Chapter 7: A Meeting, and a Celebration
Bordeaux Coliseum
Galatea regretted that she couldn’t oversee her two students’ matches, but it couldn’t be helped. She was confident, at the very least, that they were victorious.
It was about time. Deneve and Helen should be wrapping up their matches by now. The roar of the crowds inside the walls confirmed her prediction.
Under the sweltering summer sun outside the Coliseum, Galatea received her blood-caked students, parchment in hand. “I won,” crowed Helen, thrusting her bleeding arms up in gloating triumph. “Zelda simply crumbled before my Ironhorse Uppercut. Can you say the same, Deneve?”
“Yes,” said her best friend quietly, similarly coated in gore. “Pamela was not expecting an opponent who is ambidextrous. I defeated her with a right jab that she caught with her face.”
“Boring,” cried Helen. “Where are your killng techniques? Your trump cards, as they call it?” She gestured with her left fist. “Nothing like a hybrid punch to send the enemy flying. They don’t even know which angle it’s going to hit. They think I’m bending my arm at some weird angle, but it’s the punch trajectory itself that’s the killer. I love this stunt!”
“Leave her alone,” chided Galatea. “If she enjoys winning through tried-and-true, superior technique, let her be. Now. Let’s review your progress.” Galatea revealed her quill and crossed out the names of Pamela and Zelda on her parchment list. Now, only one name to each boxer remained before Irene herself:
Helen: Miria –> Irene
Deneve: Undine –> Irene
“Well. It appears you’ve got a hell of a month coming up,” she observed thoughtfully. Your opponents are ‘Mirage Miria’, and ‘Undine of the Twin Sledgehammers’. From what I’ve heard, Miria is an expert in counterpunching and dominating the pit, so I figured your Ironhorse technique would be a good neutralizer to her speed, Helen. And Helen, although I know little about this Undine, I’m confident your formidable defence should be able to take anything she throws at you.”
“Enough of that!” cried Helen, thumping Galatea on the back and prompting a grunt of annoyance from her coach. “Deneve and I just belted our contracted opponents into the sand! Let’s hurry home and get Cynthia, Clare, and Jeane! There’s going to be celebrations at Rabona Boxing Academy, and no one’s invited except the six of us!”
“Of course. None of us have lovers,” muttered Deneve.
Galatea coughed quietly and pretended to scowl at Helen.
There was never a better time to keep her mouth shut.
*
Beyond the green hills of Rabona
Clare did not feel the least bit guilty for missing out on Helen and Deneve’s final elimination matches. If it was not necessary to depart for Bordeaux, she was happy to remain at Rabona, dividing her time between Teresa’s house and the Academy. Truth be told, despite her growing proficiency at boxing, she hated the Coliseum with a passion. The crowds, the cruelty, Rimuto – she despised them all.
Only her love for Teresa could overcome her hatred for that damned place.
She had spent the morning running with Jeane, later engaging in a friendly race that Jeane won. “Your endurance is better than mine,” gasped Clare, as she stopped to hold her pain-wracked stomach. They had sprinted for more than five miles before slowing down slightly for ten. Clare’s body grew wearier by the hour, a rather disturbing observation, given that her next fight against Flora was to take place soon. Yet in the first place, Jeane did not deserve to be lower-ranked than her. Perhaps she did not even deserve to have fought that match with her, since she was, in many respects, a better boxer. It was so unfair. And yet Jeane seemed to be so grateful for just being able to train at Rabona.
I admire you, Jeane.
As they were resting by the tranquil pathway, they caught sight of a humanoid shape moving several dozen metres from them. “Look,” said Clare, pointing into the immediate distance. “Someone’s running towards us.”
“Someone else knows about this path?” said Jeane, puzzled.
The newcomer gradually neared them, and almost instantly, Jeane and Clare understood that the woman who was jogging towards them was no ordinary person. She possessed a most… curious countenance. Clare had never seen anything like it. She was tall, graceful, dignified, with stern, noble, slanting eyes. Her ears were rather unusual, they pointed outwards, beyond her long, elegant, silver hair. It spilled down her shoulders, and it hardly moved as she ran, her arms swinging minimally back and forth as her legs moved with the grace and skill of an accomplished boxer.
A boxer?
But of course. She wore a deep brown, flagship tight shirt and shorts, with soft leather shoes to complete her ensemble. Clare glanced down at her dirt-smeared bare feet, slightly embarrassed.
Jeane could not help but stare as the elfin woman slowed down. Her face was consistently expressionless, as if she had forgotten how to smile. “I never expected to meet fellow boxers on my usual circuit,” spoke the newcomer, looking at the two younger women with a slight degree of suspicion.
“This is your road?” blurted Jeane.
“In a manner. I run to these hills, from the mountain range over there,” the other replied, nodding behind her, to where the snowcapped peaks towered over the valley of the other side of the Continent.
Clare’s eyes widened. “You run in the snowy mountains?”
The woman looked at her for a moment longer than usual. She paused. “Of course, young lady. I do not live here.”
“You train hard,” commented Clare. “Which Academy are you from?”
“Sutafu Academy,” replied the slant-eyed woman. Her skin was beautiful, ethereal. Her irises shone with a mysterious lustre as she met Clare’s own gaze. “It’s a while from here. And by your looks, you’re from Rabona, yes?”
“How… how do you know?”
“Rabona Academy is famous for their young but talented boxers. Your coach, inexperienced as she is, has always possessed a penchant for a liberal and open-minded attitude towards pit fighting.”
“You know Galatea?”
The senior fighter’s lip curved, ever so slightly, upwards. “She is but a child in my eyes.”
Clare scowled, offended.
“You think me a liar?” asked the pointy-eared woman. She shrugged. "You look like you want to hit me. Come, do so."
Perplexed, Clare dashed forward and threw a one-two-three combo. Surely at her speed –
But she was punching at thin air. The woman had vanished.
What?!
She did not know how the pointy-eared woman did it, but in one split second, she had moved. How she could have shot away so swiftly, she didn’t understand, but before she could even blink or flinch, the woman’s fingertip was less than an inch from her left eye, a thin nail just hovering beside her lashes.
One moment, no, one heartbeat – and it was there. Clare stilled instantly, but her entire body was shaking.
What – what just happened?
She could not feel anything within her; it was as if time itself had stopped. Her ears could only register her own thundering heartbeat.
What kind of magic was this silver-haired woman using?
No. Not magic.
Technique.
Pure, unsurpassed, superb, superhuman, bare-knuckle boxing technique.
Jeane was at a loss for words. She could only stare at the Sutafu boxer in awe.
“You need not doubt my words,” said the pointy-eared woman coolly, withdrawing her finger.
Clare did her best not to tremble as she did so.
“You… are truly a master of your art,” admitted Jeane, unable to hold back her admiration.
The woman smiled, if only to herself. “All warriors must train to reach a higher level than that of those they wish to defeat… yes?”
Her eyes suddenly met Clare’s, and for a moment, Clare thought she was looking at Teresa.
The pale, elfin woman blinked, shaking her head. “Look at me, talking to myself. My arrogance must be insufferable. Goodbye. I’ll leave you two to your roadwork. Perhaps we may see each other again.” And with that, she ran past them, her feet tapping lightly on the pavement.
Clare and Jeane looked at the rapidly receding form of the pointy-eared woman, before glancing at each other.
“Interesting lady,” observed Jeane. “She may just be the most powerful boxer I’ve seen yet. But I wouldn’t tell the others we met her. Speaking of which, they should have returned by now, yes?”
“She… she seemed to recognize me somewhat,” replied Clare, still trying to calm the raging pounding of her heart.
*
Rabona Academy was in a jovial mood tonight.
Inside, the women had finished their evening meal, and were sitting in a circle on the floor beside the hanging sandbags, sharing their stories of the past few months. Their small cups lay scattered about the floor, and they sat relaxedly, throwing aside their worries and their trepidations for the night.
Certainly, a lot had changed, and there was much to talk about. Clare’s success as a professional boxer was notable, for no one had expected her to be able to defeat warriors of a level like Jeane or Rachel. Cynthia’s unbeaten record was perhaps the flagship pride of Rabona, and Jeane’s upcoming match was one everyone was looking forward to – to have Drill Strike representing their city was a most exciting surprise.
Led by Helen, the rare and welcome opportunity to socialize as a group was gathering pace, thanks to a leather pouch of alcohol she had sneaked in under Galatea’s nose. Needless to say, the boxers’ teacher was the first to succumb to the tongue-loosening spirit. She could barely sit upright, and had to be supported by the ever-loyal Cynthia.
Jeane could not help remaining a bit sombre. “So… the Champion Carnival begins tomorrow,” she confirmed, as Clare poured her a drink. “It should be the biggest event this Academy has experienced to date.”
“You’re right, but wrong, too,” corrected Helen, burping loudly. She was reclining against the wall, waving her hand. “The Champion Carnival is for those who want to dominate the Continent’s boxing circles. But the World stage has an even more spectacular event: the Festival of Legends. Warriors from all over the realm come to Bordeaux to challenge the top World boxers, and of course, the World Champion too.”
“The Festival of Legends?!” cried Galatea angrily, her cheeks pink and her body swaying weakly. “This blasted Carnival hasn’t even started, and you’re thinking of the Festival already? Young fool.” Behind her, Cynthia giggled, pleased that the coach of their Academy was now at her mercy. She caught Galatea, who was about to topple forwards. “Release me at once, Cynthia. I’m going to kick this worthless student out of my gym.”
“I think our coach has got a lot to prepare for tomorrow,” said Cynthia apologetically, unable to resist nuzzling her nose against Galatea’s cheek. “I’ll take her to her room.” And with that, she rose and helped the (usually) graceful and dignified woman out of the hall.
“God’s wounds,” groaned Helen, retching quietly. She slapped Deneve on the back, a loud
thud ringing through the drunken hall. “I think I’m going to hurl. It’s been too long since we had a small party like this.” Deneve closed her eyes, suppressing the overpowering urge to sock her one. Helen burped again. “I’m glad we had our match today. If it was tomorrow… I wouldn’t know what I’d do.” She raised her pouch. “Another swig, ladies?”
“I’ll pass,” muttered Jeane.
“Me too,” agreed Clare.
“This is silly. I’m off to bed.” Deneve closed her eyes and stood up. “I’m not cleaning up Helen’s mess.”
“Deneve, my beloved – take me with yooooooooou,” bawled Helen, grabbing Deneve’s leg as the sober woman struggled to flee the premises. Clare glanced at Jeane, and it was difficult not to laugh.
Jeane gave a shy smile. “I’ve… never had the privilege to enjoy such a charming time with fellow boxers.”
“Neither have I,” said Clare. “I wonder if they did this all the time before I joined.”
“You haven't missed much,” muttered Deneve, slamming the toilet door shut, with Helen sliding along the ground behind her.
Jeane nodded, commonsense still her watchword. “But Deneve’s right, we should not remain here for too late. The Champion Carnival is tomorrow. And her bout happens to be one of the first events, and it is against no ordinary fighter. We had best go support her match.”
Clare nodded. “I agree.”
They looked at each other, and sheepishly, they rose together.
“Well… see you tomorrow,” offered Clare.
“Till then,” smiled Jeane.
As Clare gathered her bag and opened the door to the Academy, she somehow felt incredibly blessed.
She walked outside and looked up at the night sky, breathing in the dewy air.
Helen.
Deneve.
Galatea.
Cynthia.
And Jeane…
To have met these five women who were travelling the same path as she…
Teresa… I owe a debt of gratitude to many people.
She fondly closed the door behind her. The Champion Carnival was tomorrow.
It would be difficult to fall asleep again tonight.
Clare broke into a jog, her bag thumping lightly on her back as she ran through the wet grass and in the direction of Rabona’s city gates, back to Teresa’s house. And above her, the stars twinkled, shining benevolently on the city.
*
Elsewhere
Cynthia squealed in glee, holding an incapacitated Galatea on her bed. At the former prostitute’s bidding, their clothes lay scattered across the room. The coach of Rabona Academy had been powerless to resist, her weak hands unable to stave off Cynthia’s hungry fingers.
What a wonderful opportunity.
“Help me, kitten,” groaned Galatea, her cheeks embarrassingly red and her nipples delightfully erect. “I have a headache.”
“I will kiss it all away for you,” laughed Cynthia, her lips brushing at the coach’s face eagerly. “Now… it’s time for
me to teach
you a few things.” She locked her legs around Galatea; she would not escape her tonight. Here she would stay, wrapped in her arms, until she understood how much Cynthia truly wanted her.
“Come, my teacher. Let’s have a carnival of our own before the dawn finds us.”
