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Paplo awoke to the clamor of a bloodthirsty public, the banging of their wooden tankards against the caged pit, and the spit flying out their rabid maws. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and they made that clear to the fighter on the opposite side of the pit; the thin man Paplo had tried to unsuccessfully seduce. Paplo’s head ached greatly, pounding as harsh as the figurative battle drums that fueled his public. His body felt on fire, and even after confirming this illusion as a mistake, he still patted his torso in search of embers. As he blinked and stood up, the fighter opposite him tossed his shirt of out the cage, revealing an unimpressive skeletal physique, yet his confidence was astonishing. Paplo knew he was in trouble.
“I mean you no har—“ Paplo’s words were interrupted by a quick jab delivered by a trained fighter. The otherwise simplistic hit broke his nose and sent him back down into the bloodstained ground. His blood pooled out into his mouth. Meanwhile, the public’s rage was only fueled further; they wanted this. Paplo tried to recover, but he no longer faced the fighter for he stood no chance. Now, he looked towards the men yelling from the other side of the cage, and tried to reach for them, to grab them and tell them to help him, that he didn’t want to hurt anyone, that he was simply hungry, that his life was in danger. All he received in return for his unspoken and unheard pleas was a shove back into the ring, and perhaps the notion that mortal men were cruel creatures.
Paplo had also made the mistake to give his back to his opponent, who now gripped him by the hairs and tugged with extreme force, dragging him back down onto the floor for the third time in the evening. There, a harsh punt onto Paplo’s kidney made the teacher squirm to his side, and a kick to his stomach emptied his lungs. It was in this moment, while the other fighter boasted about the death he was to bring to his defeated opponent, when Paplo considered simply unleashing his organism’s potential. The possibility was there, always, and he’d repair any damage done to his body in a matter of thrills. He could kill them all for what they tried to do to him, for being so uncaring to him.
However, he refused it. It took all his mental strength, as little as it was, to not do so. The cage was the reason for this logic; he was locked, just like when Vuda’s men had locked him on those two occasions. Nobody could know about him, and if he wasn’t certain about his ability to eliminate the witnesses, then he’d never make the same mistake again. The decision was, in its own way, an advancement of Paplo’s own discipline, a step towards maturity, and, hopefully, towards longevity.
It took even more willpower to resist the decision, for the boasting of his opinion had ended, and the fighter came to end it all. He flipped the Mortalborn on its back, and after straddling him, he grabbed his hairs with one hand as the other clenched into a fist. That fist slammed against the pale and bloody face of the powerless man, again and again, with the same force as a hammer against an anvil. This thin man had truly rocked Paplo’s world, even if the context was entirely different.
Paplo’s limbs flayed like fishes out of water; trying to reach for something that wasn’t there, perhaps, or simply a reflex action as his nervous system was slowly shattering within him. He felt no pain anymore, as his body shut down all those receptors for his own safety. Even with all the chaos around him, Paplo only thought about his hunger, as if the fist that spites his face had sent him into a state of meditation. His hunger made him strong, stronger than those around him. It made him overcome many burdens, and it made him survive despite leaving him empty otherwise. However, in times like these, it made him weak, and no matter how much he ate, he starved. If he could get rid of said hunger sometimes, then maybe he could be even stronger. And as he thought it, it happened.
His hunger was no more.
1st of Ashan, 716
3rd Break
3rd Break
Paplo awoke to the clamor of a bloodthirsty public, the banging of their wooden tankards against the caged pit, and the spit flying out their rabid maws. Everyone wanted a piece of him, and they made that clear to the fighter on the opposite side of the pit; the thin man Paplo had tried to unsuccessfully seduce. Paplo’s head ached greatly, pounding as harsh as the figurative battle drums that fueled his public. His body felt on fire, and even after confirming this illusion as a mistake, he still patted his torso in search of embers. As he blinked and stood up, the fighter opposite him tossed his shirt of out the cage, revealing an unimpressive skeletal physique, yet his confidence was astonishing. Paplo knew he was in trouble.
“I mean you no har—“ Paplo’s words were interrupted by a quick jab delivered by a trained fighter. The otherwise simplistic hit broke his nose and sent him back down into the bloodstained ground. His blood pooled out into his mouth. Meanwhile, the public’s rage was only fueled further; they wanted this. Paplo tried to recover, but he no longer faced the fighter for he stood no chance. Now, he looked towards the men yelling from the other side of the cage, and tried to reach for them, to grab them and tell them to help him, that he didn’t want to hurt anyone, that he was simply hungry, that his life was in danger. All he received in return for his unspoken and unheard pleas was a shove back into the ring, and perhaps the notion that mortal men were cruel creatures.
Paplo had also made the mistake to give his back to his opponent, who now gripped him by the hairs and tugged with extreme force, dragging him back down onto the floor for the third time in the evening. There, a harsh punt onto Paplo’s kidney made the teacher squirm to his side, and a kick to his stomach emptied his lungs. It was in this moment, while the other fighter boasted about the death he was to bring to his defeated opponent, when Paplo considered simply unleashing his organism’s potential. The possibility was there, always, and he’d repair any damage done to his body in a matter of thrills. He could kill them all for what they tried to do to him, for being so uncaring to him.
However, he refused it. It took all his mental strength, as little as it was, to not do so. The cage was the reason for this logic; he was locked, just like when Vuda’s men had locked him on those two occasions. Nobody could know about him, and if he wasn’t certain about his ability to eliminate the witnesses, then he’d never make the same mistake again. The decision was, in its own way, an advancement of Paplo’s own discipline, a step towards maturity, and, hopefully, towards longevity.
It took even more willpower to resist the decision, for the boasting of his opinion had ended, and the fighter came to end it all. He flipped the Mortalborn on its back, and after straddling him, he grabbed his hairs with one hand as the other clenched into a fist. That fist slammed against the pale and bloody face of the powerless man, again and again, with the same force as a hammer against an anvil. This thin man had truly rocked Paplo’s world, even if the context was entirely different.
Paplo’s limbs flayed like fishes out of water; trying to reach for something that wasn’t there, perhaps, or simply a reflex action as his nervous system was slowly shattering within him. He felt no pain anymore, as his body shut down all those receptors for his own safety. Even with all the chaos around him, Paplo only thought about his hunger, as if the fist that spites his face had sent him into a state of meditation. His hunger made him strong, stronger than those around him. It made him overcome many burdens, and it made him survive despite leaving him empty otherwise. However, in times like these, it made him weak, and no matter how much he ate, he starved. If he could get rid of said hunger sometimes, then maybe he could be even stronger. And as he thought it, it happened.
His hunger was no more.
