Five days ago, on September 25th.
Some unnamed island.
The setting sun hung on the palm treetops like a gradually cooling branding iron.
On this island, which the soldiers jokingly call "God's Toilet," a site has been cleared on the west side of the beach.
Right now, a thrilling entertainment event is underway.
Four wooden stakes were used to pull up a faded hemp rope, and a simple fighting arena was thus created.
"They've placed their bets! They've placed their bets!"
Hawkins, with a prominent bulbous nose, was leaning against a barrel of liquor, a cigar dangling from his lips.
A national flag was stuck next to the wine barrel, but it drooped because there was no wind.
Hawkins, his face flushed from the sun, beamed with a smile and shouted excitedly:
"Daniel is worth two to one!"
"Finks is 3 to 1! Come and place your bets now!"
"Kids, check your pockets! See if they're as clean as your bottoms, hahaha!"
Beer bottles were scattered all over the ground, and the boxing ring was packed with people. The soldiers watching were all flushed and shouting excitedly.
Private Miller, drunk, slammed his last five silver coins onto the tin bucket: "I bet on Daniel!"
"Finks has already played two matches! He's definitely going to lose this time!"
Hawkins grinned and put the box into it, laughing loudly, "Finx won't be defeated so easily, hahaha."
In the center of the arena, this unregulated and unrestricted fight has begun.
Before it began, everyone present had a clear position and hierarchical relationship.
But once it begins, all participants are equal.
Inside the ring, Finks and Daniel were circling around, shirtless and without boxing gloves, their hands only wrapped in strips of cloth.
Soldier Daniel was a robust young man from Clyland in the South, his hometown farm sun giving him a bronze tan.
Now, his blond hair is stuck to his forehead with sweat, and even his neck is sunburned.
He was as solid as a wall, yet his steps were remarkably light. His pair of azure eyes were fixed on his opponent, and he dared not be careless in the slightest.
Across from him, a bearded man in his thirties named Finks had just knocked down two opponents.
But nowadays, people who place bets believe that he has little energy left, so his odds are still higher.
And that certainly seems to be the case; Finks moves much more slowly than in the previous two games.
"Come on, farm boy! What are you waiting for!"
"Beat him up with your fists!" Miller shouted, having staked everything.
Daniel just kept going in circles, and Finks was just playing along with him.
Time ticked by, and the soldiers grew impatient, beginning to roar:
"Punch him! Hit him!"
"You son of a bitch! Get him now!"
"Knock down this outsider!"
Amidst the roar, just as Daniel made a move, Finks had already thrown a straight punch.
Daniel awkwardly dodged, but stumbled and nearly fell.
Finks pressed his advantage and landed a left hook on Daniel's blocking left arm.
The punch was so heavy that Daniel grimaced and staggered back several steps, almost falling onto the sand.
The soldiers watching burst into laughter.
"Left! Watch out to the left! You idiot!" a soldier yelled, spilling beer all over himself, but he didn't care and continued shouting.
"Beat him in the stomach! Good heavens! Can't you see his stomach is empty?!"
But before he could finish speaking, Phinks swept his arm across the ground, knocking Daniel to the ground.
"Oh! Shit!" A chorus of boos erupted from the surroundings, and the insults grew increasingly offensive.
"Get up! Farm boy! You're like a clumsy bull!"
"Did your mother teach you to box?"
"Damn it! Shut your stinking mouth, Patri!" Daniel spat out a mouthful of sandy saliva, muttered a curse, and quickly got up.
A burst of cheerful laughter erupted from the crowd.
Hawkins gulped down a large mouthful of whiskey, tossed the empty bottle aside, and laughed drunkenly:
“Let me tell you, back in the days of the Liga continent, the boxing matches we held were the real boxing matches.”
"There's this short, uncultured guy who can knock a water buffalo down with one punch, but do you know him...?"
No one listened to his story; everyone's attention was focused on the field.
Daniel began to fight back, like an enraged rooster, he pounced on Finks without any strategy.
His fists swung wildly, and one of them accidentally grazed Finks's forehead, causing blood to gush out.
"Well done!" Miller jumped up and cheered, but accidentally knocked down the soldier next to him. The soldier got up and roared as he threw a punch at Miller.
Miller took a solid punch, cursed "son of a bitch," and started wrestling with him, while the surrounding soldiers laughed and cheered.
Hawkins finished his drink and, banging on the tin bucket, drunkenly shouted:
"Damn brat! Hurry up and bring the wine up!!"
A boy of about fifteen or sixteen years old hurriedly brought over a dozen beers.
Hawkins, his face contorted with rage, kicked him to the ground: "Idiot! Don't you know I wanted whiskey?!"
The thin, severely underdeveloped boy lay on the ground, writhing and coughing up blood, when a soldier next to him kicked him hard.
"Stop pretending to be dead! Go get the wine!"
"Go now!!!" Hawkins grabbed an empty bottle from the side and smashed it hard.
The boy groaned in pain, but still got up from the ground, clutching his stomach as he went to get the wine.
Despite blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as she walked, no one around her paid any attention to the boy.
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