Chapter 360 -360 Wild Battle
A/N: For those asking —yes, Uga is a repeating character in the land of origin down the story. Same with Renn.
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Michael’s brow twitched.
“Birds?”
“You flap. Peck. Fast. But not heavy.”
A small chuckle escaped Michael’s lips. “You’re comparing me to a chicken?”
“No,” Uga said seriously. “Chicken weak. You strong.”
Michael cracked his knuckles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Then he lunged.
Again.
His fists blurred—one strike, two, three.
A rising elbow, a sudden backfist, followed by a low sweep kick that Uga stepped over with the same ease one might avoid a rock on the road.
Michael didn’t pause.
He moved in again.
A hammer-fist toward the collarbone.
Blocked.
A palm-thrust to the ribs.
Absorbed.
He twisted and struck with both hands, palms open, aiming for pressure points.
Each strike landed with the sound of flesh slamming against muscle—but Uga didn’t so much as wince.
Instead, he grinned wider. “This fun.”
Michael’s heart was thundering—not in fear, but excitement.
Punch. Block. Strike. Counter.
He had faced stronger opponents. Spartan, for instance—his most intelligent undead—could go toe-to-toe with him. But even Spartan had become… a chore to go against. Too stiff.
Then there were the Goliaths.
Sure, they were powerful. More powerful than even him in terms of raw strength.
But there was no fun in getting smashed.
And now here was Uga.
A mountain of muscle wrapped in clueless charm and raw potential. He was strong, yes—far stronger than a regular human should be—but not so strong that Michael couldn’t play.
And this?
This was play.
Michael darted forward again, fists blazing like twin comets. He threw a flurry of short punches aimed at the chest, the neck, the temple, but Uga moved with a wild rhythm—ducking, shifting, blocking without a single stance.
It was like fighting a storm given legs.
He wasn’t trained, but he was reactive. He learned fast.
Every blow that landed seemed to teach Uga something.
Every dodge refined him further.
Michael twisted mid-air and landed a solid double-kick to Uga’s chest—his full weight behind it.
Boom!
The sound was deafening.
Dust flew.
The crowd gasped.
Uga slid back two feet, heels digging twin furrows into the stone of the arena floor.
Michael landed, rolled, and immediately pressed forward with another fist—
Only to be caught.
Uga’s massive hand grabbed his wrist in mid-air.
“Caught you,” he said cheerfully.
Michael’s eyes widened.
He twisted his body, flipping upward and kicking Uga in the chin before yanking his arm free and flipping backward to land several meters away.
A slight trickle of blood formed at the corner of Uga’s mouth.
He licked it.
And smiled.
Michael straightened, breathing a little heavier now. His muscles were warm, loose, primed. His heart raced—not out of panic, but out of joym
He was alive.
This was why he trained.
This was why he evolved.
And as the light glinted off his black armor, Michael realized something with clarity.
He didn’t want this fight to end too quickly.
This was one of the few times he could let loose as him—let loose as Michael.
Not as a dark mage.
Not as a Necromancer.
But as him.
Just him.
So, he took a slow step forward.
Then another.
And charged again.
He struck harder this time—each punch accompanied by subtle bursts of mana enhancing his strikes, just enough to test Uga’s limits.
Left jab—blocked.
Right cross—absorbed.
Palm thrust—caught.
Shoulder slam—matched.
They clashed again and again, blow for blow, exchanging strikes like it was an unspoken conversation. Michael’s fists were a blur, but Uga’s reactions were natural. Like he wasn’t thinking—just being.
Every time Michael landed a hit, Uga responded with childlike wonder.
“Nice hit.”
“Ooh. That one tickled.”
“Almost felt that!”
And yet the crowd could barely keep up.
Dust swirled.
The stage cracked.
A small crater formed where Michael had landed earlier. Another formed now under Uga’s heels as he blocked another charge.
Then came the moment.
Michael spun and threw a brutal punch—one meant to finally knock the breath out of Uga.
It connected squarely with his gut.
A sound like thunder echoed.
Uga didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Instead…
He laughed.
A loud, joyous, unrestrained laugh.
“Fun,” he said. “You hit hard. Uga like you.”
Michael stepped back, stunned.
The punch had been full force. Enough to break stone. Enough to shatter bones.
Uga just stood there.
Laughing.
And for a second, Michael just stared.
Then, he laughed too.
For the first time in a long while—he laughed mid-fight.
A genuine laugh.
“Alright, Uga,” he said, adjusting his sleeves and bouncing lightly on his feet. “Let’s keep going. Let’s stretch these limbs a little.”
Because opponents like this?
They didn’t come around often.
And Michael intended to enjoy every second.
Michael launched forward again, his body moving in a blur.
His fists danced with precision.
A jab. A hook. A rising knee. A spinning elbow.
Every strike was calculated.
And yet—
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Uga blocked them all.
Sometimes with his forearm, sometimes just by turning his thick body into the path of the blow.
Not once did he flinch.
If anything, the more Michael attacked, the more excited Uga became.
He grinned with that same wide, crooked smile—like a child being tickled for the first time.
Michael leapt, flipped, twisted, struck—then paused mid-motion as Uga’s massive hand shot toward his ankle. He narrowly twisted away, landing low before sweeping his leg out again.
Uga jumped.
Jumped.
A full grown man the size of a wall leapt over his sweeping leg like a boy hopping over puddles.
Michael’s lips twitched. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Uga landed and charged—no technique, no form—just raw, bone-breaking power.
Michael blocked the first punch, redirected the second, but the third came like a hammer from the sky, slamming toward him.
He ducked under it and retaliated with a jab to Uga’s ribs. The blow connected, but Uga barely noticed.
Instead, he laughed.
“Uga knew it! You strongest!”
Michael exhaled, sweat dripping down his temple as he pivoted around Uga and delivered a series of rapid palm strikes to his back.
They echoed like war drums.
With each blow, the crowd grew louder, but Uga remained wild, almost playful.
Michael had fought several opponents before.
But Uga was different.
It wasn’t just his strength. It wasn’t even just his durability.
It was his energy.
Wild. Joyful. Untamed.
There was no hate in his fists.
No fury.
Just raw, honest thrill.
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