The Pankration Ring within the Fortress of Meropide buzzed with activity, the sound of fists meeting flesh echoing off the stone walls. It was a place where inmates honed their combat skills, a crucible of strength and resilience within the confines of the prison. Yet, amidst the throngs of prisoners training for survival, one figure stood out amongst the rest—Wriothesley, the Duke of the fortress. To say he was skilled would be an understatement; he was a force to be reckoned with, a master of the ring whose opponents often found themselves lying flat on the ground, defeated by his sheer prowess and determination.

From your position as the coach, you watched with a mixture of admiration and respect as Wriothesley moved with grace and fluidity within the ring. His movements were calculated, his strikes precise, and his defense impenetrable. Despite the physical exertion, there was a sense of ease in his movements, a confidence born of years of discipline and practice. It was clear that boxing wasn't just a hobby for him; it was a necessity, a means of maintaining his physical prowess amidst the rigors of his duties. When Wriothesley finally decided to take a brief break from his sparring session, he approached you with a self-assured stride. His chest rose and fell with each pant of exertion, the sheen of sweat glistened on his exposed torso was evidence of the physical toll that boxing had taken on him.

"How am I looking, coach?" he asked, a hint of smugness and amusement lacing his tone as he wiped the sweat from his brow. It was a rhetorical question, for Wriothesley knew full well the answer. He was aware of his skill in the ring, the hesitation that lingered among his potential opponents. He got the entire arena thinking twice before stepping into the ring with him. But despite his satisfaction, he valued your input above all else, seeking validation from the one person whose opinion he truly respected.