The rundown bar attached to the brothel baked under the harsh midday sun streaming through grimy windows. Dust motes danced in the light like tiny sparks, and the air hung heavy with the stale reek of last night's spilled ale, sweat-soaked wood, and the faint metallic tang of blood ground into the floorboards. Tables were scarred from countless knives and fists, chairs wobbled on uneven legs. and the few patrons—rough human traders nursing hangovers, a pair of scarred orcs playing card—watched with lazy, bloodthirsty interest as the fight ignited. In this pit, brawls were free entertainment. No one called guards. No one cared who won, as long as blood spilled.

After all, not everyone got their entertainment from sex and this region was popular for quenching all sort of depravities they might have so it was only natural that fighting was among those things.

But there was a strict rule in the brothel itself that prohibited this but not every establishment in this area had such rules.

Byung faced Borg across the sawdust-strewn floor, open space that served as an impromptu ring. His small goblin frame was tense but steady, the system's gift thrumming in his veins—orc-level strength compressed into compact, explosive power. His curved knife gleamed in his right hand, eyes sharp despite the bone-deep exhaustion dragging at him like chains. Borg stood opposite, shirtless and scarred, his massive orc frame a wall of corded muscle forged from years of brutal training. His teeth flashed in a predatory grin, fists already clenched, knuckles scarred and thick as hammer heads. He cracked his neck, rolling his broad shoulders, ready to crush the "little goblin" who dared challenge him."

Byung landed the first blow.

He launched like a coiled serpent striking, system-enhanced legs propelling him forward in a blur of green fury. His fist, packed with the raw power of a full-grown orc warrior, slammed into Borg's jaw with a crack that echoed like splitting timber. The impact lifted the big orc off his feet. Borg's chair toppled backward, and he crashed into a nearby table, wood splintering in a spray of shards and mugs. Ale foamed across the floor as the table collapsed under his weight. Patrons whooped and hollered, bets shouted mid-air.

Borg hit the ground hard but rolled with it, coming up in a crouch—coffee cup still clutched in one meaty hand, steam rising lazily. Blood trickled from his split lip, but his grin only widened, eyes lighting with savage delight. He hadn't spilled a drop.

"Cute trick, runt," Borg rumbled, voice thick with amusement and promise. He straightened to his full height, towering, muscles flexing like coiled ropes.

"But let's show you what a real orc feels like," Borg commented but this didn't mean the fact that a goblin packed such a punch was lost on him. He hurled the scalding coffee straight at Byung's face.

Byung twisted at the last instant, arm snapping up to shield his eyes. The liquid splashed across his forearm in a hissing burst—searing agony lanced through his skin like molten iron poured on flesh but due to his thick skin, it wasn't the worst thing that could happen.

He hissed through clenched teeth, staggering half a step from the shock.

The fatigue in his body might have been the cost him this pain because his reaction was dulled but that half-step was broken out of the moment the coffee touched his skin.

Borg charged like a raging bull, closing the distance in two thunderous strides. His fist—huge, backed by the full weight of an experienced fighter—slammed into Byung's jaw with devastating force. The world exploded in a white flash. Byung's head snapped back, teeth clacking together, vision exploding in stars. He flew across the room, body airborne for a heartbeat before crashing through two tables. He hit the far wall hard enough to rattle the hanging lamps, slumping to the floor in a heap. Pain bloomed everywhere—jaw throbbing like a drum, brain rattling inside his skull, blood filling his mouth from a bitten tongue. He nearly blacked out, the edges of his vision tunneling to black.

But the system surged, adrenaline flooding his veins like liquid fire, knitting focus back with brutal efficiency. He shook his head, spitting blood, pushing up on shaking arms just as Borg stalked forward.

"How are you still standing! There is something seriously fucked up with you, huh?" Borg laughed, voice booming with joy, blood dripping from his split lips.

"Let me educate you, little goblin," Borg wasn't planning on holding back any longer.

He grabbed Byung by the front of his shirt with one hand, hauling him up like a sack of grain. Byung slashed desperately with the knife, aiming for the throat—Borg batted the blade aside with his free forearm, metal ringing on bone. The edge carved a deep gash, blood spraying, but it wasn't enough. Borg's second punch came like a siege ram, driving straight into Byung's torso.

Air exploded from Byung's lungs in a whoosh. Ribs cracked with sharp, audible snaps, pain white-hot and blinding. He flew again, ragdoll limp in the air, crashing onto another table that buckled and collapsed under him. He gasped, trying to suck in breath that wouldn't come. Borg was fighting to kill—no holding back, no mercy, pure intent to end the threat here and now.

Byung rolled weakly as Borg loomed, boot raised for a stomp that would cave his skull. Byung's knife hand shot out, slashing at the leg—too slow. Borg's foot came down, but Byung twisted just enough; the boot grazed his shoulder, spinning him across the floor.

Pain everywhere. Blood in his mouth, ribs grinding with every breath. But he held on—no blackout, strength returning in waves. Byung pushed up, knife ready, legs shaky but standing.

Borg paused, chest beginning to heave, eyes wild with respect and rage.

"Tough little bastard. But playtime's over," Borg hated to admit it but everything he said about this goblin was an understatement.

He never would have imagined he had this much physical strength to boot.

He charged again with the intent on ending it with this blow.

Byung met him head-on this time, ducking under a haymaker and driving his knife upward into Borg's side. The blade bit deep, grating on rib—Borg roared in pain, but his elbow crashed down on Byung's back like a falling tree. Byung crumpled, knife wrenched free in a spray of blood.

Borg grabbed him by the throat, lifting him choking off air. Byung's legs kicked uselessly. Vision darkened. He clawed at the arm, nails raking flesh, but Borg's grip was iron.

Everyone in the bar were stunned, they had never seen a goblin this strong in their entire lives because he was holding his own.

Then—a massive green hand clamped on Borg's wrist but it had the power to hold him in place.

It was Maui.

She stood behind Borg, eyes burning with cold fury. Her grip crushed down—bones ground. Borg's grin faltered.

"Touch him again," Maui said, voice low and deadly calm,

"and I take your head. Slowly," Maui wasn't joking but Borg was terrified because he confirmed she had survived the attack.

The bar went dead silent.

Borg looked at her hand, then at Byung gasping in his grip, then at Maui's face.

Byung could see it in his eyes, he was scared.

Borg immediately released Byung, the goblin was injured but it took Maui one glance to see Byung had managed to deal sufficient damage to Borg, an impressive feat for a goblin with no fighting experience.

Borg backed away, limping slightly, leaving blood trail. Vanished around corner as if the fight never happened.

Byung stayed on the floor, coughing blood, every inch bruised or bleeding.

Maui knelt, gentle despite size, lifting him like a child.

"You stupid, brave idiot," Maui whispered. Byung didn't run from Borg, he faced him head-on.

"You think I look bad? You should have seen the other guy," Byung joked, laughing through the pain. Maui saw the injuries Borg had gotten and there was only one way he would have been able to inflict them.

"He was trying to kill him?" Maui was surprised because Byung had shown no violent tendencies before, at least to the point of taking the life of another.

Maui's shadow fell over Byung like a cool, safe mountain. The bar's noise faded into a dull roar behind her. Blood dripped from his chin onto the sawdust, mixing with spilled ale and coffee. Every breath felt like broken glass scraping inside his ribs.

Maui knelt slowly, knees creaking the floorboards. One huge hand slid under his back, palm wide enough to span his entire shoulder-blades. The other cupped beneath his thighs, careful, impossibly careful, as if he were made of blown glass instead of bruised flesh and cracked bone. Her tusks were still bared, eyes blazing with leftover fury, but the moment she touched him the anger folded inward, replaced by something soft and fierce at the same time.

"Easy," she murmured, voice low enough that only he could hear.

Byung tried to answer, but all that came out was a wet cough and a thin ribbon of blood. Maui's ears flattened. She lifted him against her chest with the same effortless strength she'd used to carry him all night on horseback, but now every movement was deliberate and gentle.

She climbed the stairs one slow step at a time, cradling him close so the swaying wouldn't jostle his ribs.

Inside the room she laid him on the bed with the same reverence someone might use for ancient scrolls. The mattress sighed under their combined weight, but she never let him feel the drop. One hand stayed beneath his shoulders until the last possible second, easing him down inch by inch. She arranged pillows behind his back, lifted his legs so nothing bent wrong, then sat on the edge of the bed and simply held him.

Byung's eyes fluttered. The pain was still there, a roaring tide, but beneath it was the steady drum of her heartbeat against his cheek, strong and alive and safe.

"Sleep now," she whispered, brushing a lock of sweat-soaked hair from his forehead.

"I'm here. No one touches you again," Maui made him a promise.

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