The sun beat down on the Arena of Five Sails, casting long shadows across the blood-stained sand. The crowd leaned in, drinks clutched tightly, as two titans squared off in the ring.
On one side: Skari Tuskbreaker, dwarf, wrestler, and walking avalanche. Her hair flowing like flame, her tattoos flexing with every movement. She cracked her neck and bounced once on the balls of her feet—solid, immovable. In her hands, she held a brutal chain weapon, its heavy cube-shaped head dragging lazy furrows through the sand. It hung like a threat barely leashed, swinging in slow arcs.
Opposite her: Viktor, shirtless, sun-drenched, and holding a greatsword that belched fire like a dragon with indigestion. He spun Schwelgott dramatically overhead and slammed it point-first into the dirt, sending a gout of flame into the air. His flaming greatsword continued to be dramatically stuck into the ground beside him, belching small gouts of flame for effect. Viktor pointed at Skari, then at the crowd, then roared so loudly the arena rumbled.
He turned to the crowd, arms wide. “People of Five Sails! Prepare your eyes! For this fight will be… TOO GLORIOUS TO BLINK THROUGH!”
Skari leaned toward him, whispering, “You’re milkin’ it too hard. They’ll figure out it’s a cover.”
“No, they won’t,” Viktor whispered back. “I said ‘glorious.’ Nobody questions that word.”
“YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS!” Viktor bellowed to the stands. “IT’S VIKTOR—”
“—Time,” Skari interrupted, smirking. “Aye, we’ve all heard it, firebeard.”
The crowd laughed. Viktor only grinned.
“I’ll let you hit first,” he offered.
Skari let the chain spin once, twice—then crack, the cube whipped forward.
Viktor barely sidestepped, the weight slamming into the ground beside him with a puff of dust and a noise like a muffled thunderclap.
“Stars above, that’s new,” Viktor muttered, hopping back. “That chain got heavier?”
“Not the chain,” she replied under her breath. “You just got slower.”
He charged, sword swinging wide.
She ducked and twisted, the chain wrapping suddenly around his leg. She sent him tumbling with a yank, not relatively flat on his back, but close enough to sell it.
The crowd lost its mind.
“She tripped the Firestorm!” someone screamed.
Viktor kicked free of the chain and rolled to his feet, grinning. “I see. We’re going full performance art.”
Skari swung again—this time high. Viktor blocked with the flat of his sword, the impact sending sparks in all directions.
The heavy block on stone slammed to the ground kicking up dust all around.
“You alright?” she asked, voice low under the cover of the sand.
“Fantastic,” Viktor hissed through clenched teeth. “I think your chain just fixed my spine.”
Skari stepped in and drove her shoulder into his chest. He staggered, then swung Schwelgott in a broad arc to buy space—more for show than effect.
With a sudden war cry that shook the stands, they charged like freight wagons, colliding in the middle with a noise like metal hitting an anvil.
Skari locked him in a bear hug and tried to lift. “Sorry,” she grunted under her breath.
“You bulked up since last time.”
“Appreciate that. Been eating six eggs and a rock every morning,” Viktor wheezed, gripping her waist in a counter-clutch. “Also, sorry in advance.”
“For wh—”
WHAM—he pivoted and bodyslammed her straight into the sand with all the finesse of a collapsing barn.
“Ow! Okay, that one’s goin’ in the book,” Skari muttered from the ground.
Skari smirked. “Real dramatic, fire-beard. Hope you’re ready for my turn.”
She rushed him at breakneck speed, crashing into Viktor with all the elegance of a siege ram. Their shoulders collided with a thunderous whump, and they both staggered back, grinning.
“Okay,” Viktor said under his breath, “that one was a bit real… good form.”
“Thanks,” Skari muttered, circling. “Don’t hold back, or they’ll start throwin’ tomatoes.”
Viktor charged, swinging Schwelgott in a wide arc—not to hit, but to force Skari back toward the center of the ring. She ducked, twisted, grabbed his waist, and slammed him to the ground with a loud, dusty THUD.
The crowd went wild.
“Sorry,” she whispered as she leaned in. “You alright?”
“I’m fantastic,” Viktor wheezed, coughing sand. “I think I tasted a tooth. Not mine, though, so we’re good.”
He sprang to his feet as Skari swung her weapon. The chain unspools like a striking serpent—only heavier, angrier, and dwarf-engineered to break ribs.
He expertly deflected it, redirecting it to the ground again, and immediately began working the crowd.
He shouted toward the audience, “BEHOLD! Viktor has CRACKED THE CODE. She’s a WRESTLING WEAPON MASTER. That means… carry the four… multiply by dwarven aggression…”
The crowd gasped. Viktor’s chest puffed. “SKARI, YOU THINK YOU CAN TAKE ME? WELL LEMME BREAK IT DOWN WITH SOME VIKTOR MATH!”
He stomped his boot into the ground, and the crowd fell silent. Skari, fearing what would come next, grappled him from behind and attempted to slam him down, but to no effect.
“You see, normal fighters have a 50/50 chance of winning in a fair fight. But I’m not normal. I’m a PLATINUM RANKED BARBARIAN. That means I’ve got at least a 75% chance of winning before the bell even rings.”
Skari, holding him in a half-nelson, blinked. “…What?”
“But then you factor in my flame sword—Schwelgott—which gives me a 33 1/3% bonus chance when ignited. Then you take YOUR wrestling ability, which is top tier, so I subtract 25% of your 60% suplex potential—”
“None of this is math, Viktor!”
“YES IT IS, SKARI!” Viktor roared, trying to elbow his way free. “Because then you ADD IN my FRIENDSHIP MULTIPLIER… which triples under crowd pressure… and I’ve got a bonus 15% buff from shouting my name. So you take 75% plus 33 1/3% minus 25% of your 60%, then DIVIDE that by the square root of not giving a shit, and what do you get?”**
“You get a confused dwarf and a dislocated shoulder—” Skari grunted, twisting harder.
“YOU GET VIKTOR AT 141 2/3% CHANCE TO WIN THIS SPAR!” he bellowed, as the crowd cheered without knowing why. “AND THAT’S SCIENCE, SKARI. FRIENDSHIP. SCIENCE.”
He gasped as she finally suplexed him into the dirt.
“…plus tax.” he groaned.
Skari dusted her hands and muttered, “That’s what you get for doing math without a license.”
“The numbers don’t lie, Skari.” Viktor grinned, pointing behind her… right where Schwelgott had been buried in the dirt like a flaming landmine.
The ground erupted with fire as the weapon’s ignition rune flared to life, spewing a gout of flame toward the dwarven barbarian’s flank.
“No stone to hide behind this time.”
Skari quickly glanced around, realizing that she was indeed in the open. Viktor had set her up perfectly for the sword to engulf her in flames as both of them vanished in a sea of smoke and ember.
The crowd gasped as, somewhere in the smoke, Skari’s voice could be heard by Viktor muttering, “Next time, I carry water.”
No one knows who won the fight.
Some say neither, others say both.
But when the ash settled and the arena cooled, one truth remained:
Viktor did the math… but Skari carried the remainder.