Chapter 9: Champion Carnival! Helen vs. Miria
Dawn
A grim mood had descended on the three women outside Rabona Academy. Despite the singing sparrows up on top of the building, and the bright sun shining upon dew-dappled grass, there was still an incomprehensible air of apprehension... and dissatisfaction.
“Are you ready?” asked Galatea, closing the door to the gym. “We must be at the Coliseum at least an hour before Helen’s bout. She’s already begun to ride. We will catch up with her along the way.”
Clare and Jeane took up their bags and nodded. “Is Deneve alright?” asked Clare slowly.
Galatea hesitated. “I… believe that the shock of being unable to compete will settle on her sooner than later. And I’m not sure how she will take it. She’s never been higher-ranked than now, and she’s never gotten so close to challenging Irene. But now…” the blonde beauty shook her head. “Deneve is proud. She will not admit that she is dissatisfied with her… lost chance. But I will not push the truth out of her. Come, let us away. We have a fellow boxer to support.”
They made their way to the horses in silence.
*
Helen smirked as she stared down her opponent across the pit. She was slightly shorter than Helen, although her long hair tied behind her back gave her the impression of a rather serious, respected warrior.
But of course. This is Phantom Miria, thought Helen, recalling Galatea’s advice.
Don’t underestimate her.
Rimuto waved his hand downwards, demanding for the match to begin.
Miria raised her fist, offering to touch.
Helen responded in kind, their knuckles lightly brushing. She winked. “So, the feared counterpuncher of the pits, ‘ey? Don’t think I’ll go down with just one smack.”
Miria remained expressionless. “Perhaps you should eat my fist and remain standing first, before you say such stupid things.”
Annoyed, Helen moved to initiate the match. “I’ll break your face, Phantom,” she snapped, throwing a fast punch to test the distance between herself and the woman she sought to topple. Miria simply leaped back, her feet blindingly light, comfortable, like soft but firm springs. She eyed Helen calmly, her feet pattering lightly on the dusty ground, gathering pace, preparing to enter into her rhythm. Helen stood her ground, their eyes meeting momentarily, before she charged again, attempting to break through Miria’s defence.
Above the pit, Galatea stared at Helen’s rival. The possibility of a counterpunch nagged at the back of her mind, and she wasn’t sure how many Helen could take. Only the gods knew what kind of damage Miria’s lightning speed and reflexes could inflict. “Don’t hesitate, Helen!” she shouted. “Giving her space will only let her build up her timing. Do not let her think about counterattacking. Make her think about the pain!”
Helen obeyed, charging and attempting to pin down Miria with several quick blows. Miria weaved through them, her cold silver eyes completely undisturbed as Helen’s arm brushed past her hair, her ears, her cheeks. She was utterly composed, silently slipping in and out of Helen’s guard as the latter pushed forward, her face growing more and more aggravated. “Damn it,” she roared. “Damn it!”
“Helen, regain your composure!” cried Galatea. “Calm yourself!”
An admirable boxer, overall, thought Miria, as she weaved through another wild arm. Her physical ability and her determination are both praiseworthy. But it seems she has little patience in controlling the pit. She ducked under Helen’s cross, and sneaked in a quick blow to her liver. Helen’s eyes widened, first in shocked pain. Then her eyes narrowed in rage, and she resumed her assault, her fists barely slowing. Miria persisted with her strategy, coolly ducking under Helen’s furious swings.
As I thought, she really is impatient. She musn’t be skilled in exploiting the spacial advantage of the pit floor. Her footwork doesn’t cover much ground. It’s only a matter of time. I will wait for an opportunity…
And here it comes. Helen attempted a powerful but unbalanced cross, her swing too wide. Miria glanced at her exposed shoulder and suddenly moved, her left hand slipping beside Helen’s right and striking her in the chin even as Helen leaned forward to augment her punch’s power. The momentum of Miria’s streamlined body and the power of her arm, coupled with Helen’s own clumsy velocity, meant that Miria’s punch was far more effective than any simple strike. Her left jab cut into Helen’s jaw, and a loud crack could be heard across Bordeaux Coliseum. Galatea swore, and Clare gasped. So this was Miria’s special technique – a meticulously planned, patiently hidden counterpunch, simply waiting for her opponent to walk into. Helen staggered away, clutching at her mouth. Miria moved forward, jabbing at her twice, before attacking with a stronger punch from her right hand. Helen moved to meet her cross with a faster, defensive jab –
Miria’s left hook crushed the side of Helen’s face, sending her flying to the side. “Wha – what – ” cried Helen, coughing blood. It had come so suddenly.
Was this her plan? To lure me in with a feigned cross?
Miria had pulled back her right hand at the last minute, twisting to the right with her waist and landing a full-powered left against Helen’s right cheek. The tomboy reeled, her eyes momentarily clouding over.
“No!” cried Galatea, and she heard Clare and Jeane cry Helen’s name from the stadium seats. Had she been put to sleep?
This was not over yet. Miria’s uppercut came surging up, heading directly for Helen’s bruised jaw.
You think that’s enough to knock me out? Don’t look down on me!!
Helen’s eyes snapped open, glaring at Miria’s fist. Her body slipped to the left, narrowly avoiding the ripping blow.
But now, Miria’s left rib was exposed.
She predicted Miria’s finishing blow! thought Clare, her heart pounding in her ears.
Could it be –
Triumphant, Helen swung a right hook –
Miria’s fist came shooting down, in a chopping motion, smashing into Helen’s exposed head. Helen’s back bent and creaked, and she staggered forward in astonishment, eating another mighty hook again.
She… she predicted my prediction?! Incapacitated, barely able to stand, Helen coughed blood as Miria’s renewed attack began to intensify, burying her alive in a maelstrom of skin and bone.
Does this woman have no opening… at all?
Miria continued to rain down blow after blow on Helen’s tottering form. It was a good chance to finish her quickly, before she recovered. That was the finesse, the beauty of counterpunching. The instant turnaround, the rapid demoralization, the chess-like foil against any attack that could be thrown at her. It was this that had propelled Miria so far, and it was about to propel her further.
Groaning, Helen shifted to the side, her left ribs once again exposed. Her arms sagged, and they slowly lowered, leaving her weary, bloody face open…
Miria pounced at her chance. She lunged, raising her right hand to finish her adversary.
This battle is mine.
Through swollen lips and gums, Helen suddenly grinned.
“Idiot. You fell for it.”
Miria reflexively glanced at Helen’s face as it suddenly contorted in concentration, and from the side below her abdomen, a curving, circular fist hurtled towards her. It suddenly twisted, aiming not for her abdomen, but for her head. Miria’s eyes widened, but her arm was already extended, and she could not protect her open face.
Impossible! How could her arm be moving at this angle, from her waist? A human could not physically bend like so!
Helen roared. “Pucker up!” she howled, and her Ironhorse Smash connected with Miria’s chin, hurling her upwards into the air. Miria gasped, her entire body flung back and careening across the pit. She skidded along the ground as she landed, panting, blood flowing from a cut lip and a pulped mouth. She groaned, a molar rolling painfully out amidst bleeding gums. She unconsciously cried out in shock, rage, frustration.
Such… such raw power… What just happened?!
Helen lowered her fist. “That’s what you get for being so cocky, Phantom.”
“Helen!” breathed Jeane.
Clare shook her head in astonishment, while Galatea simply nodded. “Good.” Helen had revealed her flagship punch to her opponent, the Ironhorse. It was a unique talent Galatea had noticed in Helen within several months of accepting her into the Academy. Helen’s body possessed an advantage of flexibility, and it enabled her to do things in the pit a convention boxer would not dare to do – such as dropping one’s hands, or leaving vulnerable parts of the body exposed.
But it was precisely those seemingly vulnerable stances that would allow Helen’s Ironhorse to break through an opponent’s orthodox, rigid defence. Miria might be a pioneer in the offensive arts, but her defensive strategy typical, was as bland, as any other everyday fighter.
“Very well done, Helen,” affirmed Galatea to herself, unconsciously cupping her chin with her thumb and finger.
As for Helen herself, she charged, riding the momentum of her desperate counterattack. Miria’s silver eyes were now alight with fury, yet the shock to her chin and to her nervous system had overcome her, to the point that she could only stand still as she clutched at her head. Helen smirked.
One strong punch from me, and she’s reduced to this blubbering mess. She’s weaker than me, I know it. I can hang on and win. She pulled back her fist again. “I’ll pound you another one until you break!” she roared.
I’ll finish her with a second Ironhorse!
In desperation, Miria raised her arms to block. But it did not help – Helen’s curved strike was so strong, that it broke through her guard, forcing apart her tightly clenched forearms and connecting through to her face, landing neatly on her nose. Miria screamed and toppled, her small body sprawling across the floor. Galatea’s eyes widened in hope, and Helen panted, unable to suppress a shout of victory.
As expected of Rabona Academy, her boxers had once again turned their disadvantage into a thrilling dominance.
Clare could not help grinning. Helen might have been reckless, but she was undeniably good.
Gore still dripping from her mouth, Helen closed her black eye blissfully, savouring the crisp, hot sweaty hair. She turned to wave at her audience, smiling –
“Helen!” screamed Galatea. “It’s not over yet!”
“Huh?” said Helen blankly, turning her head.
Her eyes widened in disbelief.
The crowds uttered murmurs of awe and incredulity as the felled woman in the pit began struggle back up. Her matted face left the ground, blood pouring from her nostrils. Slowly, painfully, but surely, she had propped herself on one knee, her arm scrabbling wildly at the floor. She moaned, but it only seemed to galvanize, to strengthen her resolve. Miria forced her disobedient body up, shaking violently, her eyes aflame with a burning determination.
Helen’s jaw dropped. She had never fought a woman, who, once felled, could struggle up again.
Had any of them fought a woman with such… fortitude?
Rimuto was speechless. Galatea could not find words to describe the… phenomenon. Clare and Jeane stared down, similarly dumbstruck, at Miria, who had now stood up, and was back in a fighting stance, fists weakly raised.
“I… I don’t want to lose…” she murmured quietly, shaking unsteadily.
Helen stared at the struggling woman in astonishment. What could possibly be driving her to such desperation?
“You’re good, sister,” she muttered, unable to suppress a savage smile. She lunged, roaring. “Let’s finish this.”
Snarling, Miria bent her legs, bracing herself for Helen’s final charge. Helen attacked, her teeth bared in fury. Miria’s punch shot out from her lowered position, at a straight trajectory. The fists of the two mighty warriors met –
Miria’s counterpunch connected first. It was faster than any punch Galatea had ever borne witness to – a product of refined practice that not even Cynthia had mastered – and a technique that required immense, active mental concentration in the midst of physical trauma.
It was her trump card.
The Phantom Mirage.
Helen felt a molar fly from her mouth, but she pressed on, her final Ironhorse colliding with Miria’s soft skin and flesh, her knuckles digging deep into Miria’s stomach, the woman’s liver churning at the impact.
Neither could withstand each other’s power much longer. After several tortured moments, the two fighters broke off, doubling over and groaning. They staggered, then fell to the ground, their lithe bodies covered in dust and sweat. Miria twitched, and then lay still, her eyes clouding over. Helen had landed face-down, her arms splayed apart. She did not get back up.
Silence impregnated the entire Coliseum.
A… double knockout…
Rimuto found his voice at last, unable to tear his eyes away from the pit. “The… the match is over! They have both lost! Neither fighter shall qualify to challenge the Champion!”
Miria had hoped to return home to Hilda, to share with her the joy of victory.
Helen had expected to challenge Irene by the end of the week, to do her part for Galatea’s strategy.
But there was to be no victor this day.
With a twofold defeat, both contestants were to be disqualified.
Rimuto waved at the wardens at the arena entrance, signalling for them to whisk Miria and Helen away to the medic’s wing.
A dejected, subdued aura permeated the Coliseum. How could this be? It had been a most spectacular bout! Who could have predicted that their final, desperate attacks would connect against each other? It was a horrible twist of fate. It was such a waste.
Neither woman deserved this…
But it was Galatea who felt her shoulder sag in true disappointment. She closed her eyes, unable to meet Clare and Jeane’s helpless gazes.
First Deneve, now Helen. One incapacitated, and one disqualified.
Now, she only had two boxers left who had the potential to challenge the current Champion.
This was not how she hoped things would play out.
*
Miria and Helen lay on separate makeshift beds, their chests rising rapidly and uncomfortably. They had both been hurt badly, neither of them could talk just yet. Such was the damage they had inflicted against each other to their heads.
Galatea stood by Helen’s bedside, flanked by Clare and Jean. Even her sarcastic smile had disappeared now. “This is not good,” she muttered. “Two of our boxers, out of the Carnival. Both heavily injured and unable to fight for more than two months. And we still have several bouts to complete before we can even approach Irene…”
Clare looked sadly down at Helen, whose eyes were closed. Her feeble breathing was truly worrying. “Helen will be heartbroken when she awakes and learns of her disqualification.” Her hand found Helen’s bandaged fingers, clasping it lightly. “I never thought that the rules demanded both fighters concede their victories, should neither defeat the other.”
“I understand that they must maintain these strict rules in the name of fairness,” murmured Jeane, shaking her head. “But even so, to have seen these two fight so valiantly, so courageously… only to have their dreams for this year’s Carnival stolen from them through no fault of their own…”
Galatea’s countenance was grim. “We can’t argue against the judge. His decision is absolute. We have no choice but to make do with what we have now. Although I only have you two, I have faith. Noelle… and Sophia. They hail from Sutafu Academy, and have a direct relationship to Irene. Defeating them will open the path to the Champion herself. But first, Clare, you must defeat Flora, and Jeane, you must work your way up to Noelle by defeating the two lesser fighters on your contract.”
“Of course. Leave it to us,” declared Jeane, raising her hand to her left breast.
“Good.” Galatea looked at them sharply. “Deneve and Helen are out of commission, and Cynthia is hard at work for her Championship match. Please, your part will be of crucial importance. I am counting on you to qualify for challenging Flash-Strike Irene.”
The two women nodded, their eyes clear, sharp, and courageous.
For the sake of their beloved Academy, they could not lose.
For the sake of Teresa… I cannot lose.
*
Sutafu Academy
Although Rabona Academy had been rising rapidly in fame due to the exploits of Clare, Cynthia, Helen and Deneve, the ancient school of Sutafu had still retained its position as the most prestigious bare-knuckle boxing institution. It was a mighty complex up in the forest of the mountains, built of stone and marble, constructed far more expensively than Galatea’s comparatively makeshift wood and bricks. It was intentionally secluded, unlike many of the other Academies that had been founded within cities, for the intents and purposes of removing all distractions from their students.
There were three main reasons for Sutafu Academy’s eminence. The first was that the legendary one-time World Champion, Teresa, trained here as a novice, attaining the foundation that would catapult her into the annals of boxing myth. The second reason was that Priscilla, the young girl who was the first boxer to ever defeat Teresa and usurp the World Championship, also had perfected her techniques here, rising to the summit on the shoulders of Sutafu’s resources and teachers.
Finally, Sutafu was home to the current Continental Featherweight Champion, a veteran who had never suffered defeat save at the hands of Teresa.
Clad in her boxing outfit, Sophia made her way to the large garden outside the Academy, unwrapping her hands of the soaked bandages that protected her knuckles against the sandbag. She was a gentle-eyed and soft-spoken woman, although her competititon with her rival, Noelle, often saw her lose all motivation to maintain the difficult art of femininity. She walked beyond the old pillars that held up the patterned roof of the complex, where a woman reclined on a comfortable chaise longue, sipping a warm cup of tea while observing the setting sun that dipped below the hedges surrounding the park.
Sophia stopped and opened her mouth to speak. “Mistress Irene.”
The woman on the chair turned, setting the teacup aside. Unlike Sophia, she had donned an elegant black dress, her tall stature accentuated by the ebony of the garments. Her slanted eyes glimmered, and she stroked back her platinum hair, just brushing her sharp ears. “What news have you for me?”
“Two fighters have been disqualified in their most recent match. From the Continent, there remains only two boxers who have the right to challenge you. And they are both from Rabona Academy.”
“I see.” The pale, ghostly woman nodded slowly. “Two potential challengers, hm? I have a strange intuition that I may have met them before.”
Rabona Academy. Backwater dredge, thought Sophia to herself. “Of course, they will not climb their way up so easily. As we are of Sutafu Academy, Noelle and I will remain the semi-finalists, as it is every year. Should one of them defeat us, you will be faced with the prospect of fighting her. That is how it has always been, has it not?”
The master boxer called Irene paused, looking up at the afternoon sky. “Good. We will discover soon enough just how powerful they are. You may go.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
As Sophia turned on her heel and made her way out of the lush garden, Irene slowly gave a small, secretive smile.
“Rabona Academy, is it?”
There was no point in getting excited yet. The two still had several bouts to go. Nevertheless, she could not deny the warm sensation at her left breast.
This year was looking to be a good one.
It would be an honour to face one of you in the pit.