Round One - Mud Vs. Rat

The roar of the crowd echoed in Signar’s ears, reverberating through his dense, mud-packed body. The arena stretched wide before him, a circle of coarse, bloodstained sand under the glaring light of three harsh suns. He stood in the center, his form hulking and amorphous, towering above most beings, though his surface glistened with a wet sheen that should make any opponent hesitate. His body, a living mass of animated mud, rippled and shifted subtly, especially when he moved.

Across from him, his opponent paced back and forth, teeth bared, claws scraping against the ground. The creature resembled a rat, but larger, standing on two legs with hunched shoulders and long, sinewy arms that ended in vicious claws. Its beady red eyes gleamed with hunger, and its snout twitched as it sniffed the air.

The crowd loved a good fight, and today they had one. Two gladiators thrown into the pit, one a monstrous creature born of the mud, the other a savage brute that lived only to kill and feed. It wasn’t much of a contest, the audience thought. Even though Signar had intelligence, the rat-beast, known as Scrath, had pure animal ferocity on its side.

Signar shifted his weight, feeling the sword in his hand. It was far too small for him—its metal handle dug uncomfortably into his palm, and the blade looked laughably short compared to his arm. He wasn’t used to weapons. Weapons were things for beings with hard, flesh-bound bodies. He was mud, and mud needed no sword. Still a weapon like this shouldn't be ignored.

Scrath's nose twitched as it caught the unfamiliar scent of its adversary. His long, pink tongue darted out, tasting the air. But there was something about Signar's presence that seemed to unsettle him. The rat-beast snarled, drooling, and then snapped its gaze toward a pile of refuse near the edge of the arena—discarded scraps of meat and bone, parts of combatants left over from previous fights.

Signar watched closely. Scrath’s attention wasn’t fully on him, and that was when he noticed something. The rat-beast wasn't just savage—it was simple-minded, driven by primal instincts rather than thought. Its hunger was all-consuming, dictating its actions. Scrath craved meat, but Signar wasn’t meat. And that, he realized, would be his advantage.

With a loud snarl, Scrath lunged forward, its claws extended, aiming for Signar's throat. Instinctively, Signar raised his sword, awkwardly deflecting the strike. The force of the impact sent vibrations up his arm, but his body absorbed most of the shock. The crowd roared louder, eager for blood.

Signar took a step back, swinging his sword in wide, slow arcs, trying to keep Scrath at bay. He wasn’t skilled with the weapon, and he knew it. But he didn’t need to be. He only needed to survive.

Scrath lunged again, swiping at him with terrifying speed. This time, the rat-beast’s claws tore through the muddy surface of Signar’s shoulder, sending chunks of mud splattering across the sand. But Signar didn’t flinch. He barely felt it. His body, already regenerating, began pulling the scattered pieces back, molding them into place.

Scrath hesitated, confused. His teeth gnashed together as he spat out the clumps of mud he’d torn away, realizing that his attacks were doing little damage. He had no taste for this odd, unnatural creature, no scent of blood to fuel his frenzied hunger.

Snarling, the rat-beast turned away, its red eyes focusing once again on the pile of discarded meat. It had decided—whatever this mud-thing was, it wasn’t worth the trouble. It wanted something it could sink its teeth into.

And that was the moment Signar had been waiting for.

As Scrath began to move away, Signar dropped the sword. It clattered to the ground uselessly. With his heavy, mud-laden limbs, he leapt forward, faster than anyone had anticipated. The rat-beast barely had time to react before Signar’s massive hands were around its neck, thick fingers closing like a vice.

Scrath let out a strangled screech, thrashing wildly, but Signar held firm. His strength was in his form—in the sheer weight and solidity of his mud-formed body. Scrath clawed at him, desperately trying to find purchase, but his claws simply sank into the mud, doing no real damage.

The rat-beast bucked and convulsed, but its strength was already fading. With a final, desperate snap of its jaws, it managed to bite down on Signar’s arm, but again it found nothing but mud in its mouth.

Signar squeezed tighter, feeling the life drain from his opponent. With a sickening crack, Scrath’s neck finally gave way under the pressure. The rat-beast went limp in his grasp, its body falling to the ground in a lifeless heap.

The crowd went silent for a moment, as if unsure of what they had just witnessed. Then the arena exploded with cheers, the sound crashing against the walls like a tidal wave. They had come for blood, and while they hadn’t gotten the gory spectacle they had hoped for, they had seen something else—a display of raw power and cunning.

Signar stood over his fallen opponent, the energy in his body rippling as he regained his composure. He glanced once at the discarded sword, now lying forgotten in the sand. He didn’t need it, not really. His strength was in his mind as much as his body, and that was something no beast, no matter how savage, could ever defeat. Still a weapon was a weapon so he picked it up again...just in case.

As the gates of the arena opened, the announcer declared his victory, and Signar turned, walking back toward the darkness of the underground chambers. He had survived, not because of brute force or skill with a weapon, but because he understood something his opponent never could.

Mud didn’t bleed.