Chapter 29: The Young Muay Thai Fox

Vinigo, after all, was not Aton.

Though intimately familiar with Aton’s capabilities—every move, every combination, the subtleties of Muay Thai—Vinigo’s strength lay not in speed but in his deep knowledge of every game he played and an almost instinctive sense for exploiting glitches. Yet he lacked Aton’s cold, ruthless heart; he could not push Aton’s deadly Muay Thai to its ultimate edge.

The big cat, however, was different. It used a technique akin to spirit possession, “fabricating” its soul, but its body was truly its own—the same body it had wielded countless times, for untold years.

“Don’t be impatient. It’s not over yet. This sewer is enormous,” Vinigo laughed softly.

He focused his left eye, the mirror of self, gazing inward: cells, breath, the flow of energy…

“The match isn’t finished, big cat. Don’t underestimate me,” Vinigo cautioned.

“I’m ahead by sixty monsters already. Can you catch up in the second half?” the big cat boasted.

“I can’t say for certain, but I’ll try my best,” Vinigo replied with a smile.

He warmed up with the customary Muay Thai ritual—joint exercises and a simple blessing—both tradition and an ideal way to prepare and relax for Muay Thai.

This time, Vinigo surged forward, faster and further than before. Against weaker foes, he abandoned the jaguar kick, which offered better control, for the brute force of elbow strikes and sweeping kicks. When he encountered distant sorcerers, he closed the gap with a flying jaguar kick, then followed up with ordinary attacks.

Thus, his efficiency increased slightly.

“As expected, the jaguar kick shines only against enemies with strong defenses,” Vinigo murmured, leaning forward and driving his elbow down, smashing a half-rat monster to the ground. He kicked fiercely, sending the creature—its spine shattered—flying with several giant rats.

Caught up in the battle, Vinigo let out a wild cry, hunched slightly, and suddenly grew in stature, unleashing a dazzling and savage string of kicks and elbows—the Hundred Jaguar Assault!

“These enemies are too weak; they’re just draining our stamina,” Vinigo sneered. “Hani, from now on, use only fear magic.”

By now, the density of monsters in the sewer had dwindled. With Hani’s fear spell disrupting the ranks, Vinigo and Sophie could break through with sheer force, no longer needing to worry about being surrounded deep within the sewer.

Vinigo’s tactics became less conservative.

Hani giggled slyly, targeting her group fear spell toward the big cat’s direction. That way, the big cat faced fewer foes, and the rat extermination contest might still swing in Vinigo’s favor.

“Turn right ahead,” Vinigo instructed Sophie.

The big cat exclaimed, “You’ve been here before? How do you know the rat’s room?”

“I don’t recall every detail, but I remember the general location,” Vinigo replied.

Indeed, while the real sewer system was overwhelmingly vast, its layout was clear enough. Spotting the long, nearly branchless corridor in the northwest corner, Vinigo immediately recognized the route.

As he walked, he picked up a battered longsword and tapped it against the iron grates of the drainage channels. Traps often lurked there, but none were particularly dangerous or hard to evade.

When he found a grate without a trap, Vinigo reached through; usually, some item was hidden there—sometimes coins, sometimes low-grade gems.

He paid it little mind, tossing them into his belt pouch. After seventeen or eighteen grates, he finally found what he sought—a bronze key.

“Let’s go. Time to meet the rat king.”

The thief king’s chamber lay at the end of this path, a hidden room concealed behind a brick wall.

Vinigo easily found the mechanism and opened the secret chamber, but he did not enter first. Instead, he looked to the big cat.

“What? I told you I won’t help you take down that rat,” protested the big cat.

“I just want you to check for traps and ambushes,” Vinigo replied, spreading his hands.

“Hey, is it really okay to shamelessly admit that?” the big cat shouted, rubbing its face.

“A cat always lands on its feet,” Vinigo said. “Your reflexes are the sharpest among all of us—no, all of these creatures. It’s safest if you go.”

Obliging, the big cat stepped inside, then suddenly realized, turning back to yell, “I’m not your companion! We’re enemies, you idiot!”

“We’re not enemies. The big cat is Hani’s new pet,” Hani declared firmly.

“I haven’t agreed—no, it’s impossible, you idiots!” the big cat complained, clutching its head.

“Hani doesn’t care,” Hani retorted, shaking her head.

As they argued, Sophie silently stepped forward, grabbed the big cat by the scruff, and tossed it behind her. With her other hand, she turned her massive sword sideways, holding it across her chest.

A resounding clang rang out as Sophie stepped back, sliding her sword to deflect the force.

Her attacker was a burly, dark-skinned, bald man.

What power!

Though Sophie was a woman, she wielded her heavy sword as if it were a regular blade—a testament to her strength. Yet this man managed to knock her back…

He was empty-handed, his entire body gleaming with a greasy sheen, his skin dark—a foreigner. His muscles bulged as if forged from steel.

“Hey, who are you?” Vinigo asked.

“Olive oil wrestler—the strongest!” the man answered awkwardly.

“Wait… I think I remember you,” Vinigo scratched his head, then suddenly darted forward—jaguar kick!

His foot slashed down fiercely. Though the wrestler was huge, his reactions were surprisingly quick; as Vinigo’s foot descended, the man raised an arm to block.

Vinigo felt as if he’d stepped onto a bar of soap, slipping off the man’s oily forearm.

Definitely strange!

That slip threw off Vinigo’s balance. The wrestler lunged forward, sliding across the ground like an ice skater, grabbed Vinigo’s calf, and lifted, swinging him toward the sewer wall. Though startled, Vinigo reacted instantly, arching his back and smashing into the wall, then straightening to absorb some of the impact.

Blood sprayed from his mouth. Vinigo pressed his legs down, knees bent, kneeling atop the wrestler’s upper arm. The man cried out in pain, releasing his grip. Vinigo followed with a crushing elbow to the top of his head.

It lacked force… Vinigo thought grimly.

Vinigo kicked the wrestler away, jumped back two steps, and stared at him.

An opponent coated in oil—a real nuisance…

Vinigo knew that as long as the oil remained, his attacks would lose up to thirty percent of their power, while the wrestler could use the oil to slide, absorb force, and move swiftly.

But… oil?

Vinigo’s attacks were not entirely ineffective. The wrestler touched his bald head, grimacing in pain—though slippery, the oil was not invincible.

Clearly, Vinigo was at a disadvantage.

Olive oil wrestling was the signature martial art of a small principality famous for its olive oil. The practitioners, often equally oily and muscular, excelled at grappling; they could seize even the slipperiest and strongest opponents, making them extremely difficult to resist.

Accustomed to gripping slick foes, these wrestlers possessed astonishing grip strength.

Vinigo began to use nimble Muay Thai footwork to keep his distance. The oily wrestler’s steps were slow—his strikes powerful and his grappling precise, but his footwork lagged.

Excellent, a weakness…

Vinigo leaped aside, jumped up, kicked off the wall—jaguar kick!

The wrestler shifted slightly, and Vinigo’s kick slid off his skin. The man swung his arm, sending Vinigo flying.

Vinigo’s back slammed against the wall, another mouthful of blood spat out. Though he looked battered, he was not seriously injured.

“Preparation complete,” Vinigo said calmly as he slid to the ground.

The wrestler tilted his head, watching Vinigo. He lunged again, sliding along the floor, aiming for Vinigo’s legs.

“Don’t underestimate me, you idiot!” Vinigo shouted, leaping high and kicking off the wall—not toward the wrestler, but landing back in place.

The sewer walls and floor were constructed from a porous, brittle local stone—not sturdy, but cheap and easy to quarry, making it ideal for building this vast sewer system. Vinigo’s powerful kick sent clouds of stone dust flying.

Stone dust!

The wrestler barreled in, covered in the powder. Vinigo wasted no time, hopped forward, hooked his foot, and sent the wrestler arcing through the air to crash against the floor.

The man’s body was soon coated in stone dust.

The oil, mixed with stone powder, was no longer so slippery.

“Rest easy, big guy,” Vinigo sneered, spinning jaguar strike!

He closed in, elbowing the wrestler’s face, then followed with knee strikes, shoulder charges, and a flurry of punches—swift, savage, relentless. Taken by surprise, the wrestler’s face blossomed with bruises in every color; he lost his balance, nearly collapsing.

Here, the strength of Aton the Muay Thai fighter—or rather, Vinigo—was revealed in its full glory.