The atmosphere became dense, almost palpable. Three titans of shamonak now shared the same space: two professional veterans and Thamuz, the rookie who had shaken the foundations of the sport with his recent victories.

  "I never thought I'd see you again," said Thamuz, turning to face them while carefully holding Korro.

  Khabixan descended from the stands with an elegant jump, while Bhogtan opted for the conventional route of the stairs. Both approached with determined steps.

  "We thought the same, but you seem to have a gift for causing a stir wherever you go," observed Khabixan, crossing his arms with an arrogant air.

  "What are you looking for then?" inquired Thamuz cautiously. "A rematch?"

  "Not in my case," responded Bhogtan, casting a meaningful look at Khabixan.

  The latter gritted his teeth at his companion's insinuation but exhaled a resigned sigh.

  "I'm not looking for a rematch either. It's a miracle I can walk after our encounter," admitted Khabixan, moving closer. "I didn't come to exchange blows, but to propose something: we want to train with you."

  Surprise was reflected in Thamuz's posture, who weighed whether this was an elaborate joke.

  "Why would you want to train with me? I have nothing to teach you," he protested.

  "That's exactly why we want to train with you," intervened Khabixan, with Bhogtan nodding. "We can teach you our techniques, and in exchange, we can test them against you to refine them."

  "Are you asking me to be your training dummy?" asked Thamuz, bewildered.

  "You could say that," confirmed Khabixan, interlacing his fingers. "When I fought you, it was like hitting a living mountain. You'd be perfect for our objective and, as we promise, we'll teach you everything we know in exchange."

  Thamuz studied the two veterans with suspicion, but detected no malice in their words. He exhaled softly before responding.

  "I'll consider it, but right now my priority is getting my friend medical attention," he said, turning his back on them.

  "We live in the upper part of the city, if you decide to accept!" Khabixan's voice echoed through the hallway, pursuing Thamuz's steps.

  On his way through the corridors, carrying Korro's battered body, Thamuz distinguished the silhouettes of his father and his master at the end of the hallway. He quickened his pace, meeting their faces that mixed concern and pride.

  "I was about to intervene against that sore loser, but I saw how you were handling the situation and decided to stay out of it," commented Tawnylon, approaching his son.

  "Oh! I would give anything to see Takemaru's student's face! He must be boiling with rage from such a defeat!" laughed Vixkard.

  Tawnylon carefully took Korro, heading towards the infirmary, leaving Vixkard and Thamuz alone.

  "What do you think of today's fight?" inquired Vixkard.

  Thamuz pondered for a moment, crossing his arms. "I expected more hand-to-hand combat, but Korro was at a clear disadvantage. He had to resort to unconventional tactics."

  "Although Korro won, Takemaru will feel dishonored when he learns his student fell to someone supposedly inferior," reflected Vixkard, turning his head as if he could see Thamuz. "Did you notice the technique Adamas used?"

  "The palm strike that impacted without direct contact?"

  "Exactly. That's a medium-level yhamataw, capable of creating such friction in the air that it generates impact waves," explained Vixkard in a didactic tone.

  "Yhamataw?"

  "The ancestral name of the palm strike, in honor of its creator," continued Vixkard. "A legendary man capable of splitting seas with a single blow and who, in his final days, carried a frozen mountain to purify the bloody seas of ancient Aldheran."

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  "If that's medium level, I can't imagine a high-level one," reflected Thamuz, stroking his chin.

  "Let me demonstrate it," said Vixkard, adopting a combat stance with his palm pulled back. "Watch carefully."

  Thamuz watched expectantly, his body vibrating with anticipation. But just as Vixkard was about to execute the strike, a horrible cracking sound echoed through the hallway. The master had dislocated his arm in the attempt, and now he was writhing, trying to contain howls of pain.

  "Master!" exclaimed Thamuz alarmed.

  "Don't intervene. I'm just rusty," growled Vixkard, keeping Thamuz at a distance with a gesture.

  With a sudden movement, Vixkard raised his dislocated arm and smashed it against the hallway wall, creating a small crater in the surface.

  "My body deteriorates day by day," he muttered, while methodically manipulating his bones.

  Thamuz watched fascinated as his master realigned the arm until a click indicated it had returned to its place.

  "Now I understand where Korro learned that technique," reflected Thamuz.

  "Yes, although it's dangerous. Without proper control, you can cause permanent damage to yourself," warned Vixkard, flexing his recovered fist.

  Silence took over the hallway, interrupted only by Vixkard's occasional cough.

  "Let's go home to rest. While Korro recovers, we'll focus on the final phase of your training," proposed Vixkard, heading towards the exit. "What follows will be mainly perfecting what you've learned."

  When they were about to leave, an icy breeze made Thamuz's skin bristle. As he turned, his heart stopped: there stood a small and battered figure, covered in wounds, with a gaze that penetrated into Thamuz's soul.

  It was him: Shandam, the foreigner who had burst into his house seeking help, the one who served as a toy for a tyrant's son, the one who dreamed of returning to his native world.

  "Shandam? How...? Have you escaped?" asked Thamuz, extending his hands towards the apparition.

  But Shandam remained silent, while blood flowed from his wounds and a deep laceration in his chest revealed the pulsating beats of his exposed heart.

  "Please, talk to me," pleaded Thamuz, trying to reach him.

  The figure vanished like smoke in the air, leaving only a whisper that burned itself into Thamuz's mind:

  "Don't forget me..."

  The words were lost in the wind, but they rekindled in Thamuz the memory of his true purpose, the reason that had brought him to the city and pushed him to face fearsome adversaries: Shandam's liberation.

  A slight smile drew on his face while he contemplated the sky through the windows, where the last rays of sun gave way to twilight, prelude to the imminent night.

  "I have never forgotten you, Shandam. Just hold on a little longer," whispered Thamuz to himself, like a sacred oath.

  The echoes of combat still resonated in the stadium: grunts of pain and effort while fighters faced each other with their full arsenal: fists, elbows, stomps, and some even ventured with unorthodox kicks.

  As night fell, the public had withdrawn, leaving the stadium in solitude. The arena remained sown with the vestiges of battles: scattered teeth, broken horns, fragments of flesh, and even severed fingers. Opportunistic vendors skulked in the shadows, collecting these macabre trophies to sell as good luck charms to shamonak novices.

  In his room at Vixkard's house, Thamuz studied carefully the pages that told the history of Yhamataw, the legendary creator of shamonak. His master had given them to him to deepen his understanding of this martial art.

  The text narrated:

  "In the dark times of Aldheran, when the strongest ruled after the mysterious disappearance of all life except the yhamak, a legendary figure emerged. Resources were scarce and the powerful drank the blood of the weak to survive the toxic seas. Then appeared Yhamataw, a yhamak of colossal proportions, with a right hand that resembled the claw of an ancestral beast, capable of splitting mountains.

  Yhamataw overthrew the corrupt leaders, establishing a new order based on his martial art. Under his reign, life flourished again in Aldheran, and he established a controlled system for blood extraction, preventing indiscriminate slaughter. He dedicated himself to instructing his people in shamonak, a legacy that has endured generations.

  In his final days, Yhamataw undertook a final feat: he traveled to the frozen lands, split the most imposing mountain with a single palm strike and carried it on his shoulders. He threw it into the toxic seas, purifying them and gifting his people the treasure of abundant water. The effort stopped his heart, but he died standing, like the hero he was."

  Thamuz contemplated the words with amazement. It was more than history: it was the legend of a savior who had forged not just a fighting style, but an entire way of life.

  He carefully rolled up the pages and placed them next to his father's bed, who snored with the power of a sleeping beast.

  Through the window, he observed Aldheran's night sky, where stars danced forming triangular patterns in the dark blue mantle. As he lay down under the thick blankets that protected him from the cold, his mind wandered through diverse thoughts.

  The vision of Shandam persisted: his battered body, his broken spirit. And with it, another memory emerged: his humiliating defeat against Gigantino, Zarakel's son, a battle so quick and one-sided it barely left a mark in his memory.

  He touched his ribs with trembling fingers, reliving the moment they were shattered under Gigantino's relentless feet. A phantom pain traversed his previously fractured arm, a sensation that became more vivid with each beat of his heart. The memory of trauma felt as real as the day it occurred.

  But he pushed away all those torturous memories from his mind, fixing his gaze on the ceiling with iron determination. In the room's darkness, he visualized the twisted face of Zarakel's son, every detail of that cruel grimace burned into his memory.

  "I will never forget," he whispered through his teeth, and these words resonated in the darkness like an unbreakable promise, before exhaustion dragged him into a deep turbulent sleep.