Star Divine Fist in history is none other than that well-known individual—the Sage of Fire-Linking.

—Excerpted from *Close Combat! A Man's Greatest Passion!*, published by Minming Shobou.

...

Do not mistake Olaf for being slow and sluggish just because it was huge and hulking. In fact, the running speed of its species can reach up to fifty kilometers per hour, surpassing world record holders.

Its close-range burst of speed was even more extraordinary, but fortunately, Victor knew both himself and his enemy, preventing him from making the mistake of underestimating his foe.

Facing the charging beast...

Amidst the tense gaze of the entire audience—

He drew a deep breath.

*Fus—Ro—Dah!!!*

A thunderclap exploded out of thin air!

Tremendously loud!

It was simply not a sound a human could emit!

The entire audience was stunned by the sudden burst of the Dragon Shout! Many were frightened and tumbled over, while a few even wet themselves. Chaos and curses filled the stands, though fortunately, it was merely panic without causing actual physical injury.

In the VIP box, Ermion, having observed the preparations, knew it was mostly harmless, but still cast a protective magic barrier a step ahead of time when the youth drew his breath, isolating most of the sound.

Even so, the shock rattled Queen Birna so badly that her lovely face drained of color, while King Bran and Crach sprang to their feet simultaneously.

As for the younger generation sitting in the side box, having received a prior warning from Angoulême, Cerys and Svainy had covered their ears in time. Though shocked, they were not like Hjalmar, who had been startled right out of his seat by the sudden deafening roar and scrambled up looking rather disheveled.

Svanrige, at the far end, certainly hadn't received any warning from the girls, but he too had covered his ears in time, sitting steadily in his chair with deep, fathomless eyes as he observed the arena floor.

With spectators so far away reacting so violently, Olaf naturally could not escape unscathed at point-range.

The sound waves stimulated and vibrated its eardrums, transmitted through the ossicular chain to the inner ear, shaking the cochlea and causing damage to the spiral organ, which affected the vestibular system and induced dizziness and nystagmus—medically termed "labyrinthine concussion."

Dizziness did not mean inability to move, but it made one extremely sluggish. Seizing the opportunity, Victor unhesitatingly dashed to the side—to a position where the bear's claws could not directly strike.

Aiming for its flank, his cloth-wrapped fists hammered down like a storm of blows.

Rubbing his ears, which were still ringing slightly, Svainy watched Victor's movements with utter incomprehension.

Though his punches were indeed fast and heavy, such strikes were truly of little consequence against Olaf, especially when hammering into its thickest layer of fat—it could be said to be completely futile effort.

A dozen seconds vanished in a flash, and the chaotic audience gradually recovered, as did Olaf.

The bear's massive body spun abruptly, and with a swipe of its claw, another gasp of shock burst from the stands. The strike was perilously close, leaving three deep claw marks across Victor's chest; had he dodged even a fraction of a second slower, it would have been instant death.

Olaf reared up onto its hind legs, letting out a wild roar. Though it had just been startled by the tiny morsel of food, his attacks were entirely meaningless.

For the next few minutes, relying on the natural stone pillars of the arena, Victor played a game of cat-and-mouse, executing guerrilla tactics around Olaf while delivering heavy punches whenever the opportunity arose. Though his offensive looked fierce, this was no boxing match; points were not tallied, and there was no time limit.

"The Dragonborn hasn't used the Dragon Shout again. Perhaps there's a limit to its usage or other restrictions?" Svainy thought to herself. "He might have had a chance of winning once, but he failed to seize that opening. Dragging it out further is meaningless; death is only a matter of time."

Down in the arena itself, the chants cheering for "Dovahkiin" grew progressively fainter. Everyone could perceive Victor's decline and Olaf's overwhelming might.

Crach glanced at Ermion, shook his head, and walked over to King Bran, preparing to intercede and call an end to the match.

Yet at that very moment, the ferocious Olaf wavered, emitting a painful whimper. Few Skelligers had never hunted a bear, and in an instant, everyone realized something was wrong with the champion.

The saliva dripping from its jaws was accompanied by blood as it staggered a few steps, and its condition deteriorated with startling speed. Its once fierce and agile speed was reduced in the blink of an eye to a stumbling, death-bound limp.

Countless connoisseurs widened their eyes; they could already foresee the final outcome—the champion was about to fall.

The youth cautiously approached, delivering a series of rapid blows to its belly from the side. Confirming that the champion no longer possessed the strength to strike back, he vaulted onto the bear's back, his iron-wrapped fists hammering down mercilessly upon its skull.

Unable to hold on any longer, Olaf collapsed face-first onto the ground. Blood steadily seeped from its eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, while a lingering trace of bewilderment remained in its dark grey eyes, unable to comprehend how it had suddenly come to such an end.

That trace of bewilderment finally flickered out and died beneath Victor's relentless, unyielding blows.

...

The victor remains standing; the loser lies down.

Gazing upon the sole figure still standing in the center of the arena.

Silence filled the entire amphitheater.