Falcon blood under the ice

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A Month Later

The atmosphere in the underground fighting arenas began to change.

Mert Yilmaz was no longer “the young man who fought once.” He was a rising star. A fighter whispered about, a name they bet on cautiously, wondering how this thin young man with deep blue eyes and a deceptively calm face managed to win—even against opponents twice his size and experience.

A month had passed since that first desperate fight.

By then, Arslan remained bedridden in their small, shared apartment, slowly recovering. His sharp green eyes hadn’t lost their sparkle, but his body was exhausted, his stomach wound was taking time to heal, and his muscles were worn from weeks of bedridden confinement. Sometimes, late at night, Mert would hear Arslan muttering in his sleep—old battles, old pains, old memories.

As Arslan recovered, Mert fought.

The Battles

Mert stood in the ring again, sweat pouring down his back as the announcer shouted his name.

Tonight's opponent: a cold-eyed kickboxer, tall and thin, with scars on his legs and a sinister grin.

The bell rang.

Mert ducked low, dodging a lightning-fast knee, and felt a rush of air near his ear. He turned around and pounded his fists—one, two, feigning a left, then slamming his fist into his opponent's ribs.

The crowd roared.

The kickboxer lunged with a spinning heel kick, which caught Mert in the shoulder and sent him slumping. His arm went numb for a second. The pain in his chest flared.

But Mert clenched his jaw, gritted his teeth, and kept moving.

Arslan's voice echoed in his head—words from their late-night conversations, when Arslan had explained how to read a fighter, how to breathe, and how to hold on.

"Stay up, Mert. Be alert. The first to panic always loses. The battle is mental and intellectual before it's physical."

He stepped back, his eyes fixed on his opponent's posture, noticing the gap—a flicker of hesitation, a lazy guard—and struck.

His punch landed hard.

The kickboxer stumbled.

Mert lunged forward, his fists pounding—left, right, left—until the man collapsed.

The crowd erupted.

Backstage

Alone in the dressing room, Mert sat on the bench, his fists trembling, his body aching. His face was bruised, his lips chapped, his ribs freshly taped.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling, panting.

Arslan... How did you do this for so long? The victories piled up—four, five, six in a row. But with each victory, there were tougher opponents. Men with solid reputations, years of training, scars, and hard eyes.

Mert fought because he had to.

Because Arslan was stuck in that bed, pale and quiet.

Because someone had to carry the burden now. In his place.

According to one of the rules of this ring, when someone missed the original place, someone else could take their place.

The Apartment

That night, Mert returned home, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

Arslan was half-sitting on the couch, a blanket covering his legs, his eyes sharp despite the pain.

"Did you win again?" Arslan asked quietly.

Mert smiled a tired smile, his bruised face tugging at the corners.

"Yes. Hardly."

Arslan's green eyes fluttered open. "You learn fast."

Mert collapsed onto the chair next to him, exhaling heavily. "I don't know how you've endured this for so long, Arslan. It's... brutal. In every fight, it feels like death is breathing down your neck."

Arslan smiled a weak, crooked smile.

Two Months Later

The roar of the underground crowd was like a thunderbolt.

The air was thick with sweat and smoke, and the acrid, metallic smell of blood. Underground lamps swung in the sky, casting shimmering shadows on the concrete pit where Arslan and Mert stood, shoulder to shoulder.

Arslan, fully recovered, craned his neck, feeling his tense muscles tensing. His sharp green eyes darted across the pit, staring at the two opponents before them—both heavyweights, both towering over him and Mert.

Mert swallowed hard, his shaggy brown hair damp with sweat.

"Arslan... remind me why we're doing this again?"

Arslan smiled faintly.

"Because we're not the type to back down, and for my brother Harun."

The bell rang.

The Fight

The first opponent, a giant man, charged forward with fists like hammers.

Arslan lunged to the left, swift on his feet—faster than he had been before his injury. He felt a surge of energy as he bent under the blow and slammed his elbow into the giant's ribs. The man groaned, stumbled backward.

Beside him, Mert was engaged in a fierce exchange of punches with his second opponent—a thin, scarred fighter with sharp knuckles and deadly accuracy. Mert barely dodged a hook punch, feeling a rush of air against his cheek.

"No help, Arslan!"

Without hesitation, Arslan turned, his body moving as if he had memorized this rhythm a thousand times. He slammed his foot into his opponent's thigh, knocking him to the ground, then lunged at Mert's side. Together, they closed in, fighting in unison.

Arslan's fists moved like lightning—a lightning jab, a crossbow, a hook.

Mert followed with a powerful kick that pierced the scarred fighter's ribs.

The two opponents fell backward, overwhelmed by the perfect coordination between the two friends.

The crowd was screaming now—fists flailing in the air, voices hoarse.

"Stay alert!" barked Arslan, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

Mert grinned, panting.

"You too, old man."

Arslan grinned—then ducked just in time as the giant sprang back to his feet, charging forward. He felt the rush of danger, excitement, and clarity that had settled in when everything else but the fight had collapsed.

With a sharp cry, Arslan slammed his knee into the man's face, sending him tumbling backward. Mert finished the scarred fighter off with a spinning kick that sent him tumbling to the ground.

The bell rang again.

Arslan stood, his chest heaving, his arms raised. Sweat dripped down his white skin, his muscles tense and aching, but his sharp green eyes shone with triumph. Mert staggered, smiling despite the bruise opening his jaw.

They leaned against each other, both panting, both laughing.

"We did it," Mert panted.

"We already did it."

Arslan smiled crookedly.

"We've only just begun."

The air was filled with the cheers of the crowd, drowning out the pain, exhaustion, and uncertainty of tomorrow.

For now, they were fighters.

For now, they were alive.

The next day

The morning sun shone through the apartment window, casting a dim golden light on the cramped but tidy living room. Arslan stretched out on the couch, groaning as his bruised ribs protested. He had been living with Mert since his injury.

"Mert," he muttered, massaging his face.

"We're late."

Mert's disheveled hair peeked out from under a blanket on the floor.

"Why?" he grumbled.

"We had a fight last night, man... Let's run away."

Arslan glared at him, his piercing green eyes sparkling.

"We're not running away from university. Get up."

At university

When they ran through the doors of the nursing school, they were both out of breath, their backpacks clumping against their shoulders.

Mert leaned against a pillar, catching his breath.

You know, if someone had told me last year that we'd be studying nursing and fighting in underground arenas, I would have laughed in their face.

Arslan grinned, adjusting his jacket to cover the slight bruise on his jaw.

"Life is funny like that."

Inside the classroom, the air was filled with a faint scent of disinfectant and paper. Students hunched over their notebooks, whispering about upcoming exams, anatomy tests, and patient care simulations.

Arslan sat in his usual seat near the back and took out his notebook. His handwriting was neat—sharp and tidy, like everything else about him. Despite his dangerous nightlife here, he was a serious and focused student.

Next to him, Mert leaned back in his chair, groaning quietly.

"Why did I choose this major? I should have been a physical education teacher or something easier."

Arslan gave him a sideways glance, his lips trembling.

"Because you're good at it. You just don't want to admit it."

Mert gave him a lazy smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Says the guy who memorized all the essays last week."

Lunch Break

In the campus garden, students lounged under the trees, sipping coffee or eating sandwiches. Arslan sat cross-legged on the grass, Mert stretched out beside him, both of them munching on cheap pastries they'd bought on the way.

"You know," Mert said thoughtfully, "sometimes I think we're crazy."

"Yeah?" Arslan raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. Most guys our age are just trying to pass exams and maybe party a little. We're here fighting for our lives at night and learning how to care for patients during the day."

Arslan laughed lightly.

Mert laughed, tossing him a crumpled handkerchief.

"You're impossible, you know that?"

Evening Study

In the apartment, the atmosphere was quiet. Mert lay on the floor, flipping through flashcards, occasionally groaning in frustration. Arslan sat at the table, quietly reviewing the medical records and notes.

"Arslan," Mert said suddenly, looking up, "have you ever wondered how long we can keep doing both? Fighting... studying... living like this?"

Arslan's green eyes softened, his fingers still on the page.

"Every day."

A long silence fell between them.

Then Arslan gave a small, determined smile.

"But we'll manage. We always will until I get my brother Harun back."

That night, as they finally turned out the lights,