Those people would be correct. 

But it wasn't a 100% advantage. It was more like a... a half advantage. Or a less-than-half advantage. 

The reason for this was that Lone had a secret weapon, a trump card-- something he'd been hiding that he was very good at. That would give him an advantage. That would cancel out Kleitos' advantage. 

So... what was really happening was Kleitos had a 0% advantage. 

Lone was a fighting genius. 

"It's gonna feel good putting my hard steel into your soft fles.h.!.+" Kleitos yelled, lunging forward with a two-handed sword swing. 

Lone dodged the attack easily, using the momentum to fall onto his back, "Come at me, bro!!"

He pointed the soles of his bare feet at his opponent, ready for the next attack.

"Lord Ranger..." The scribe looked on with worry, "What are you doing?"

"Not now, Mister Scribe. I'm in a fight."

Lone was supremely confident on his back. He had attained a magical item in the Kingdom that increased his power level by ten or twenty times as long as he did so. 

...He also had stronger magic items, weapons in particular. The rope was the only magical item that the guards let him keep. 

But that didn't matter! Lone was immortal! 

...He should have counted that as part of his advantages, earlier. 

"How DARE you insult me!!" Kleitos screamed. Raising his sword high above his head, he charged once more...

--just as Lone had planned. 

Lone curled up his entire body like a wound spring, then connected a full-powered kick with his opponent's chin. Kleitos' head snapped back and his body dropped to the cell floor like a sack of meat falling from a meat-sack tree. Rolling forward, Lone immediately mounted the downed man's chest, even before Kleitos' sword clattered harmlessly on the stones. 

Lone's heart beat painfully in his chest and burning mana coursed through his body like mountain rock giving way to molten lava. 

He had fully switched from human to weapon. There were other people in the room beside him, but they didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He couldn't even see their faces anymore. 

The only existences that mattered were himself... and the enemy. 

"GRAHHHHH!!!" Lone roared at the top of his lungs, raining down a barrage of fists on Kleitos' face. With his knees and feet planted on the ground, he rotated his body to maximize the force of his blows. 

He brought his fists down, again and again. 

His opponent spat blood. Then teeth. Then words... begging for mercy. 

Tears welled hot at the corners of Lone's eyes. He wished it was that easy. 

Mercy. 

That was not something he could grant... 

A chill of terror ran down his spine... He knew the feeling intimately. 

He was being watched. 

Golden eyes were watching him from behind. He wanted to turn, to face that person, to plead for mercy on behalf of his enemy. All at once, his instincts rallied together to warn him not to. If he questioned the man with the golden eyes, he would only find suffering. 

He knew better than to grant mercy to the enemies he faced. The men and women of Sol Invictus who guarded his back would not give him the same opportunity. 

"Again..." Lone whispered. He was tired... but still, he hammered his fists down at a b.l.o.o.d.y and broken human face. As tired as he was, he could still use gravity to a.s.sist his strikes. 

"Again," He used his sharp elbows to cut and batter his opponent's face, drenched in blood. 

"AGAIN!!!!" He screamed as he slammed both hands down, furious at himself for his mounting exhaustion. 

"Is this enough?!" Lone sobbed, "Are you tired yet??"

Lone grabbed the man by the sides of his head. Lifting him up, he smashed that person's skull against the hard stone floor. 

"Not enough..." Tears and sweat dripped down his head and face, "I can't... I can't stop until I have permission. I'm sorry... I'm so... so sorry..."

He lost track of time-- had it been seconds, minutes? Entire bells? Lone half-collapsed onto whoever-it-was... and following his instincts, he began launching knee strikes into his opponent's side. 

"Again..." He cried. It was too much. Everything hurt, leaving only the feeling of numbness, depression, and rage. He wasn't human, anymore. 

He was only a weapon. 

"AGAIN!!!" Lone screamed with a hoa.r.s.e voice, smas.h.i.+ng his knee as hard as he could into the unmoving sack of flesh that lay beneath him. 

"Lord Ranger... Lord Ranger!!" The old scribe cried out, "Please! That's enough!!" 

"It's NOT enough!!" Lone yelled helplessly, "It will NEVER be enough!!! Not until the DEATH of the enemies of SOL INVICTUS!!!"

...

The Lone Shadowdark's murderous fury was almost palpable. None of Kleitos' men moved to stop him. It was a death sentence. The Lord Ranger was the strongest existence in Turrim Orientem. 

The old scribe stroked his beard thoughtfully, quietly watching three men carry out the lifeless body of their charge. According to the inmate protocol, the young master's corpse would be thrown into the dungeons below. The guards avoided the depths like the plague, a.s.signing prisoners to delve deep below to cull the monster population. 

No one would miss young master Kleitos. Turrim Orientem was a place where people went to disappear. 

The Lord Ranger had attracted trouble since his first sun. Here, a man that gave off a sense of weakness would be preyed upon. Lone gave off all the signs of prey... seeming patient at first glance... polite, almost. 

Everyone had a breaking point. Lone's was... unpredictable. When he broke... he said inexplicable things. He yelled his attacks before he brutalized his opponents. He praised the dead guild that was Sol Invictus. He adamantly believed he was immortal. 

When most people broke, they became sniveling cowards. 

When the Lord Ranger broke... people died.

As the suns pa.s.sed, both the prisoners and the guards of Turrim Orientem learned that Lone was not prey. He was a predator. 

As mentally unstable as the man known as the Lone Shadowdark was, the scribe would not seek to challenge him... he would do his duty, scribing as requested. Blood still stained Lone's split fists as he again seated himself and continued dictating the contents of his missive. 

The Lord Ranger spoke respectfully of two things... the ominously named adventuring company, Sol Invictus, and its leader, an existence he only referred to as 'Boss'. 

Whosoever those people were... to so brazenly tout themselves as the undefeatable gladiator team... they were a dangerous existence that could not be underestimated. 

The scribe s.h.i.+vered at the thought. 

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