Garth's Tale
The coliseum was of one voice.
“Garth!” “Garth!” “Garth!”
All five thousand of them shouted his name.
“No one can stand against Garth of the Coliseum!” He heard one scream.
His opponent was several feet away from him. The man could barely stand, desperately clinging on to consciousness. He leaned on his sword that was planted deep on the ground. The man’s face was barely recognizable. His left arm was twisted in a painfully, odd angle. Still, he refused to yield. Garth admired his will to fight but, at the same time, found it to be idiotic.
“You fought well,” Garth said. “As well as you could have anyway.”
The man looked like he was about to say something, but when he opened his mouth only blood came out. He fell on his knees. His eyes remained glued on Garth.
“This can not be the end. Yield and live and learn.”
Garth raised his axe. “This battle is over!”
The coliseum erupted. After fifty bouts, not a soul was able to best Garth in single combat.
Garth relished the cheers. This was his home.
“Garth!” “Garth!”
These were his people.
“Garth!”
“Garth!”
The old man opened his eyes to see Greg’s beady eyes looking down at him. “What is it, you stupid duck?”
“It’s time to open the store, you old fart.” Greg hopped down from his chest to the floor. “The people are hungry, and the ramen won’t be cooking itself.”
Garth slowly sat up; his body protested each move he made. His thoughts remained in the dreaming--he could still hear the cheers, still feel the axe in his hand, smell the scent of blood in the air.
His gaze fell on his hands. They looked nothing like the ones in his dream. Gone were the strength in them, replaced instead by swollen joints and arthritis.
“Old man?” Greg stood by the door, a concerned look on his face.
“I’m alright, my webbed feet friend. You go on ahead and prep the kitchen.”
The ramen shop was located inside one of the many rooms of the Two Crow Bazaar. Presently, the bazaar was situated in the middle of a swamp just outside the coliseum where the unfortunate dead were being dumped.
To find Garth’s shop, one only needed to follow the inviting aroma of tonkotsu ramen and deep-fried gator cutlet. It was a small place—barely enough for four customers at a time—manned by Garth and Greg Magebane (a duck he saved four years ago from being eaten by the gators outside).
The former warrior opened the shop ten years ago after he retired from the coliseum. Two Crows was kind enough to offer him a room for lodging and his ramen shop. It was not an easy transition—from being the main event, to a lowly ramen chef.
“Order up.” He placed the bowl and deftly slid it on the counter to a waiting customer. The man hungrily picked up the chopsticks and hungrily slurped down the noodles. He looked to be a gladiator fresh from a match.
“Had a great win?” Garth asked.
The man looked up from his bowl and replied with a shrug.
“You know, I used to fight in the coliseum as well.” Garth said. Greg, who was busy chopping up scallions, let out a groan. Garth ignored the duck. “I actually used to be the best fighter in the coliseum back in the day.”
The man placed the empty bowl on the counter and smirked at Garth. “Whatever you say.”
Garth started to recall his dream. “It’s true.” He said, desperation tinged his voice. “No one could best me when I was in my prime.” He was now standing in front of the man.
“Sure, old man.” The man stood up.
Garth’s hands darted forward, grabbing the man by his clothes. “The entire arena used to be filled with people chanting my name.”
Greg rushed to his friend and tried to pull him away from the irate customer. “Back off, Garth.” He turned to the grumbling warrior and apologized.
“Move on from your daydreams, old man, and just focus on your ramen. They don’t even taste that good.” Said the warrior before exiting the shop.
“What’s wrong with you?” Greg said to Garth. “You’re lucky that man didn’t swing his fist at you.”
“He should have then I would’ve put him back in his place.” Garth sat down. His face felt warm.
Greg sighed. “You need to let the past go, Garth. You had your moment of glory. Time to focus on what we have now.”
Garth’s hands shook. He balled his hands into fists to keep them steady.
“It’s time to move on.”
He watched Greg pick up the empty bowl and place it in the sink.
As the years piled up, Garth’s body began to slow down. The defeats soon followed. Garth clearly remembered the first one. It was a match against Fullax the Stone Face.
The coliseum was deafening—filled with cheers for him. Him and Fullax exchanged blows and he remembered his arms getting heavier with each strike. Fullax did a leg sweep which Garth avoided. His opponent followed it up with a swift backswing of his club. Garth saw the blow coming, but his body moved a second too late. The club struck him clean on the temple.
The next thing he knew was he was on the ground, lying on his side. Silence filled the arena. It was as if a petrification spell had been cast on everyone. Fullax stood above him; arms raised high in the air.
Garth initially chalked it up as an outlier, an anomaly. But eventually, the losses became more frequent.
“Fuck.”
“We’re short again this month?” Greg asked as he continued wiping the countertop.
“Yeah.” Garth placed the money back in the small chest. “Third month now. If this continues Two Crows will kick us out.”
“It’s hard to compete against the new shops that keep popping up inside the Citadel.” Greg said. “And it’s not helping us that we’re in the middle of a gator filled swamp.”
“You know we can’t afford the spaces inside the Citadel.”
“So…what now?” The duck asked.
A pained sigh escaped Garth. “I don’t know, my friend. I don’t know.”
He walked over to the end of the counter and picked up the empty plates. That’s when Garth saw the flyer. It was caught beneath a tray, splattered with pork broth.
It was a flyer for the annual Gladiator Open and the cash prize was enough to pay half a year’s worth of rent.
“Greg? Where’s my old armor?” The old man asked.
Entered by: 0xe1E6…68A5 and preserved on chain (see transaction)
