asconian's blog

There is something strange about MeetFighters.

At first glance, it feels like an obscure corner of the internet — a hidden world, dangerous, forbidden, and yet irresistibly attractive. Most people there stay behind their screens, half-hidden, half-tempted, scrolling through profiles late at night, curious but afraid. Only a few dare to cross that invisible line and take the first step.

I don’t know how your first fight was.

But mine — mine changed everything.

The moment before

I remember that day with absolute clarity.

I arrived in a taxi, my hands sweating, my heart pounding so hard I could almost hear it echo inside the car. The driver kept glancing at me in the mirror, maybe sensing my nervousness, maybe wondering what kind of meeting could make someone’s breathing so uneven.

When I stepped out, the air felt heavier than usual. My legs were trembling slightly — not from fear, exactly, but from anticipation. Every thought in my head was trying to convince me to turn around, to go home, to pretend this had never happened. But my body knew better. My body was ready.

I entered a small café near the hotel. It smelled of coffee and rain-soaked streets. I looked around, pretending to be calm, pretending I belonged there. And then, across the room, I saw him — the man I had been messaging with for days on MeetFighters.

Our eyes met, and in that instant, everything fell silent. 

There was a strange recognition, as if we had both been waiting for that exact moment. Two people, both nervous, both hiding the same excitement, both wondering what would happen next. Smile

A single glance — that’s all it took. A pulse, a heartbeat, a quiet agreement. That was where everything began.

Crossing the line

The fight itself was unlike anything I had imagined.

There was no aggression, no real competition — just movement, breathing, contact. It was strange, awkward at first, but also peaceful in a way I hadn’t expected. It felt like every fear I’d carried for years dissolved with each hold, each touch, each shared moment of trust.

And that night, I understood something profound: this wasn’t just about fighting. It was about connection — about finding someone who felt the same way I did. Someone who understood the pull of this world, the quiet need to test yourself, to surrender control and rediscover strength in another’s hands.

That first match opened a door I didn’t know existed. 

From that day on, one opponent after another appeared — each unique, each wonderful, each leaving a mark on me. And to every single one of them, I owe gratitude.

There have been more than fighters. There have been companions in courage, mirrors of my own fears and desires.

I’ve learned from them, respected them, and, in a way, loved them all.

What you will find

Are you scared of the other guy?. Well, that’s normal. If it’s your first time, and it’s not for him, feel honoured. Hardly anyone trust newcomers.

If you ever find yourself there — behind the anonymity, the usernames, the quiet anticipation — know this: you will discover people who pulse the same way you do. People who feel the same tension, the same fear, the same hunger for something real.

Some tips

1) Treat them well. Even if you go “full speed, be kind, respectful, tolerant. They are not a piece of flesh.

2) You don’t need to force empathy — just step into their world for a moment, try to see through their eyes. When two people meet and truly connect, the energy becomes different — deeper, more human, more positive.

3) For newcomers end even experts, of course, you have to be careful. Behind the anonymity, not everyone is who they claim to be. Most people here — and I’ve met many — are kind, respectful, and surprisingly normal. But there’s a small, unhealthy minority too, and you learn to recognize them early on. Trust your instincts. Always.

4) Start with the recommended profiles. Look for mutual friends.

5) Ask every question you need to ask. Establish bridges

6) And before you meet, talk. Meet for coffee. Look each other in the eyes. Build some kind of human connection — so that when you fight, you’re not wrestling with a stranger, but sharing a moment with another person, another story, another heartbeat.

And yes, the fight becomes something else entirely

Aftermath

When it’s over, the silence that follows can be bittersweet.

You leave with your heart still beating fast, knowing you’ve shared something that words can’t explain. You might never see that person again, but they’ll remain with you — not as a rival, but as part of your story.

I won’t lie-the goodbyes hurt

But they’re also what make this world so real, so vivid, so unforgettable. So if you’re out there, still hiding behind the glow of your screen, reading profiles and stories on MeetFighters, wondering what it would feel like — stop wondering.

Do it.

Do it for yourself.

Because some fears are meant to be broken, and some moments — just a few — are powerful enough to change the way your heart beats forever

CHAPTER 4 Revenge

The count had proven he could take hits, that he knew how to move, and that he had instinct. But Daniel knew he wasn’t yet ready to fight in a harder battle.

One more test was missing. EDGAR.

He was a brute. Stronger, rougher. A man who fought with the ferocity of an animal, and until now, had only been defeated by Daniel in a savage fight in the stables. If the count wanted to prove he was a true fighter, he had to face Edgar.

Daniel whispered the idea to him. The count hesitated.

BUT then, something sparkled in his eyes.

Challenge in the Kitchens

They went down to the kitchens, where Edgar rested with a mug of beer in his hand. When he saw the count and Daniel arrive, he raised an eyebrow.

—“To what do I owe the honor?”

The count went straight to the point.

—“I want to settle accounts.”

Edgar laughed.

—“My lord, are you joking? Didn’t you have enough last time?”

—“No.”

Edgar looked at Daniel, expecting him to clarify, but Daniel just smiled, arms crossed.

—“Sir, I can’t hit him again.”

The count got angry.

—“If you let me win, I’ll fire you.”

Edgar blinked, surprised. Then he smiled.

—“Sir, I’m going to enjoy this. I’ve wanted to do this for a long time.”

—“Very well,” said the count, removing his jacket. “Let’s see what you can do with me.”

A Fight of Savages

Servant and master face to face. Revenge. Man to man. Down in the kitchen. The first blow came from Edgar. A right to the stomach that bent the count in half.

But the count didn’t fall. Instead, he threw a punch to Edgar’s face, who barely managed to move.

—“Well, sir.” He smiled, wiping the blood from his mouth. The beast was ignited.

—“Sir, I’m going to beat you up,” he said with a wolfish grin.

Edgar growled and grabbed him by the collar, pushing him against a table. Spoons, plates, and mugs flew into the air.

Daniel watched the brawl, delighted. The fight broke loose.

They rolled on the floor. Edgar struck fiercely, but the count was no longer the refined noble of before. He had learned to move, to dodge, to withstand pain.

They exchanged punches, slaps, knees. The kitchen became a battlefield.

Daniel watched, arms crossed, smiling.

The count threw dirty hits. Kicks to the shins, elbows, even bites if necessary. Edgar was surprised. 

He was no longer fighting his master.

He was fighting another animal like himself. And he wouldn’t lose.

With a roar, Edgar lifted him off the ground and threw him against a table, which split in two.

The count spat blood.

But he got up.

Daniel whistled.

—“Come on, my lord, you can handle him.”

The count took a deep breath, launched himself at Edgar, and delivered a devastating right to the chin.

Edgar staggered.

Another hit.

And another.

Edgar fell to the ground with a crash, unconscious.

SILENCE.

The count, panting, brought a hand to his bloody face. He had done it.

Daniel approached and handed him a towel.

—“Incredible, my lord. Now you’re ready to beat anyone.”

Edgar was stunned. He had lost the fight against his master. He was no longer a dandy. He would have to clean up the mess. The kitchen was wrecked. Not today. Edgar was beaten and bruised.

He smiled. “Damn my lord.”

For a long time, the count had an idea and decided to abandon Daniel’s training. Not because he thought he was ready, but because something was on his mind and he needed to prepare himself without Daniel knowing. He would surprise him.

Daniel, on the other hand, had left the palace due to his mother’s illness in northern Scotland and needed to take care of her but knew he was leaving the count in good hands.

Not that Edgar would take care of him—though he could—but the count could break anyone’s jaw.

But the count did not stop training and did not stop going down to the river to satisfy his instincts.

THE FINAL COMBAT

Six months passed, and the Count of Hereford had become popular. And feared. Daniel, from Scotland, was informed of something that left him frozen. The jailer had been challenged again by someone who had also crushed all his rivals. There was another famous fighter.

He looked with curiosity. He couldn’t believe it. The Count of Hereford was the other rival. He was going to kill him. He decided to go down to London to stop this madness.

The underground fight club in South London was packed. Men of all kinds crowded the fighting circle, shouting, betting, drinking. The stench of sweat, tobacco, and beer hung in the thick night air.

The count moved through the crowd and saw Daniel at his side. He was glad.

—“My lord, you can still back out,” Daniel whispered.

The count smiled, a mixture of excitement and fierceness.

—“Daniel. Now you’re the one who doesn’t trust me. In your six months of absence, I’ve learned something.” Across the circle, the Blythish Gate jailer stood like a beast among men. A giant hardened by years of beating and subduing the worst criminals. He had made dozens of fighters hit the ground. Except Daniel. And now, before him stood an aristocrat who, in his eyes, was just a gentleman playing at being a tough man. After a while The crowd roared. The fight exploded.

Daniel felt he had to stop the fight. But then he saw something. The count was laughing. And attacked.

The Count began to dominate. He was a warrior. And with a savage roar, delivered a direct hit to the chin that sent him sprawling to the ground.

The giant did not get up. 

Silence. Then the crowd erupted in cheers. The Count, bloodied and panting, stood over his fallen opponent.

He had won. The Great Fight

“You did it, my lord,” he said, with a mix of pride and alarm. “You are a warrior. The count, still breathing heavily, turned toward him and smiled.

“Then only one fight remains.”

Daniel shivered. “Which one?”

The count’s eyes shone with challenge.

“YOU and ME. Alone.”

Daniel swallowed.

He wasn’t sure he could win. But Daniel was an alpha male — and they never back down. 

“As you wish, my lord. But you will regret it.”

——-

The night air was heavy with humidity, and the Thames stretched dark and desolate, lit only by the reflection of the moon. In the distance, the palace lights twinkled, but here, far from aristocracy and titles, only two men remained — and a fight that would define them.

Daniel removed his shirt and let it fall on the wet sand. His chest, marked by years of work and clandestine fights, glistened with sweat. Across from him, the count did the same, revealing a leaner but equally sculpted physique from Daniel’s training and his own discipline.

Two young men from two worlds. Aristocracy and servers. Pure class struggle — but with punches. Nobles and servants. Two worlds colliding.

No words remained between them. The count smiled defiantly, raising his fists.

“Let’s do it. Now you will learn the lesson.”

Daniel snorted and adopted a lower stance, ready to attack.

“Hope you’re ready to bleed. This will be the final lesson, sir.”

And without further ado, the fight began. They clashed again with brutality. The blows spoke without mercy.

This time, the fight turned wilder.

The count used his speed to dodge Daniel’s punches, throwing precise attacks at his ribs and stomach, wearing him down little by little. But Daniel endured. He took every punch, every knee strike, waiting for his chance.

And when he saw it, he took it.

He dodged a blow and caught the count in a hold, twisting him around and throwing him hard against the ground. The sand flew when the noble fell on his back with a muffled gasp.

Daniel lunged at him, but the Count, showing he wasn’t just an aristocrat playing at fighting, drove an elbow into his nose, making him stagger back with a growl. Blood began to drip from Daniel’s face.

The noble stood up, swaying, with one eye swollen.

“Do you want to surrender yet?”

Daniel laughed, spitting out a tooth.

“Not in a million years.”

He charged again, and the clash was even fiercer.

They rolled to the riverbank, pushing, hitting without restraint. Daniel grabbed the count by the neck and dunked him for an instant in the icy water, but the noble, with unexpected strength, broke free with a headbutt and dragged him into the mud. They hit each other again, without brake, without control.

Broken knuckles, bloody faces. But neither gave up. 

The End of the Battle 

 And after what felt like hours of combat, both fell back onto the sand, too exhausted to go on. Their bodies ached, every muscle burned, every wound throbbed with the rhythm of their pounding hearts.

The Count spat blood and let out a rough laugh. 

“Damn, Daniel… you’re a beast.”

Daniel, with one eye nearly closed and his jaw numb, laughed too.

“Damn it… I thought I could beat you. But no…”

The Count took a deep breath, looking up at the night sky. 

“You tried. But neither could I. A draw? Fine.”

They lay there, panting, feeling the sand stuck to their bruised bodies, the sound of the river their only companion. Finally , the count extended a hand. Daniel looked at it for a moment before taking it firmly. They helped each other stand, staggering like two drunkards after a long night.

They were no longer master and servant, nor noble and stable boy.

They were friends. The count patted Daniel on the shoulder and smiled with his bloodied mouth.

“I suppose the best lesson was learning to see people for what they’re worth.”Daniel nodded, wiping blood from his face.

“In the end, only the ones who stand by you when you fall really matter.”

And without more words, they embraced with respect, bound by a friendship forged through blows and pain.

Together, they began to walk back, not caring about their wounds, not caring about the pain.

They knew that, whatever happened, they would always have each other.

By the Thames, the night felt alive.

The river ran dark and heavy, reflecting the moonlight on its restless waters. Beside it, on the cold, wet grass, the Count and Daniel lay exhausted, their bodies bruised, their clothes soaked with sweat, mud, and blood. The fight was over, a draw, but something still burned in the air between them.

Daniel spat on the ground and wiped his split lip with the back of his hand.

“Damn it…” he gasped with a broken laugh. “I thought you were going to kill me.”

The count, still lying on his back, let out a sigh and turned his face toward him, with a half-smile.

“And you, me. Though maybe I wanted you to stop me.”

Daniel frowned, turning his head to look at him.

“What the hell does that mean?”

The count looked away toward the river, swallowing hard. He seemed to hesitate, as if what he was about to say weighed too much. As if he had been holding it back for too long. 

Finally, without turning back to Daniel, he whispered:

“It means this wasn’t just a fight.”

Daniel felt a chill run down his spine.

The silence that followed was tense, thick as the fog over the water.

The count closed his eyes and let out a short, almost bitter laugh.

“I’ve always known who I am. What I must be. What’s expected of me. But you…” He turned slowly toward Daniel, his gaze shining in the dim light. “You’ve made me question everything.”

Daniel didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Because suddenly, he understood. He understood all the provocations, the fights, the glances that lasted a second too long.

He understood that this wasn’t just rivalry.

“Don’t mess with me, Count…” he muttered hoarsely.

The Count smiled, but there was more vulnerability than mockery in his expression.

“Tell me you didn’t feel it.”

Daniel swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling faster.

“I’m no damn noble,” he growled, as if that could be enough to break what was happening.

The count slowly propped himself up on one elbow, shortening the distance between them.

“I know.” His gaze dropped briefly to Daniel’s lips, then back up. “That’s why you’re the only one I can’t ignore.”

Daniel felt a heat spread through his skin. He didn’t know if it was anger, desire, or fear. Maybe all at once. And then, the Count leaned in just a little, not touching him, waiting.

Challenging him.

Daniel cursed softly, closed his eyes for a second, and then, without warning, grabbed him by the nape and hair, roughly, and kissed him.

It was a clash of fire and storm. 

The count’s lips were warm and urgent against his, hungry, as if he’d been waiting for this all his life. Daniel held him tightly, forcing him back onto the grass, and the Count didn’t resist. On the contrary, his hands clung to Daniel’s arms, as if he feared he might pull away too soon.

Their breaths mingled in short gasps as the kiss broke for a moment, only for Daniel to bite lightly on the Count’s lower lip before kissing him again, deeper, fiercer. The Count’s hands ran along his bare back, gliding over tense muscles and the scars of hard work. Daniel shivered when his lord’s fingers gripped his skin more firmly, as if trying to mark him.

“Damn…” Daniel muttered against his mouth.

The Count of Hereford smiled against his lips.

“Too much for you?”

Daniel growled and shoved him down roughly against the grass, holding his wrists.

“Shut up.”

But he couldn’t silence him. Not when the Count tilted his head and softly bit the line of his jaw. Not when their hips brushed, their hardened dicks made contact, the heat between them becoming unbearable. Now they fought again, naked but with something longer, more intense, and hotter. They grabbed each other's aroused members. It was the best masturbation in history. Pure bliss. They both reached a long, wonderful ejaculation. 

The moon was their only witness when the weight of all that had gone unsaid finally fell between them. When the blows turned into rough caresses, when anger gave way to something deeper, more dangerous.

Something real.

When they finally parted, still breathless, the Count ran his fingers along Daniel’s skin, looking at him with a mix of admiration and desire.

“I’m not a man who falls in love easily,” he whispered.

Daniel, his heart pounding, smiled faintly.

“I’m not a man who belongs to anyone.

The count held his gaze, certainty shining in his dark eyes.

“Then stay by my side. Not as my stable boy. Not as my rival. Just as yourself.”

Daniel didn’t answer right away.

But when dawn came, and they stood up, walking side by side, the silence between them was the only answer they needed.

The riverbank glowed faintly in the early morning light. The Thames ran calm now, reflecting the rising sun. The count and Daniel, still sore and bruised, walked slowly, side by side, sharing the quiet that only comes after battles — both in the ring and in the heart.

They knew that, whatever came next, they would always have each other.

THE END

Chapter 3: Lessons of blood

He had believed Edgar was unbeatable. But he was wrong. Daniel was the new cock of the yard.

Interesting. The Count needed strong men around him. And if Edgar had proven a worthy rival, perhaps Daniel would be something even better.

The next day, he summoned him.

The Duel in the Palace Hall

The palace hall was a sanctuary of power. Golden lamps cast a warm light over the mahogany furniture; hunting tapestries hung majestically on the walls, and the thick carpets muffled every sound beneath their feet.

Daniel advanced cautiously, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. His boots still carried traces of mud, and his clothes smelled of rain and damp earth. He knew why he was there—or so he thought.

He stopped a few steps from the Count, a man of elegant bearing, intense gaze, and inscrutable expression. Young and robust like Daniel himself.

“My lord…” he began, bowing his head slightly. “I regret what happened in the gardens. It won’t happen again.”

The Count leaned an elbow on the armrest of his chair, thoughtful.

“Regret it?” he murmured, with an almost imperceptible smile. “Why would I want you to regret it? You’re a fine fighter. Not many men beat Edgar.”

Daniel frowned.

“You’re not dismissing me?”

“Of course not,” replied the Count calmly, rising to his feet. “What I want is for you to teach me how to fight.”

The stable boy blinked in surprise.

“Excuse me?”

The Count walked toward him with the confidence of a man used to getting his way.

“I saw what you did to Edgar. You don’t fight with technique—you fight to survive. You’re a street dog… wild. And that’s what I want to learn. I also intend to settle my score with Edgar.”

Daniel crossed his arms, studying him.

“Alright. We can try. When do you want to begin?”

The Count smiled sideways.

“How about right now?”

Before Daniel could answer, the nobleman gracefully removed his vest and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Daniel let out a low laugh and pulled off his own shirt, dropping it to the floor. The Count locked the door to ensure no one would disturb them.

“As you wish, my lord. But it’ll be rough.”

At first, it was just a game.

The Count tested the waters, probing with quick feints and shoves. He was agile, his reflexes trained by years of fencing, but his fighting style was clean—too refined.

When he tried to restrain Daniel with an elegant hold, the stable boy slipped free with ease and shoved him hard in the chest.

The Count stumbled—and smiled.

“Interesting…”

He charged again, this time with more aggression, grabbing Daniel’s arm and trying to twist it. But Daniel didn’t fight by rules or protocol. With a sharp motion, he broke free and faced him head-on, so close he could feel the Count’s breath.

“Don’t make it so pretty, my lord,” he murmured with a crooked grin. “Out here, it’s about survival.”

The Count didn’t reply. He threw a punch to Daniel’s side.

It wasn’t strong enough to hurt, but it was enough for Daniel to respond with a shove that sent them crashing against a table.

“Very good, my lord.”

And then, the fight escalated. Blows ecoed in the palace.

From grapples to holds, from holds to full-on wrestling—they were soon rolling over the carpet, smashing chairs, knocking over furniture. A lamp crashed to the floor with a loud clatter. No one could have stopped them. And blood.

Daniel ended up on top of the Count, pinning him down with his weight. But the nobleman, quick and clever, used his legs to flip him over in one swift motion.

“Are you sure you want to keep going, Your Excellency?” Daniel panted, amused.

The Count gritted his teeth, trying to submit him again.

But Daniel had street instincts. An elbow, a shove, a trip—bit by bit, the Count’s polished technique fell apart, and the fight turned dirty.

In one move, Daniel caught him by the neck, twisted, and slammed him to the floor with a heavy thud.

The Count lay on the carpet, chest heaving. Silence filled the room—then the nobleman let out a short laugh.

“Well, Daniel…” He sat up, rubbing his neck. “I wasn’t wrong about you.”

Daniel wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

“So, are we done?”

The Count looked at him, and for the first time in a long while, there was something like excitement in his eyes.

“No. We’re doing this again.”

Daniel smiled.

“My lord, if you really want to learn to fight tonight, come with me. But I warn you—you’ll have to come down to the real world. I hope you’ve got the stomach for it.”

The Count nodded, feeling a strange satisfaction.

Daniel was different. Not just a servant. Not a rival.

A teacher.

And perhaps—though impossible—an equal.

Fighting to death

They stepped down from the carriage onto a muddy street south of the Thames. The Count adjusted his coat and surveyed the surroundings with a mix of disgust and curiosity. The street lamps barely lit the narrow, foul-smelling alleys; the air was thick with filth, sweat, and stale beer.

“This is the place?” he muttered, arching an eyebrow.

Daniel smirked.

“Welcome to hell, my lord.”

They made their way through the crowd of ruffians, laborers, and ex-convicts huddled around a wooden platform lit by gas lamps. People shouted, pushed, bet with grimy coins and crumpled notes. In the center, within a rope ring, two men were beating each other senseless.

The Count felt a chill.

One of the fighters, a tailor, had a swollen face and a broken nose and could barely stand. His opponent, a bare-chested butcher, landed a final blow to the jaw that sent him crashing face-first into the blood-stained boards.

The Count swallowed hard.

“This is what you wanted to show me?”

Daniel leaned close.

“This is what I wanted you to understand, my lord. Down here, your title, your fortune, your family name—they mean nothing. The only thing that matters is your fists.”

The Count looked around at the combatants taking turns in the pit. They were ordinary men, but they fought as if their lives depended on it—shopkeepers against gardeners, stable hands against off-duty policemen, butlers from rival households. There was something brutal and primal in it. Something real.

“You like this, don’t you?” the Count muttered.

Daniel smiled.

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever understood.”

Then the announcer’s voice boomed above the noise:

“Next up—the undefeated of Blythish Gate! The jailer who’s broken more noses than the Inquisition itself!”

The crowd roared as a massive man with a scarred torso climbed into the ring. His sheer presence commanded fear—knuckles like rocks, eyes cold and sunken, jaw clenched tight.

The Count felt another chill.

“Well, Daniel, we’ve seen enough. Let’s go—”

But Daniel didn’t move.

The announcer grinned and pointed straight at him.

“And to challenge him… a man who wants to prove there’s no one tougher on this side of the Thames! The newcomer—Daniel!”

The Count turned sharply.

“What?”

Daniel calmly unbuttoned his shirt and took it off.

“You don’t trust me either, my lord.”

The Count glanced from the jailer to Daniel.

“Daniel, he’s going to kill you.”

The stable boy clapped him on the shoulder.

“Keep your eyes open and learn. You won’t regret it.”

Before the Count could stop him, Daniel was already stepping barefoot into the sweat- and blood-soaked ring.

The crowd erupted as the two men faced each other.

The jailer grinned, showing a row of yellow teeth.

“Sure you want to do this, boy?”

Daniel didn’t answer. He simply raised his fists.

The bell rang.

The jailer charged first, like a beast unleashed. His first punch—a brutal straight right—would have ended the fight if it had landed clean.

But Daniel slipped it by a hair.

He ducked and countered with a hook to the jailer’s ribs, feeling his knuckles sink into thick flesh. The jailer barely flinched.

Daniel dodged another crushing right hand just in time.

The blows kept coming.

The jailer fought like a runaway train, relentless and merciless, trying to crush Daniel with each strike. Daniel dodged when he could, absorbed hits when he couldn’t. A punch to the ribs knocked the air out of him; another to the brow split his skin open.

The Count felt the tension crawl up his spine.

Then—something changed.

Daniel began to move differently.

He wasn’t just enduring.

He was fighting back.

At first, quick jabs to the jailer’s face that barely slowed him. But then—heavier, more precise strikes. A right to the temple. A hook to the jaw.

The jailer grunted, annoyed, and charged like a bull. Daniel ducked at the last instant and swept his leg. The giant fell to his knees.

The crowd gasped.

The jailer rose, furious, and lunged again. Daniel met him with a sharp punch to the nose that sent him reeling.

And then Daniel finished him.

A brutal sequence—fist after fist to the face, jaw, chin. One, two, three, four—until the undefeated jailer of Blythish Gate crashed onto his back with a thud.

Silence.

No one could believe it. The jailer didn’t move.

The announcer glanced at the fallen man, then at Daniel, and raised his arm.

“The winner… Daniel!”

The crowd exploded in cheers and hurried wagers.

Daniel spat on the ground, breathing hard, face bloodied but victorious.

The Count looked at him with horror and admiration.

“Good God…”

Daniel stepped out of the ring and approached him, wiping the blood from his knuckles.

“Lesson learned, my lord?”

The Count smiled faintly.

“Damn it, Daniel… I think I have.”

The Count’s Turn

Training sessions in the palace cellar became a ritual. At first, they were simple endurance drills—Daniel letting the Count strike, toughening his fists, forcing him to sweat, to move faster. The Count would finish with aching arms, split lips, bruised ribs—but each time, he lasted longer before giving up.

When they moved to grappling, Daniel found something curious. The Count was good—strong, scrappy.

Not just good—instinctive. He knew how to shift his weight, used it cleverly, and showed surprising skill at locks and holds. More than once, Daniel ended up flat on his back, growling in frustration.

But street fighting was a different game.

When the Count tried to apply fencing or boxing principles, Daniel mocked him.

“This isn’t White’s Club, my lord. There are no rules here—no velvet gloves. This is fighting for your life.”

The Count frowned, offended.

But he understood.

And he decided to prove he could truly fight.

He showed up one evening with an absurd proposal.

“I’m going to fight in South London.”

Daniel dropped the whisky bottle in his hand.

“Come again?” “I need to learn.”

“No—you’ll end up with your face smashed in an alley.”

“Find me a rival worthy of me, Daniel. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Daniel sighed.

And he found one.

Not a dockside thug, nor a professional boxer, nor a hardened ruffian.

Another nobleman.

The Baron of Whitby—a brute in gentleman’s clothing, with the same lust for fighting and the same streak of madness as the Count.

The Duel of Nobles

The makeshift ring in South London was packed. The crowd expected blood—but when they saw two well-dressed aristocrats with sharp faces and noble posture, they burst out laughing.

“Two fancy boys trading punches!”

“This’ll be good!”

The two noblemen stripped off their shirts and lunged at each other.

At first, the fight was clumsy.

Wild punches, awkward shoves. They tangled, fell, staggered.

Then they grew fierce.

The Count took a punch to the mouth; his lip burst open in blood. Enraged, he charged at Whitby and landed a blow to his jaw that made him stumble.

The Baron answered with a right to the eye.

The spectators roared.

Bit by bit, the fight turned savage. No longer two nobles play-fighting—two men fighting to dominate, with blood and sweat.

The Count wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Hereford saw his chance.

When Whitby dropped his guard for a second, the Count smashed him on the chin with all his strength.

The Baron fell backward, his head striking the wooden boards.

Silence.

Then cheers erupted.

The Count, bleeding and gasping, looked up at Daniel.

Daniel crossed his arms and grinned.

“You’re improving, my lord… but your opponent wasn’t much.”

The Count spat blood, smiled, and wiped his brow.

“Then we’ll find someone better

To be continued..

Chapter 2: Dogfight

There are two worlds: that of counts, dukes, and lords, and that of the lower class and its ruffians. Of the first, we hear of their feats, their intrigues, and their pleasures. Of the second, few stories are told—except when fate makes them collide. Yet there, in the shadows of the palace, far from the glittering halls and refined conversations, disputes were settled the only way the men below knew how: with their fists.

Edgar had enjoyed a time of calm, a stability rarely achieved among the servants. But then he appeared.

Daniel.

A stable boy, newly hired into the count’s service. He wasn’t particularly different from others of his kind—young, strong, quiet. And yet, there was something about him that unsettled Edgar, something that sparked an inexplicable burn in his chest.

It didn’t take him long to understand why.

The count, who had always relied on Edgar as his trusted man—despite the harsh treatment—now seemed to favor the newcomer. He no longer looked for Edgar in the kitchens or called for him to help dress in the mornings. Instead, Daniel was there, taking a place that wasn’t his.

It was absurd, Edgar told himself. Jealousy? Of another servant?

But the more he watched, the stronger the sting of contempt grew. Daniel was an intruder, an upstart who hadn’t earned his position through the proper trials. Edgar would not allow it.

The Shed: The First Round

One night, a storm raged outside, shaking the palace to its foundations. Rain lashed the roof like a volley of gunfire. In the shed, surrounded by the smell of wet leather and damp hay, Edgar and Daniel faced each other in a silence thick with tension.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” growled Edgar, arms crossed, brow furrowed. “But there are hierarchies here. And if you don’t respect them, I’ll have to teach you another way.”

Daniel, leaning against a wooden post, gave a cold, crooked smile.

“Respect them?” he scoffed. “What I see is that you can’t handle competition.”

Edgar’s muscles tightened. He took a step forward.

„There’s no room for two attack dogs here.”

Daniel tilted his head slightly.

“Then let’s settle it like animals. No titles, no orders. Just us.”

Thunder split the sky as both tough lads stripped off their jackets, letting them fall onto the soaked straw. The two strongest boys from their rough neighborhoods—the kind who always won the pub fights—were about to collide. The air was thick with raw testosterone.

Without another word, Edgar threw the first punch.

His fist shot out like a whip, striking Daniel’s cheek and turning his head. But Daniel didn’t fall. He merely rolled his neck slowly back into place, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

And then he struck back.

A straight punch to Edgar’s gut, hard enough to make him grunt in pain.

From then on, there were no more words. Only blows.

Daniel grabbed Edgar by the collar and shoved him against a beam, but Edgar drove an elbow into his ribs, forcing him back. He followed with a punch that landed square on Daniel’s jaw. Daniel staggered, then returned the favor with a savage hook that sent Edgar crashing onto a pile of saddles.

Both men got back up instantly, eyes blazing with rage.

“That all you’ve got?” spat Daniel, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his hand.

Edgar didn’t answer. He lunged, blind with fury, and the two rolled across the muddy, straw-covered floor.

The Gardens: The Second Round

With a violent shove, Daniel sent him tumbling through the open door of the shed.

The storm greeted them with a lash of icy wind and torrential rain. But they didn’t stop.

They crashed into the gardens, slipping on the drenched grass, striking like wild beasts. Each punch was a wordless scream of rage; each throwdown, a claim to territory. Edgar drove a knee into Daniel’s side, but Daniel answered with a brutal headbutt that sent stars spinning before Edgar’s eyes.

Mud covered their faces, blood mixed with rain.

For a moment, Edgar thought he might win. But Daniel refused to yield. Every time he went down, he rose again. Every blow he took, he returned harder.

The fight dragged on until, exhausted, they both collapsed side by side on the ground, gasping for air.

They lay there in silence, chests heaving, while the storm raged above them. Then Daniel delivered the final blow. The newcomer had won—and few ever did.

No words were exchanged. None were needed.

When they finally stood, swaying on their feet, each grabbed his mud-stained jacket and walked away in opposite directions.

The Verdict

The next day, when Edgar crossed paths with Daniel in the palace corridors, neither man spoke. But in a silent gesture, Edgar stepped aside and let him pass.

The war was over.

From the tallest window of the palace, the Count of Hereford watched the scene with a crooked smile.

To be continued…

Chapter 1: 

A Petulant Count Learns Humility

London, 19th century. The Palace of the Count of Hereford. The night was cold and damp when the count crossed the threshold of his home, his face still flushed with triumph. He had just defeated the Baron of Derby in a boxing match at the exclusive White’s Club —the sanctuary of London’s aristocracy, where gentlemen played cards, gambled fortunes, drank without restraint, and indulged in forbidden pleasures among shadows and whispers. But the most primitive entertainment, reserved only for the bravest, was fighting. In a secluded hall, nobles would shed their titles and become cocksure brawlers for a few minutes.

The Earl of Hereford felt invincible—intoxicated not only by victory, but by power itself. He took off his jacket with an arrogant gesture and smiled to himself. Being an aristocrat was fun, but perhaps… too easy. At White’s, the blows were softened by gentlemanly courtesy, by the absurd politeness of the nobility. Even the toughest held back, as if still afraid to stain their names with something as vulgar as real violence. What would happen, he wondered, if his opponent had nothing to lose?

That thought thrilled him. He needed something more.

And he already knew whom to seek.

The palace basement was almost deserted. Only a faint light glowed from the laundry room, where Edgar, his valet, was working as he did every night. Strong, silent, resigned to his place in the world. How many times had the count struck him without getting a response? How many times had he seen in his eyes that flicker of restrained anger?

The count stopped at the door. Edgar was bent over the washing table, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms as solid as those of any street fighter. Damn, the man was strong.

That excited him even more.

He stepped inside, and Edgar sensed his presence immediately. He turned, brow furrowed.

—My lord —he murmured, with forced deference.

The noble tilted his head with a sly smile. He was going to provoke him.

—Do you know what your problem is, Edgar? —he whispered, his voice soft and venomous—. You’ve started to think you can look me in the eye. That you’re my equal.

The young servant lowered his gaze instinctively. His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He turned back to his work, knowing it was unwise to defy him.

But the count had not come to let him be.

He placed a hand on Edgar’s shoulder, gripping hard. The servant froze.

Then, without warning, the noble drove a brutal punch into his mouth. Blood spurted instantly. The servant fell to his knees, head bowed. He touched his split lips, tasting the iron tang of blood.

The count chuckled darkly.

—You’re not even a man with a pair of balls. I hit you and you bow your head. You can’t fight back. I’d bet they beat you to a pulp outside these walls the first chance they get.

Edgar took a deep breath, his hands trembling. He could stay on the ground. He could let things go on as always. But that day something changed. Maybe the bear had been provoked one time too many.

He rose slowly and, for the first time in his life, looked the count straight in the eye.

—My lord… —he murmured, wiping the blood from his lips—. For your own sake, you don’t want to know.

The noble blinked, intrigued.

Was he being threatened?

He smiled, amused. Brave.

—Oh, really? —he whispered, stepping dangerously close—. You want to teach me manners?

Then the count threw another punch.

But this time, Edgar dodged it.

The noble barely had time to react before a hard right connected with his cheek.

The blow made him stagger. A second punch sank into his stomach, and a third sent him sprawling backward.

For an instant, he couldn’t breathe.

What the hell had just happened? This wasn’t White’s Club.

Fury rose in him like fire up his throat. He lunged at Edgar with a roar, tackling him and bringing him down. They rolled across the floor, striking blindly, scratching, biting —like two stray dogs fighting for dominance. Edgar couldn’t take another hit.

The count seized Edgar by the nape and struck him once, twice, three times in the face—but there was no mockery in his eyes now. Only frustration.

Edgar growled, grabbed his wrist, and with a swift move flipped him onto his back.

Before the noble could react, the servant drove his knee into his abdomen.

The count gasped, struggling to draw breath.

But Edgar didn’t move. He held him down firmly, his chest heaving with fury. 

The storm raged outside, shaking the old outbuilding.

Rain hammered the roof. The count tried to rise, but his legs trembled.

Edgar pushed him gently back to the floor.

—It’s over, my lord —he said, his voice calm, without anger.

The noble lay there, panting, his face swollen, his knuckles raw, and humiliation burning in his gut.

Never in his life had he lost.

Never had he felt what it was to be the weaker man.

And he hated it.

But more than anything, he hated himself.

Days passed before he could move normally again —days in which he had to face his reflection and see a man different from the one he believed himself to be.

He had learned something the hard way: outside the ballrooms and noble titles, he was no one.

Edgar was never struck again.

Not because the count didn’t want to. Not because he didn’t crave revenge. But because he understood he had been a despicable son of a bitch all his life.

And maybe, just maybe…

Being a man meant more than throwing punches.

From that day on, the fights at White’s seemed like children’s games. He sought new experiences —places where life was rougher, more real. Where blows truly hurt, and victory was earned with more than a noble name. The cruel underworld of London, with its human beasts. After visiting Whitechapel, the count wept in shame.

Edgar, for his part, never spoke of what had happened. But each time their eyes met, they both knew the truth.

One of them was the real man.

And it hadn’t been the count.

To be continued