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Almost all the audience—their eyes locked upon Boksa—goggled with the watchfulness of immense proportions, further rooting themselves to their seats. If the danger had a face, it would have resembled Boksa's current countenance, for his face swam in the sea of rage and thoroughly soaked itself. The towering temper that over-exuded out of every single pore on his skin whispered a warning to the ones in the vicinity. “This Number 28... what has he done?” one man among the audience clutched the arm of the one next to him as goosebumps trailed over his spine. "He's gonna get killed for sure now."

Two comparatively shorter men unleashed a blizzard of punches into the chest of a hulking man—eight-foot-tall and strong-bodied—who wore nothing but underpants branded with a wolf symbol. Nevertheless, he grabbed their fists and pulled them closer before his hands tightly gripped the back of their necks and pressed down their faces into the water with might and main, thereby drowning them simultaneously, and he didn’t stop until the frequency of bubbles rising to the surface lessened. “Who do you think I am? ‘Brown Hill’ Boksa!” soon after he let go of the two men, he tightened his muscles and precariously growled at the rest of men who were about to encircle him, making them scatter away as wild dogs do from a wolf’s growl. “That’s right. Run like the rats that you are, you spineless sissies.”

"You are pushing your luck too far, kiddo!" all the four brothers except for Aziz roared aloud. “Your tale ends tonight!” their feet lifted as one to step ahead. In that instant, the referee struck the bronze plate with a bronze rod, signaling the start of the deck test, which worked up the crowd into whistling, whacking the drums, and acclaiming in many other ways. “We, Hardy Brothers, hate flies that buzz by our ears!” the hands of the four brothers formed into fists and swung down at Lirzod concurrently.

At close quarters to the ice dumpster. Most men, who recently contested, had wounds all over their bodies. Some of them applied turmeric powder on their fresh and nude lacerations while some others put chili powder into service as brazier-red blood squirted from their wounds. A very few, however, employed alternate ways to gain resistance toward pain, and at the same time, keep their anger and hunger alive for the much-lauded win. If lunacy and masculinity had children, then this was how they might have probably looked.