After more than a month, Javad finally had a new arena match. His opponent on the day was another young upstart. A female spear wielder with a similar reputation for quick victories. They lined up and the gong sounded. Javad and his opponent moved towards each other at the same moment. The woman stabbed forward and Javad arced his flail towards her. The spear met his buckler, deflecting away. She tried to duck the metal ball. Even in the moment, Javad grinned. A quick twist of the handle and the metal ball's path was redirected downward. It met the top of her metal helmet with an earsplitting crash of steel and iron.

Her helmet went flying one way, and she fell the same direction, landing with a thud in the sand. Javad stopped in his tracks, staring at her motionless form. His heart stopped, fearing the cost of his victory. Suddenly, she coughed, breathing in a ragged breath. He released a breath he'd been holding on her behalf.

 It was a long time before she woke up. This brutal finish shocked the audience. Though it had been a quick fight, both competitors had put their lives on the line for a crucial exchange. They cheered Javad on, louder than they had since his debut fight.

The arena master was all smiles when he returned. "I was sure you were going to get killed out there, wielding an unfamiliar weapon against another aggressive fighter. You did very well to pick up the flail on short notice. Say, who do you train with? None of the boys can remember seeing you practice around here."

"I've got my own trainer. I tend to stick to practicing with her."

"She must be quite something. Would I know of her? What is her name?"

"Shora is foreign," he said truthfully. "I'm her first Qismat student."

"I'm surprised she didn't talk you out of the flail. It's a tricky weapon."

Javad nodded. "It took some doing. She didn't even take it seriously at first."

"You've been doing well, Javad. I'm going to step up the next fight. It will be someone the champion, Zafar Nedim, knows well. If you win, a duel with him is inevitable."

*

His next fight didn't begin so well. The fighter, Gorsedd, was a middle-aged warrior from Greihold. He had a similar curving mustache as the Qismat, but blond and grey instead. A user of the poleaxe, with a reputation for keeping distance and patience. Sometimes reputation was just stories, but it proved well founded this time. The man was tall and wiry. He made good use of his reach.

If Javad had been using his sword, he could have pushed in close and carved him up with his speed. With the flail, he was stuck at his opponent's preferred distance. He was accurate with the flail, but the other man guarded his head well with his poleaxe. Above the axe head was a long spike, and the man hounded Javad with the point, making it difficult for the young man to get close.

Javad's only option was to strike the tall man anywhere he could. Imperfect blows did less damage than he'd like. The man nicked him several times with the spear tip of his poleaxe. In exchange, he inflicted painful blows against his experienced opponent, but he stayed standing.

An opportunity presented itself after his opponent lunged in too hard and missed his thrust. Javad circled into range, spinning his flail around his head. He twisted to the side, but the spear tip pierced his shoulder. His left shoulder, and he was holding his flail in his other arm. He swung the weapon, smashing Gorsedd's left arm. No amount of armor could have stopped that blow. The injury was critical to the man. He couldn't hold the poleaxe properly, reduced to wielding it in one hand like a clumsy spear.

Defense became impossible. Javad kept slipping into range and landing hard blows against his armored torso. The veteran fighter received several more blows before he collapsed to one knee, raising his hand in surrender.

"Why didn't you ask for quarter sooner!" Javad shouted. "This fight was over the moment I broke your arm."

The tall man was breathing heavily, painfully. "You're a young man. Don't you have a dream? My goal was to be the champion, and I never achieved it. I've held the second spot in the circuit for years. I lost twice against two separate champions. As long as our fight went on, my dream was still alive."

Resignation was on his face. Javad knew this man would never fight again. He had never openly boasted to his downed opponents, but he'd never granted them much respect, either. But this time he reached his hand to the man, who shook it.

"I'm going to beat our champion. And then I'm going to conquer the capital circuit and beat that champion too," said Javad.

The tall man forced a grim smile. "I think you will."

The display of camaraderie at the end had the whole crowd standing, yelling out their respect for the little man in the arena. They yelled the name "Javad", and the name of the champion, "Zafar." The fight had the whole town cheering. They called for a showdown. Weary and bloody, he was glad. This was a fight he could have lost, and he knew it. But the risks he'd taken to win the fight had worked out for him. It wasn't more than a few days before Pelin announced the upcoming championship fight. In three weeks, Javad would get his shot.

It was a fight Javad wasn't ready for, and knew it. He needed more time with Shora than a day or two. His payments after every fight had gradually increased. His payout for the championship of the local circuit would be ten times his latest one. He was ready to quit his job at the Temple and go full time.