The journey of the Spirit Word Merchant Group from the forest camp to the nearest city took two full days. Du Duan Shao—who continued to introduce himself as Clun Versalk—walked beside the last cart, along with the mercenaries. Throughout the journey, he maintained a polite distance, spoke only when necessary, and fulfilled his night watch shifts without complaint. His survival skills and knowledge of the terrain, which appeared instinctively, further solidified the impression that he was indeed a trained traveler, though his background remained vague.
On the afternoon of the second day, the city walls of Kuloyn finally appeared in the distance. The five-meter-high stone walls surrounded a bustling settlement. The main gate, guarded by two city officials in leather armor and spears, stood wide open for trade traffic. Narken, the mercenary leader, stepped forward to deal with the guards, showing travel passes and documents from Duke Soulus. After a brief inspection and payment of a few copper coins as an entry tax, the caravan was allowed entry.
Inside the city's main market, in front of the trading office of Spirit Word's partner, Eriene Soulus descended from her cart. She approached Narken and paid the mercenaries' wages as agreed—a small pouch containing silver and copper coins. Then, she turned towards Clun Versalk. "Our journey ends here, Sir Versalk. Thank you for your help guarding along the way. May your path be smooth." Her words were formal and cold, yet not hostile. She then turned and entered the trading office, followed by the cart drivers who began unloading the goods.
Du Duan Shao stood alone at the edge of the crowded market. Crowds of people passed by around him, speaking in the language he now understood easily yet still felt strange in his mind. Merchants shouted offering their wares, children ran between people's legs, and the scents of spices, roasted meat, and animal dung mixed into one. He felt detached. Where should he go? This world was not his. His goal was unclear. His last memory as Du Duan Shao was fainting in his apartment after hearing strange voices. Now he was in the body of Clun Versalk, in an unfamiliar medieval city. There was a deep sense of emptiness and disorientation.
Hunger began to gnaw at his stomach. The feeling was real and urgent, diverting his thoughts momentarily from existential confusion. He hadn't eaten since morning, only chewing a piece of dried meat given by Marik during the journey. His stomach growled.
Reflexively, his right hand felt the pocket of his coat. His fingers touched several cold metal coins. He took them out. In his palm were three metal coins: one plain silver coin with a crown on one side and a sword on the other, and two copper coins with a profile of a king's face. Their value, based on knowledge that surfaced in his head, was 1 Silver and 2 Coppers. The money owned by Clun Versalk, or more precisely, his current self.
He walked towards a bread stall at the edge of the market. A middle-aged woman with a dusty apron stood behind a wooden table filled with bread of various sizes. "Fresh wheat bread, two copper coins each," she said expressionlessly. Du Duan Shao nodded, taking one round, brownish loaf. He gave his silver coin. The woman frowned, then opened a small money box at her waist, taking out several copper and copper-bit coins as change: twenty-two copper coins and twenty-four copper-bits. He put the bread into a small cloth bag given by the woman, then stored his change.
While biting into the dense, somewhat hard bread, his eyes scanned the streets. He saw a two-story building with a wooden sign depicting a cut beer mug. A low, noisy sound and simple accordion music came from inside. A bar. Such a place was usually a source of information, or at least a place to spend time while planning the next move. He walked towards the building.
He pushed open the bar's heavy wooden door. The sounds of conversation, laughter, and music grew louder. The interior was dark, filled with tobacco smoke and fireplace fumes. Rough wooden tables were occupied by workers, sailors, and seemingly rowdy individuals. Du Duan Shao stepped inside, looking for a seat in a corner. As he headed towards an empty table near the back wall, his eyes caught a low steel door guarded by a large, heavily tattooed man. A waiter carrying a drink tray approached the door; the large man opened it briefly, and from inside came loud cheers and the sound of collisions. A flash of bright light and the smell of sweat and blood were briefly detectable. That was not a beer storage room. It was a door leading to an underground fighting arena.
Du Duan Shao paused for a moment. In his previous life as Du Duan Shao, he was no stranger to such illegal places. In a world where strange talents existed, underground fights were often a means to earn quick money or settle disputes. Such places always came with betting. And right now, money was something he needed. With the money he had left, there might be a chance to double it. Or at least, he could observe and understand the dynamics of this new world.
With a quick decision, he left his empty table and walked towards the steel door. The guard glared at him, narrow eyes full of appraisal. "Five coppers to enter," the man mumbled in a hoarse voice.
Du Duan Shao took out five copper coins from his pocket, handing them over. The guard counted them with a glance, then pushed the steel door open. Loud cheers and a pungent smell immediately hit him.
The room behind the door was larger than he expected. A basement with a low ceiling, filled with about fifty people standing around a raised square wooden ring. Two bare-chested men, wearing only leather shorts, were beating each other inside the ring. Both were already bruised, blood flowing from noses and eyebrows. The sound of betting and shouts filled the air. Du Duan Shao slipped to the edge of the crowd, looking for a good vantage point. He stood near the wall, observing.
The fight ended quickly. The taller fighter, with short-cropped blonde hair, landed a hard hook punch to the jaw of his staggering opponent. His opponent fell, motionless. The referee, a thin man with a bushy mustache, counted to ten. No response. Victory cheers roared. The blonde fighter raised his hands, accepting applause.
The referee quickly cleared the ring, carrying the losing fighter out. Then he shouted, "Next fight! On the left side, the butcher, winner of four consecutive matches, Torn the Binder!" A big cheer welcomed him. "And on the right side, a rookie, a new fighter daring to challenge! Both, step up!"
A young waiter with a sly face approached Du Duan Shao. "Want to place a bet, sir? Odds are five bandir to one for Torn. One bandir to ten for the rookie." He held a small chalkboard with betting numbers written on it.
Du Duan Shao observed the ring. The fighter named Torn, who had entered the ring, was a muscular man covered in scars, built like a bear. His movements were confident and aggressive. The rookie had not yet appeared. "I'll bet twenty coppers," he said.
The waiter nodded, ready to record. "On which side?"
Before Du Duan Shao could answer,the rookie fighter emerged from a side door of the ring. A small cheer and some jeers were heard.
Torn the Binder, the four-time consecutive winner, paced around his ring, pounding his own fists together. He looked like a crushing machine patiently waiting for prey.
The rookie stepped up into the ring. He was younger, maybe early twenties, with an athletic but not as large build as Torn. His hair was black, neatly cut, his eyes dark brown. His face was still clean of fight scars. He looked tense yet full of determination.
Du Duan Shao froze. His breath caught in his own throat.
That rookie's face.
It was a face he knew very well.A face he saw every day in the mirror when he was still Du Duan Shao or when he was still in his world. A face exactly the same, except perhaps slightly younger, with a different expression. It was his own face.
But not the face of Clun Versalk he now wore.This was the original Du Duan Shao's face, from his world.
His heart beat fast. His mind spun quickly. Without further thought, he said to the betting attendant, "I bet twelve coppers on the rookie. He will win."
The attendant raised an eyebrow, but still recorded it. The referee rang a small bell, signaling the fight's start.
Torn immediately attacked, launching a quick jab followed by a hard hook to the head. The rookie dodged nimbly, his body flexible. He countered with a low kick to Torn's thigh, then retreated. Torn growled, pursuing. They exchanged blows and blocks. The rookie was skilled, his movements efficient and measured, yet clearly less experienced and powerful compared to the larger, more brutal Torn.
The fight grew fiercer. Torn began using his body weight, pushing the rookie into a corner of the ring. A barrage of punches hit the rookie's guard. The sound of fists hitting flesh and bone echoed.
A hard punch from Torn struck the rookie's nose. Fresh blood gushed out, staining his chest and the wooden floor. The rookie staggered, his vision blurry. The crowd's cheers intensified.
However, the rookie did not give up. When Torn was momentarily off guard, he launched a counterattack: an uppercut precisely to Torn's solar plexus, followed by an elbow to the chin. Torn staggered, gasping for breath. Both were now injured, standing unsteadily in the middle of the ring.
The atmosphere changed. The spectators, initially just seeking thrills, fell silent for a moment, realizing this was no longer just a crude brawl. There was a different intensity in both fighters' eyes. Torn spat blood, then nodded slowly at the rookie, a sign of respect. The rookie also returned the nod, his eyes full of determination. They both raised their fists, ready for the decisive round.
They exchanged fierce attacks, no more defense, only counterattacks. Blow after blow landed. The sound of grunts and hard impacts was heard. Blood splattered and flowed freely.
The rookie, with his last remaining strength, avoided Torn's spinning punch and launched a hard straight punch right to the point under Torn's jaw. Torn was thrown backward, hitting the ring ropes. His eyes rolled back, and he fell onto his back.
The referee began to count. "One… two… three…" Torn tried to get up, but his hand slipped. "...eight… nine… TEN!" The bell rang. The rookie won. He stood with difficulty, his body covered in bruises and blood.
Torn finally got up, helped by the referee. He approached the rookie and extended his hand. The rookie shook it firmly. They shared a brief hug, a respect between fighters. The crowd cheered, acknowledging both fighters' courage.
Du Duan Shao observed everything with a heart still beating fast. After the rookie descended from the ring and received a cloth to clean the blood, Du Duan Shao began to move through the crowd. He approached the area behind the ring where fighters usually rested. The rookie was sitting on a wooden bench, pressing a cloth to his still-bleeding nose.
Du Duan Shao stopped in front of him. The rookie lifted his face, and both pairs of eyes met.
The rookie was shocked.His eyes widened. He looked at Du Duan Shao's face—the face of Clun Versalk now—with an expression of disbelief. The face was very similar to his own, almost identical, except perhaps slightly older and with a small scar on the temple. They were like twin brothers, or even like living mirror reflections.
Du Duan Shao kept his face calm.Inside, great panic was occurring. However, he put on a thin smile, a smile that was slightly sadistic also cynical and full of enigma. "A good fight Damn Boy," he said in a low voice, audible clearly amidst the arena's din. "Very good… Clun Versalk."
The rookie, the original Clun Versalk, could only stare in disbelief, confusion, and astonishment filling his blood-stained face.