Shambhu had defeated his first opponent and won the first fight of his life. But he was in a group fight, not a duel. He had to win consecutively to earn a seat in the top 100 qualifiers for the warrior academy entrance exam. He was both excited and nervous. Another victor, a young man wielding a sword and wearing blue clothes, approached to fight him next.
He stood face-to-face with Shambhu, scanned him from head to toe, his gaze lingering on the tattoo visible on Shambhu's chest. He laughed. "You have a weak heart."
"What?" Shambhu couldn't understand him.
"Kid," the blue-clad fighter sneered, "getting inked with some woman before you're even old enough to properly swing that sword you don't have? How can you focus on being a warrior when you're already distracted like that?" He clearly thought Shambhu, barely fifteen, was foolishly sentimental.
'What does he know about women, or warriors?' Raktaa's indignation flared within Shambhu's mind, but he didn't let it show.
"This tattoo might also mean I have someone watching my back," Shambhu replied calmly, meeting the opponent's gaze. "Or someone I fight to protect. You make judgments too quickly. Let's fight and see where that habit takes you." He mentally signaled to Raktaa, 'Be ready, just in case.'
The blue-clad fighter lunged forward with a stab followed by a right slash. Shambhu sidestepped the stab, then ducked under the slash. The opponent attacked his legs; Shambhu evaded with a swift backflip, getting out of range. While constantly moving, Shambhu began unwrapping the second dhoti he had worn wrapped around his waist, using his left hand. His opponent attacked relentlessly, but Shambhu dodged with impressive acrobatics and sharp awareness. Shambhu let the dhoti sprawl out on the ground. The opponent didn't pay it much mind until he inadvertently stepped onto the fabric. Shambhu ducked under an incoming sword strike, yanked the sprawled dhoti hard, and rolled forward. The opponent lost his balance and fell onto his back.
Shambhu didn't press the attack immediately, wary of the sword still in his opponent's hand. He used the brief pause to rapidly twist the length of dhoti, fold it in half, twist it again, and fold it once more. It became a thick, four-layered rope, heavy with his sweat, flexible yet difficult to cut cleanly due to the twists and layers. By the time the opponent scrambled back to his feet, Shambhu held his improvised weapon. The opponent smirked when he saw the makeshift dhoti-rope Shambhu had fashioned.
'Learned some whip maneuvers from your URUMI techniques, Raktaa,' Shambhu thought. 'Let's see how this works.' He wielded the weighted dhoti in his left hand – an odd choice, but how he had practiced.
He started swinging and rotating it, creating a whistling arc. The opponent came forward with a stab. Shambhu sidestepped, and the dhoti-rope landed solidly on the opponent's sword hand. It didn't grip like a true whip but struck with surprising force, pressing the hand down. The opponent laughed it off. The fight continued. Every time Shambhu ducked under the sword, he'd snap the dhoti-rope at his opponent's abdomen. When the opponent targeted his legs, Shambhu would leap, flip, or roll away, trying to strike the head or shoulders on the rebound. Initially, the opponent tried dodging the dhoti-rope, but after realizing its attacks weren't causing major wounds, he grew complacent, focusing only on Shambhu's evasions.
The crowd, the professors, even the other candidates who had passed were surprised the fight was lasting this long. After Shambhu's quick first victory, many thought it a fluke. But witnessing his sustained effort, combat awareness, and unique tactics, a common sentiment emerged: "If only he had chosen a real weapon, he definitely would have won by now."
The opponent was now sure of his victory. Confidence radiated from him. Shambhu, in contrast, looked slightly panicked, his unconventional tactic seemingly ineffective. The advantages he possessed – speed and athleticism – hadn't secured a quick win... until now.
Suddenly, the cumulative effect of the relentless, albeit minor, blows from the dhoti-rope began to show. The opponent had become slower, his movements stiffer with exhaustion. Crucially, his confidence had made him lower his guard. Shambhu too was breathing heavily after all the acrobatic dodges he'd performed. He even seemed slower than the opponent now. The blue-clad fighter thrusted his sword forward, the movement sluggish and stiff with fatigue.
In that instant, Shambhu's speed surged as if he'd never been tired. He snapped the dhoti-rope backhanded against the flat of the opponent's blade, knocking it aside. Following the motion seamlessly, he executed a turning high heel kick that struck the opponent's sword forearm, leaving him momentarily exposed. Still in the same turn, Shambhu lashed the dhoti-rope directly across his opponent's face, hitting both eyes and nose. Blinded by the stinging sweat and dust carried by the makeshift whip, the opponent cried out. As he stumbled, dropping his weapon, Shambhu swept his feet out from under him with a low kick. The opponent crashed to the ground. Shambhu instantly scooped up the fallen sword and placed its point firmly against the man's neck. The referee signaled defeat, as the opponent, choked by his ego, refused to surrender himself.
Shambhu looked towards the fight concluding on the other side of the arena. A swordsman and a spear wielder had battled fiercely, with the spearman ultimately winning by disarming his foe.
Now, this spearman, clearly drained from his previous match, came to face Shambhu. This exhaustion was a major advantage. The spearman lunged forward with a long, tired overhead slash. Shambhu ducked and rolled towards him in the same smooth movement. The opponent tried to backpedal, needing distance for his spear, but Shambhu swung his dhoti-rope low, wrapping it briefly around the spearman's ankle and unbalancing him. Shambhu then launched himself upwards into a disorienting 360-degree spin as he closed the distance further. Reacting to the confusing movement, the opponent thrusted his spear towards Shambhu's right abdomen. The spearhead grazed Shambhu's side, drawing blood. Shambhu ignored the stinging cut and, completing his rotation, landed the weighted dhoti-rope with full force across the opponent's neck.
The spearman staggered, rocked by the impact to his head. Shambhu pressed closer. The opponent swung his spear in a desperate upper slash. Shambhu dodged by leaning back sharply and delivered a stinging oblique kick to the opponent's knee. The spearman buckled but managed another thrust. Shambhu slipped nimbly to the left and hammered a vicious hook into the opponent's liver. Already dazed, the liver shot made the spearman's vision tunnel. Before he could recover, Shambhu slid behind him, locked his arm under the chin, and secured a rear-naked chokehold. Deprived of air, the opponent lost consciousness within seconds.
The entire crowd was on its feet, cheering wildly for Shambhu. They had been on the edge of their seats throughout his fights. In the first, he was the clear underdog, fighting weaponless against an armed opponent, yet he patiently closed the distance and ended it swiftly. In the second, when taunts might have provoked a rash attack, he played a long, strategic game, wearing down his opponent before landing a precise finishing blow, feigning exhaustion like a predator waiting for the perfect moment. The third fight was even more unpredictable: one moment he was nearly impaled, the next he landed a devastating blow to the neck; one moment trading close-range strikes, the next securing a chokehold on the ground.
He really was, UNPREDICTABLE.