The subordinate didn’t hesitate, sprinting off toward the tent as if his life depended on it. The rest of the mercenaries kept their distance, some dropping their weapons, others retreating toward the edges of the camp, unwilling to test their luck against the man who had so effortlessly dispatched five of their own.
Minutes later, heavy footsteps announced Zirkel’s arrival. The leader of the Mad Dogs emerged from his tent, his fiery red hair and scarred face unmistakable. He wore a sleeveless leather jerkin that revealed his muscular arms, and his mismatched eyes—one a sharp amber, the other milky white from an old injury—surveyed the scene with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity.
“What the hell is going on here?” Zirkel barked, his voice like the crack of a whip. His gaze fell on the bodies sprawled across the ground, then shifted to the stranger standing amidst the carnage, his shadowy sword still in hand. Zirkel’s lips twisted into a smirk. “Well, well. Looks like we’ve got ourselves a guest.”
The stranger sheathed his blade in a fluid motion, the flames extinguishing as he did so. He met Zirkel’s gaze without flinching, his voice calm and unwavering. “Zirkel, leader of the Mad Dogs. I’ve come to hire you and your men for a job.”
Zirkel barked a laugh, his broad shoulders shaking. “You’ve got some nerve, walking in here and cutting down my men, then asking for a favor. You’re either insane or suicidal.”
“Neither,” the stranger replied coolly. “I’m practical. I don’t waste time negotiating with dogs who can’t listen. Your men had their chance to act like professionals. They failed.”
Zirkel’s smirk widened a glint of amusement in his amber eye. “And what makes you think I’ll work for someone who thinks he can waltz into my camp and start swinging his sword around like he owns the place?”
The stranger laughed softly, a smirk curling his lips as he locked eyes with Zirkel. “Why not? It’s not like you and your men don’t thrive on this kind of thing.”
Zirkel’s smirk faltered slightly, his amber eye narrowing as he took a step closer. “And what exactly do you mean by that?”
The stranger spread his hands, his dark eyes glinting with faint amusement. “Swinging your sword like you own the place. Isn’t that how the strong act? Isn’t that why you’re called the Mad Dogs? Because you don’t bow to anyone, you take what you want, and you live by your own rules.”
Zirkel’s mismatched gaze hardened, his fists clenching at his sides. The truth in the stranger’s words struck a nerve. It was their way—chaos and violence as a creed, strength as their only currency. It was why the Mad Dogs existed, why they were feared, and why Zirkel had clawed his way to the top to lead them.
But Zirkel’s pride burned hotter than any truth. He wasn’t about to let this smug bastard throw their philosophy back at him, not when the corpses of his men still smoldered on the ground. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,” Zirkel said, his voice low and edged with danger. “But don’t think you can walk in here and lecture me like some high-and-mighty preacher. You just butchered my men like they were nothing. You think I’ll let that slide?”
The stranger’s smirk didn’t waver. “If you falter now, then maybe you should. How could you call yourself their leader if you can’t stand up to someone stronger?”
Zirkel’s jaw tightened, and his knuckles cracked as his fists curled tighter. The stranger’s words weren’t just taunts; they were a challenge. A provocation.
But Zirkel wasn’t a man easily cowed, and he wasn’t about to let some outsider question his authority. There was a reason he led the Mad Dogs, a reason they followed him despite their unruly, violent nature. It wasn’t because he was the loudest or the cruelest—it was because he was the strongest, the one who could hold the leash and snap it when needed.
Zirkel let out a short bark of laughter, his smirk returning. “You’ve got some nerve, Sword Demon. But if you think you can walk in here, spill blood, and turn me into your lapdog, you’re even crazier than I thought.”
“I have been called that a lot.”
Zirkel’s smirk deepened, his fiery red hair catching the light of the campfires as he stared down the stranger. “You’ve been called crazy a lot, huh? Makes sense. Only a lunatic would pull what you just did.”
The Sword Demon chuckled, his voice low and dry. “Not wrong.
Zirkel’s smirk turned into a grimace, his fiery amber eye burning with anger as he took a step forward, his imposing frame casting a long shadow over the stranger. The murmurs in the camp ceased entirely, and all eyes locked onto their leader. The tension in the air thickened like a storm about to break.
“You’ve shown what you can do,” Zirkel growled, his voice low but brimming with barely-contained rage. “And you think that’s enough? You think killing a handful of my men makes you untouchable?”
The stranger tilted his head slightly, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Zirkel’s building fury. “Not untouchable. Just strong enough to make you submit.”
The words hung in the air like a spark near kindling. For a moment, silence reigned as the meaning settled over the gathered mercenaries. Then Zirkel let out a booming laugh, a harsh, mocking sound that carried through the camp.
“Submit? To you?” Zirkel said, his laughter subsiding into a sneer. “What kind of nonsense is that? You think we bow our heads just because someone’s strong? Is that what your golden-spoon upbringing taught you?”
The stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his smirk remained in place. “Heh….Bold of you to assume that I was born with a golden spoon.”
Zirkel’s laughter faded, replaced by a sharp, skeptical glare. He leaned closer, his amber eye narrowing as he studied the stranger. “If you weren’t born with a golden spoon, then what? What else explains the way you walk in here, acting like you own the place?”
The crowd of mercenaries stirred uneasily, their attention bouncing between their leader and the stranger, whose calm demeanor hadn’t wavered.
“I’ve seen plenty of men like you,” Zirkel continued, his voice dripping with disdain. “Arrogant, smug bastards who think the world owes them something because they’ve got power. Most of them born rich, flaunting their golden spoons like they earned it. And you? You’re no different. Strong or not, you reek of the same rot inside.”
The stranger’s smirk softened, though his dark eyes remained sharp, almost amused by Zirkel’s words. He folded his arms across his chest, his posture relaxed despite the tension simmering in the air.
“Is that what you think?” he asked, his voice calm, almost conversational. “That power always comes from privilege? That anyone strong enough to walk into this den of yours and challenge you must’ve been handed everything on a silver platter?”
Zirkel’s scowl deepened, his fists clenching. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool. I’ve clawed my way out of the gutter, fought tooth and nail to lead these men. I know the difference between earned strength and the kind that’s bought or stolen. You might have skill, Sword Demon, but that attitude of yours stinks of entitlement.”
The stranger chuckled softly, the sound low and dry, as if Zirkel’s words had hit something close to the truth but not quite. “You’ve fought your way here. Good. That means you know what it takes to survive. But if you think I haven’t done the same, you’re sorely mistaken.”
Zirkel raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “Oh? Then enlighten me. If you didn’t come from a golden spoon, where the hell does someone like you come from?”
“Wanna see? Then, let’s do it your way. And since lunatics seem to thrive in places like this, I’ll cut to the chase. I request The Iron Circle.”
The moment his words left his mouth, Zirkel’s eyes were widened.
“Iron Circle.”
The camp fell silent. Whispers spread through the gathered mercenaries, their faces shifting from curiosity to shock. The Iron Circle was not a challenge thrown lightly, even among the most hardened fighters.
Zirkel narrowed his amber eye, suspicion and intrigue flickering in his expression. “The Iron Circle? You really are insane. You know what that means, don’t you?”
“I do,” the stranger said calmly. “One weapon, one circle, and no room to run. Pure skill, strength, and will. Isn’t that what you respect?”
Zirkel’s smirk returned, this time tinged with something darker—anticipation. “You’ve got some nerve, really…. But don’t think I’ll go easy on you just because you’ve got a fancy nickname.”
The stranger stepped forward, his posture relaxed but his presence radiating quiet intensity. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
Zirkel barked another laugh, turning to his men. “Clear the center! Draw the circle! This bastard wants The Iron Circle, so let’s show him what it means to fight a Mad Dog.”
The mercenaries scrambled to obey, clearing a space in the middle of the camp. Using the flat of a sword, one of them scraped a large circle into the dirt, its radius measured by the combined length of Zirkel’s shoulders and the heavy battle axe he carried.
Zirkel stepped into the circle, his massive frame looming over the stranger. His fiery red hair gleamed in the firelight as he hefted his axe onto his shoulder. “You better have picked your weapon carefully, Sword Demon. You won’t get a second chance.”
The stranger removed his cloak, revealing a lean but muscular frame and a long estoc strapped to his body. He unsheathed it with a fluid motion, its polished blade gleaming. His movements were precise, every motion deliberate and calm.
The referee, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward. “The rules of The Iron Circle are simple,” he announced. “Each fighter gets one weapon of their choice. The circle is your battlefield—step out, and you lose. No mana, no tricks. Fight until one of you can’t stand.”