All Jobs and Classes! I Just Wanted One Skill, Not Them All!

Chapter 602

Ludger rolled his shoulders once, Rage Flow humming in his veins, Overdrive still crisp. He looked at the open space around him, the sudden, respectful gap, and then up at the wooden platform where the yawning man watched with the same lazy interest.

Ludger’s mouth flattened. He spoke under his breath, not for the crowd. Not for Freyra. Mostly for himself.

“Might as well finish this off quickly.”

Then he stepped forward into the chaos like he was walking through tall grass, calm, deliberate, while the rest of the arena finally realized the outsider wasn’t prey. He was just efficient.

Ludger didn’t chase people. Chasing was messy. It wasted steps. It made you commit direction and timing. He let them come.

The moment the next wave decided the “gap” around him was an invitation instead of a warning, Ludger stepped into a rhythm, breath, weight, strike, reset, like he’d been built for narrow violence.

A man with a hatchet barreled in first, swinging wide, trying to catch Ludger’s shoulder and take the fight down into blood. Ludger’s eyes tracked the arc, calm, and he slipped inside it. Not backward. Forward.

His left forearm took the haft at the wrist, just a touch, a redirect, and his right fist drove into the attacker’s throat with a compact, ugly punch.

The hatchet dropped immediately. The man’s hands went to his neck on instinct, eyes bulging, and Ludger’s foot hooked behind his ankle.

A small twist of hips. A shove. The northerner stumbled, found nothing under his heel, and went over the stake line like he’d been placed there. His body hit the snow outside the ring and rolled twice before stopping in a heap.

Ludger didn’t even look at him after he landed.

Two more came in with clubs, short ones, dense wood wrapped in leather. They moved together, trying to catch Ludger between them. He let the first swing pass by his face by a finger’s width, then stepped in and snapped a kick into the man’s thigh.

Bone didn’t break. But the muscle seized and the leg went weak.

The club user’s momentum carried him forward, and Ludger met him with a palm strike to the sternum, Overdrive working just enough to make it feel like a battering ram. The man lifted off the ground.

He sailed out of the ring on pure force and surprise, arms flailing like he’d been tossed by a giant. The second club user hesitated, just a fraction too long.

Ludger used that hesitation like a handle.

He pivoted, drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, and ran him backward three steps in a straight line. The northerner tried to brace, boots carving grooves in the snow, but Ludger’s skill fed him efficiency, no wasted strain, no slipping grip, just relentless forward pressure.

At the edge, Ludger hooked an arm around the man’s belt and lifted. Not a clean throw. A violent heave with hips and legs. The club user went up and over the stakes with a bark of surprise and landed outside the arena on his back, blinking at the sky like he’d been personally offended by physics.

The crowd screamed approval. Ludger kept moving.

Another fighter rushed in with a spear, short shaft, sharpened point, trying to keep distance. Ludger didn’t respect distance. He respected timing. He let the spear thrust, then slapped the shaft sideways with his left hand and stepped past the point, inside the weapon’s usefulness. His right elbow hammered into the spearman’s jaw.

Teeth clicked. The man staggered. Ludger’s foot swept behind the spearman’s leg and his palm shoved the man’s chest. The spearman went down hard in the snow, and Ludger grabbed the shaft with both hands and spun, using the weapon like a lever to drag the fallen fighter across the ground.

One, two steps. Then Ludger planted his heel, yanked, and sent the spearman sliding right out of the ring on his back like a sled.

Ludger tossed the spear to the side, outside the arena, where it couldn’t be picked up again, and exhaled. He’d already thrown more people out than most of the ring had managed to hit. And he could feel the mood changing. At first, the northerners had attacked him because he was unfamiliar. Now they attacked him because he was a challenge.

A few tried to swarm again, better armed, smarter, spacing themselves so he couldn’t just plant one kick and send them all flying.

Ludger’s eyes narrowed. He shifted his stance, lower, centered, and let Rage Flow feed his strikes without letting it flood his thoughts. One came in from the left with a knife. Ludger snapped the man’s wrist with a short, brutal twist and followed with a knee to the gut that lifted him. The knife clattered away.

Ludger caught the man by the collar and threw him outward, not over the stakes but through the gap between two of them, sending him tumbling into the snow like a tossed bundle.

Ludger paused for half a heartbeat and realized something. He wasn’t the only one clearing space.

A roar on the other side of the arena drew his eyes, movement like a storm, a circle of broken bodies and scattered weapons. Freyra. She was doing the same thing. Not like him. Ludger’s throws were clean, controlled, minimal.

Freyra was a natural disaster with fists. An armed northerner swung an axe at her head.

Freyra stepped into the swing like she was insulted it existed, caught the man’s forearm with one hand, and punched him with the other, straight in the ribs.

The sound was thick. The man folded around her fist. She didn’t let go of his arm. She yanked him forward and used his body like a shield against the next attacker’s club. Wood slammed into flesh.

Freyra laughed, teeth flashing, and then she kicked the axe-man so hard he left the ground and flew out of the ring in a messy arc, landing outside with a splash of snow.

Another opponent rushed her with a short sword. Freyra slapped the blade aside with her forearm like pain was negotiable, then headbutted the swordsman so hard his feet left the ground.

He stumbled backward, dazed, and Freyra followed with a two-handed shove to his chest that sent him skidding past the stakes and out into the snow. She didn’t pick up a weapon. She didn’t need one. Her fists were weapons.

The crowd’s attention began to split, first between Ludger and the chaos, then between Ludger and Freyra.

And then it stopped splitting. Because it wasn’t chaos anymore. It was a pattern. Two centers of violence. Two fighters clearing the field like everything else was practice. Ludger felt it before he looked. A shift in the air. A weight leaning forward.

He glanced up toward the wooden platform. The huge northerner, the so-called master, had been lounging like a bored bear through the first minutes. Half-lidded eyes. Lazy posture. One hand resting near the railing like he was watching weather.

Now he had moved. Not much. But enough. His body had come forward, elbows on the rail, head angled down, eyes sharpened from dull amusement into focused interest. He wasn’t yawning anymore. He was watching.

Watching Ludger slip inside spear range and turn weapons into liabilities. Watching Freyra walk through armed opponents with nothing but fists and spite. The master’s gaze bounced between them, measuring. Comparing.

And for the first time since he’d said Begin, Ludger got the distinct, prickling sensation that the man wasn’t just looking at the fight.

He was looking at them. Ludger’s mouth tightened.

Freyra, across the arena, caught his eye for a heartbeat and grinned like she’d just accomplished exactly what she wanted.

So that’s why you asked me to join.

Not to make it fun. To make it loud enough that the master couldn’t ignore them anymore. Ludger exhaled slowly and turned back to the remaining fighters circling him.

“Alright,” he murmured, more to his own discipline than to anyone else. “Let’s end this.”

Then he stepped forward again, while above them, the master leaned in like a predator finally deciding the meal might be worth getting up for.

Eventually the arena ran out of bodies willing to keep pretending they had a chance.

The last few northerners came in with that stubborn northern pride, one with a club held too tight, another with a knife that shook slightly from cold and adrenaline, a third with bare fists and a face that screamed I can still do this even while his ribs said otherwise.

Ludger removed them one by one. A club swing. He stepped inside it, trapped the arm, and used the man’s own forward momentum like a lever, hip turn, shoulder drop, then a hard shove at the beltline.

The northerner went over the stakes with an indignant grunt and landed in the snow outside the ring with a heavy thud.

The knife-user tried to dart in and out, quick hands, quick feet. Ludger let him get close enough to commit, then snapped a low kick into the ankle. The foot slid. The man’s balance vanished.

Ludger caught the collar, turned, and flung him out of the ring like tossing a sack of grain. The barehanded one was the last. He rushed with a roar, trying to overwhelm with raw aggression.

Ludger didn’t meet aggression with aggression. He met it with geometry. A sidestep. A palm on the shoulder. A foot behind the heel. A clean trip that dropped the man face-first into snow.

Ludger grabbed the back of his coat, dragged him two steps, and shoved him across the line. The man slid out of the arena on his stomach, arms scrambling uselessly, pride bruised worse than skin.

And then… Silence. Not the master’s silence this time. The kind that came from a crowd realizing the main event had finally arrived. Only Ludger and Freyra remained inside the ring.

Snow was scuffed and stained. Weapons lay abandoned near the edges where people had been disarmed and tossed. The stakes that marked the boundary looked more like teeth now, framing a pit where the last two predators stood.

Freyra rolled her shoulders and breathed out through her nose. Sweat darkened a strip of hair at her temple, and her cheeks were flushed from exertion. She had a smear of blood on one knuckle, someone else’s, judging by the way she didn’t favor it. She looked tired in the normal way. But her eyes were bright. Almost… pleased. Like she’d just finished shouting into the wind and felt better for it.

Stress relief.

Violence as therapy. Very northern.

Outside the ring, the fighters who’d been tossed out were recovering enough to watch. Some sat on the snow with teeth clenched while friends wrapped cloth around bruised wrists. Others pressed hands to ribs, breathing carefully, eyes never leaving the arena. A few stood leaning on spears like canes, bleeding and grinning anyway.

Nobody was leaving. Not now. Freyra turned her head toward Ludger, cracked her neck once, and grinned like she’d been waiting for this all day.

“Alright,” she said, voice carrying. “I’m ready to kick your ass.”

Ludger looked at her—big, bruised, smiling—then shrugged like she’d asked if he wanted soup.

“Try it.”

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