"Put up a real fight, freak!"

The barked challenge echoed over the makeshift arena, almost lost in the chanting cries of the crowd. Around the border, marked by a flimsy palisade of wood and rope, dozens of men clustered in an excited throng. Some clutched mugs of ale, others exchanged small pouches of coin, countless wagers passing hands discreetly.

Strictly speaking, fighting rings like this one were frowned upon in Temeria. All too often, their organisers dodged paying a cut of the takings to the local tax collector, and so the nobility had outlawed such low-class arenas, claiming that the honour of competitive combat was the domain of the high-borne and their sponsored champions. That didn't matter here, out in the more remote reaches of the nation. The village of Boggevrieg, on the shores of the Pontar, rarely saw any royal officials pass through, let alone a representative of the Royal Court.

These subtleties of courtly politics were lost on the combatants in the ring. They were here for a scrap, to earn a few orens at something they knew well enough, to get the blood pumping and maybe knock the shit out of another bastard.

Four men circled around the edge of the arena, cautiously regarding the fifth figure. Each one of them showed signs of a hard life. Two had the rough hands of farmers, used to wrestling livestock and handling the tools of their trade. One sported an exotic array of tattoos- a sailor from Novigrad, now without a ship and lacking a purpose in life. The fourth was a little harder to read, scars marring his face, although he held himself with a poise that one might recognise as that of a predator. It was only when one looked in his eyes that they might perceive the truth- he was a fighter, probably a soldier, or perhaps a mercenary. Either way, he had blood on his conscience, and hunger in his gaze.

Far more intimidating than any of these combatants, however, was the fifth figure that stood in the centre of the arena. He was a large man, a mountain of muscle and sinew that pulsed with raw, animal power. Dozens of tiny scars formed a network across his torso, signs of a harsh life. Broad shoulders rippled with impressive strength, leading down to wide arms and hands the size of dinner plates. He towered over the other men, stern face regarding them warily, and one might be forgiven for concluding from his appearance that he had a little bit of giant's blood in him. His hair was black, shaved close to the scalp on either side of his head while longer strands atop his crown were tied back in a strict topknot. Grinning teeth flashed out from behind the neatly trimmed facial hair that surrounded his lips. It was only when one looked to the eyes that one could fully understand just what this behemoth of a man was- a Witcher, a mutated monster hunter. His eyes glowed a dark greenish-amber, the vertical slits of his pupils narrowing as his gaze turned to the sailor, the one who had hurled the insult.

The tattooed man balked as the fiery gaze turned to him, but he did not run. Nevin of Lan Exeter had to give him credit for that. In the Witcher's experience, there were not many men who would stand up to the Witcher, let alone insult him to his face. Typically, men like these wilted before the burning gaze of a mutant like him. Momentary excitement seized him. Maybe this would be a fight worth his while after all.

The Witcher turned to face the sailor, but a subtle motion in the corner of his eye warned him as the ex-soldier, spotting an opening, darted in, left fist swinging low. The monster hunter quickly countered, a massive fist connecting with the man's collarbone and sending him staggering backwards. Before Nevin could capitalise on the opportunity, the two farmhands were rushing him, moving in unison. The towering Witcher turned to block their attacks, allowing the smaller and weaker of the two past his guard to land a couple of kidney punches that would likely have floored a lesser man. Nevin, though, was made of sterner stuff. He shoved the larger farmhand away, then quickly spun to deliver an elbow to the smaller one's ribs, forcing him back a few paces.

Nevin could feel his blood beginning to pound in his veins. The excitement of a challenge was beginning to sweep through him, the thrill of combat. He knew this feeling well. It was the same urge that took him when he was on a hunt, or while sparring with his tutors back at Kaer Tiele. His heart pounded in his chest, releasing primal energy into his muscles. If he wasn't careful, he could lose himself to it.

As he revelled in the feeling, the sailor lunged at him, landing a powerful punch to his jaw, but the Witcher barely moved. The tattooed man staggered away, clutching at a now throbbing fist, but Nevin's counter-attack was swift. The Witcher launched a powerful kick, his knee finding the man's gut and doubling him over, before he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and, spinning him around, launching him towards the wooden palisade, where his skull struck the planks with a solid crack of splintering bone and he slumped, senseless.

Three left. Nevin thought to himself.

The farmhands renewed their attack, circling around to try and flank him. The Witcher was ready for this, widening his feet into a ready stance as he raised his fists in a boxer's pose. He locked eyes with the larger of the two, his feral dark yellow orbs gleaming in the dim light of the lanterns overhead.

The small farmhand was the first to move, rushing at the monster hunter with an attack that Nevin could easily read. He raised a burly forearm to block the overarm swing, then lashed out with a sharp underarm jab that struck his opponent in the gut and forcing him back. The Witcher spun, meeting the charge of the other farmhand. He lashed out with a flattened palm, striking the man in the chest hard enough to drive all the air from his lungs, then the Witcher delivered an overarm chop to the soft flesh of the neck, just below the ear, stunning him. As the man staggered away, Nevin lashed out with a heavy boot, flooring him in an instant. The farmhand did not get back up, gasping for air on the ground.

Two. Nevin counted, turning back to the still recovering farmhand. That was when he heard it.

Shhhkt.

The sound was unmistakable, the unsheathing of a knife. Around the arena, the excitement of the crowd faltered a little, uncertainty crossing the faces of many watching. Nevin turned to face the soldier, who now wielded a small, curved dagger.

"I ain't losing to no snake-eyed freak." He growled, baring his teeth in a vicious display.

The instincts in Nevin growled in response to the threat. Deep, animal triggers flared up, eager to rise to face his opponent. He felt no fear, but the aggression inside him was difficult to hide. His lips curled in a hungry sneer.

The soldier lunged forward, leading with his dagger. Nevin raised an arm to block the swing, wincing as the tip of the blade found the flesh of his forearm and scored a long, crimson line across the muscles there. Inside, the animal was howling, eager to be released.

Let me out. It whispered. Let go.

Nevin stamped down on the whisper, his iron will knowing that once he let loose, blood would flow. There was a time and a place for rage, and he needed to remain in control, even if he did decide to let the beast off the chain.

The soldier, sensing his hesitation, came in for another attack, this time barely missing his chest with the edge of his weapon. Nevin skilfully diverted the attack aside, spinning around to transfer his enemy's motion. The dagger went wide, narrowly missing the last farmhand, who had foolishly tried to leap into the midst of the clash.

Fuck. Nevin cursed inwardly. This damn fool doesn't care who he hurts, as long as he takes me out. I have to stop him. I need to get that blade away from him.

The Witcher straightened, his feet shifting under him as he turned to face his opponent one more time. The soldier had recovered, dagger flashing in his grip again. Nevin dropped his stance just a little lower, raising his fists in a guard position again. Internally, his beast was howling hungrily.

The soldier leapt, feinting right before dodging left, but the Witcher was swift enough to read his movements. Acting on raw, animal instinct, his fist shot out to block the low jab from the weapon, catching the forearm. Then, his other fist came around to catch the hand holding the weapon, pushing it down until the fingers reluctantly parted. Before Nevin could even think, the hilt of the dagger slipped from his foe's grasp into his, and the Witcher's hand was moving. The wrath inside him had taken full control, and he brought the blade up in a swift slash, driving the point deep into the soldier's side, just under the armpit.

The soldier let out a startled gurgle as bloody crimson spurted from the wound. Nevin released the dagger, stepping back as reason once more took hold of his mind. The rage receded as swiftly as it had appeared. All around him, the arena had fallen silent.

The wounded man staggered back a pace before slumping to the ground. The dagger had pierced a vital bloodway, and he would soon bleed out, Nevin knew. Around him, the crowd had grown numb, shocked by the sudden and bloody turn of events.

The Witcher straightened, turning to leave the arena. The crowd parted before him, unwilling to get in the way of the looming monster hunter. Nevin knew that that numbness would not last. Eventually, they would awaken from the stupor of surprise, and then look to hold him accountable for his opponent's death.

Irritation gripped him as the Witcher quickly retrieved his heavy leather armour and the rest of his belongings, rushing from the stables and out into the night just as the first cries of outrage began to ring out. This wasn't the first time that his rage had got the better of him. It likely wouldn't be the last. But every time he slipped, every time he lost himself to the raw animal wrath trapped inside him, he knew it dragged him a little further away from the Humanity he had once possessed.

Cursing his fortune, the Witcher slipped away into the night, never to return.