Ratcha Saetang

The stench of sweat and cheap whiskey hung heavy in the packed Pit. Rourke Slade watched from a post, as the reigning champ entered the roped-off ring, but all eyes truly turned when Ratcha Saetang stepped through the ropes. Barefoot, towering, and heavily tattooed, he fixed his gaze ahead, a silent, imposing figure. The bell rang. The champ moved cautiously, but Ratcha advanced, landing a brutal shin kick to the ribs, followed by an elbow to the head and a knee to the stomach. The champ stumbled into the ropes as the bell ended the round, barely making it to his corner. Ratcha, unmoving, paced slowly, his eyes scanning the ring. Round two. The champ tried to create space, but Ratcha closed in, clinching. A short, vicious knee to the champ's side stole his breath. Then came the elbow, a thick, muffled sound like something breaking deep inside. The champ collapsed, hitting the mat hard, his body curling in pain. The Pit fell silent. No cheers, no jeers—just the hum of lights and a distant cough. The referee Grey Sakuma runs in, waving off the fight. His voice cut through the stillness: "The match is over. Winner: Ratcha Saetang." Ratcha stood over him briefly, before the rush of trainers and medic came through the ropes. He then walked the ring's edge, head high, expression unreadable. He paused, looked out, and for a split second, his eyes met yours. A faint smirk touched his lips. He said nothing, but his message was clear: victory was absolute.