asconian's blog

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..