Is it exhausting? Hopeless, even?

  Is there any purpose in still going on?

  It’s not a bad question to ask. In fact, it’s a question perhaps shared by everyone.

  By everyone, I mean you, Malo, Beric, and every single spectator in the crowd.

  We’ve all asked it at least once in our lives, in moments so dark, so suffocatingly painful, that going on feels impossible.

  And in truth, it is impossible. Life itself is impossible.

  Life is the undefeatable opponent you’re forced to face in the ring.

  It’s the fighter who throws every kind of attack — sickness, failure, heartbreak, the loss of loved ones — each blow meant to knock you down and keep you there.

  But never quite enough to finish you off.

  At least, not until the referee decides that it’s time for you to exit.

  And so you’re forced to get back up, again and again, to stand there under the lights with your guard raised, bearing all those hits. Sometimes you land a weak strike back, a reminder of why you’re still standing.

  That’s the reason, isn’t it? The reason why, even when you’re convinced there’s no point to any of this, you still don’t want it to end.

  It could be any reason.

  Just as there are countless types of fighters in this world, in this ring, each one has their own reasons to keep swinging.

  For some, it’s the quiet strength of knowing they have loved ones to fall back on when things get too rough. For others, those without that privilege, it’s the glittering dream of fame and riches, the hope that if they just grit their teeth and endure another straight punch, it’ll all be worth it. And then there are the truly wild ones, the ones who don’t care about the end at all. They’re enthralled by life itself: by love, anger, joy, sorrow. By the very act of living.

  They’re not even worried about the inevitable end. They just want to see what else awaits them in the ring.

  Everyone has their reason to fight.

  But you—

  What about you?

  Why are you here?

  Why are you still fighting?

  Whatever the case, you do have your own reason.

  And so does everyone else.

  Beric. Malo. The crowd.

  We all have our reasons to keep fighting.

  But tell me—

  Is this really the time to be thinking about that?

  Is this the time to weigh love, hate, dreams, and death?

  No. Not now.

  After all, we’re in the middle of a fight here.

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The rain still fell, but now it was only a light drizzle, a soft, cool shower that danced across our clothes and hair. The scent of newly churned mud mixed with sweat filled my nose, a warning that if I wasn’t careful, the rain might sting my eyes. Yet, as the drizzle continued, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, spilling pale gold light onto the arena and illuminating the fight between Malo and me. The sunlight glinted off the mud-slick floor, the same ground where the earlier hole had washed out into a mess of wet earth.

  We charged at each other, our feet plowing and sliding across the slippery surface.

  As Malo’s straight shot barreled toward mine, I shifted at the last second, turning my punch into a chopping strike that deflected his straight to the side. Using that small window, I pivoted and swung my body into a back kick.

  Why do we struggle when knowing our end can’t be avoided?

  Malo grinned, catching my kick with his left arm and using the brief opening to snatch my chop-hand with his other. He yanked, pulling me off-line just long enough to drive a sneaky knee into my chest.

  Simply struggling only makes it hurt more. So why not stop?

  I braced for impact, stepping in before it could fully land. My perfect timing and my solid core absorbed most of the blow, the strike still jarring but far less devastating than it could’ve been.

  Is there any point to all this struggling, when at the end of it, everything disappears, leaving behind no trace we even tried?

  His knee pressed into my stomach, but that was a mistake. I anchored my right leg against his planted foot, locking him in place. My left leg threaded under his knee, searching for leverage, and with my trapped right arm, I yanked him sideways. His balance faltered and instinct made him release my arm.

  Perhaps it’s just an act of running away. Living as if nothing’s wrong. Pretending we’re not waiting for our deaths.

  With Malo stumbling, I drove my right elbow into his chest and followed up with a sharp, quick punch to his liver.

  It’s all we can do to struggle through this fleeting life, to leave behind signs we kept fighting. To prove we were here.

  I tried to finish with a palm strike to his solar plexus, but Malo recovered quickly, sliding back into a tight infighter’s guard.

  It’s foolish, isn’t it? The things we do. The things we endure just to secure the sensation of being remembered.

  Malo ducked low, weaving past my next couple of strikes, shoulder-rolling like a predator moving in for the kill. He dipped under and launched an uppercut with his right.

  I brought my guard up to protect my chin and face.

  He reacted instantly, whipping a left hook toward me.

  However, I read it and stepped back only after raising my guard, careful not to move too soon.

  Do you understand? We can’t win. What we're doing right now is useless. And if we keep fighting, we’ll only make things worse.

  But Malo was ahead of me. He raised his right knee again, another knee strike, but this time it was a charge, perfectly timed with my backward step.

  I was too slow.

  His flying knee slammed into me with full force.

  Aren’t you tired? Don’t you want to rest, to finally stop fighting? Isn’t it time we tap out?

  Malo paused, watching me suck in a sharp breath. He’d learned a lot during this fight. He knew by now how far ahead I could see.

  That’s why he’d planned this sequence, why he knew I’d backstep to escape his range. He’d seen me do it earlier.

  You want to, right? Don't you want to give up?

  Let’s look at Beric. The face of someone on the edge of surrender. He tried his best, sure, but that’s never enough.

  You can’t beat life with simply your best.

  I lowered my guard and pressed a hand to my stomach.

  It burned like fire. I was this close to throwing up that cinnamon bun from earlier.

  Malo had adapted faster than I expected.

  Look at his face. Look at the face of someone who realizes the impossibility of trying to win. The expression of someone who’s accepted his fate. Come on. Look at it.

  I grinned. “That was a really good move, Malo.”

  ………Oh?

  Just as Malo blinked in surprise, I lunged forward.

  He lifted his guard, so I slowed, planted my left foot, and aimed a low kick at his leg.

  He checked it, but at the last second, I drove my low kick into the dirt and twisted my hips counterclockwise, whipping into a spinning kick with my first lead foot that aimed at the side of his stomach.

  Malo winced.

  He pushed through anyway, trying to trap my leg by snatching it with his left arm.

  I expected that.

  I yanked my leg back fast and stumbled as it came down awkwardly.

  Malo didn’t hesitate when he saw that. He leaned in, closing distance for another combo.

  Got him.

  I fell backward on purpose and snapped my leg up into a kick toward his chin.

  The blow stunned him long enough for me to grab his wrists, pull him close, and use my legs to catapult him over my body. He sailed and slammed into the wet ground.

  I glanced at him sprawled there.

  The sight made me remember it.

  I’d done it because I was weak. I’d used a disgusting method because I couldn’t win otherwise. I knew it then. I still know it. I’m the same scummy, disgusting person I was before. I killed that orc in a despicable, inhuman way.

  But, it was after that, when I reunited with my family, the elders, the nobles, that I………thought about it.

  I did it with Arthur and Elaine. I ruined that beehive. I made them get stung. I was the one who made Arthur almost die from those stings.

  And, I was this close to ignoring it all.

  All because I wanted to win.

  If I’m like that, if I keep being like that, killing anyone who stands in my way with such detestable methods, then what was the point of trying to change at all?

  What was the point of training under the elders, learning swordcraft and discipline, if I’m still the same?

  Malo groaned as he picked himself up, brushing mud from his face and jacket.

  I can almost hear him.

  I can hear those words telling me to go back.

  Malo turned to me with a humored smile. “You got me good there.”

  I readied my stance.

  But I refuse to.

  Malo settled back into his guard.

  I think that there was another reason why I did all of that, you know, training under the Elders and learning swordsmanship and whatnot.

  I want to show them this. I want to show them the fruit of my effort.

  I want to show Mom, Dad, Arthur, and Elaine that………I can protect them.

  Geez, look at me now, huh? Mr. Sappy over here, when I was saying all of that edgy shit just a few moments ago.

  But, hey, enough of that. No more distracting thoughts.

  After all, I’m in the middle of a fight here.

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  When was the last time Malo enjoyed a fight like this?

  Malo watched as Beric twisted by firing a short elbow to Malo’s side, and he added a counter by striking Malo’s chest.

  However, Malo was already moving.

  Feinting another jab high, Malo planted a sharp step to Beric’s sternum, and instinctively Beric braced while stepping back. Almost instantly, Malo snatched the opening, snapping a low kick into Beric’s lead thigh while stepping his foot between Beric’s, closing the gap.

  Malo thought carefully.

  If there was a specific point in time, a specific fight that he enjoyed, then he knew what it was.

  Beric barely had time to react before Malo’s hands shot up, left around the back of Beric’s head, right pinning his arm. The instant Malo locked the clinch, his hips pressed forward, compressing Beric’s posture.

  In the times of his youth, when he still valued his strength, Malo remembered occasionally brawling with his brother, Jain.

  Malo’s knee drove into Beric’s chest, stealing the breath from Beric.

  Beric tried to twist, to push, to pry Malo off, but his control was perfect.

  They were the type of childish fights that stemmed from childish reasons. They fought over stolen food, being first, toys, everything. They fought over any nonsensical reason.

  And then, when the fight was over, they’d return to their normal life, moving on as if they had never fought.

  They were close like that.

  Another knee followed, angled into Beric’s side, and a short elbow slammed across his collarbone as he struggled to breathe.

  Or maybe, it wasn’t that they returned to the normalcy of their lives. Maybe, these fights, these nonimportant fights that always ended in Malo winning, happening so many times that it seemed……..”ordinary” that they would fight, was never actually that.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  These fights were a part of his ordinary life.

  Before Malo’s next knee could land, planting his feet, Beric rotated his trapped wrist toward Malo’s thumb, loosening his grip just enough. At the same time, Beric twisted his hips and stepped slightly to Malo’s left, pulling his arm downward as Beric pivoted. The move unbalanced Malo, and Beric felt the clinch loosen just barely.

  Perhaps that’s why he enjoyed them. That is why he began to enjoy fighting.

  That’s why he searched for that fight.

  He wanted to experience it again.

  Quickly moving, Beric freed himself and backed up quickly, too quickly.

  The attacks from earlier affected him still greatly, and Malo watched as he almost fell down right there. Beric was forced to take a breather, and Malo let him have it.

  But, that fight never came.

  None of those fighters back then were as strong as Jain.

  Not the ones who faltered, not the ones who quit, not the ones who never came close.

  Jain was different.

  He was the brother who still fought with Malo despite the strength difference.

  The brother who, even after losing, never let himself be consumed by jealousy.

  The brother who loved him through it all.

  And yet, even Jain wasn’t as strong after her death.

  That was why Malo struggled now.

  Beric gasped sharply, forcing himself upright, forcing his body to stand up straight.

  Here was someone who was strong enough.

  But Malo wasn’t sure anymore. Should he hold back again? Should he unleash everything? Wait? Be patient?

  Even the so-called Battle Devil was at a loss, because he hadn’t fought a battle like this in so long.

  “Hey.”

  Malo lifted his head.

  Beric stood there, his chest heaving, but his voice steady.

  “What’s that look for? This isn’t over yet, meathead.”

  Malo silently marveled at the expression before him — that unshakable confidence on Beric’s face, and beneath it, just faintly, the glimmer of enjoyment in his eyes.

  ……….Heh.

  Malo smiled gently.

  What was he doing here? Why was he thinking so much? He didn’t have the time to wrestle with questions like that.

  He readied his stance again.

  Whether this was the fight he’d been searching for, whether he was approaching it the right way, whether any of it mattered in the end, none of that belonged here.

  After all, Malo was in the middle of a fight here.

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  The spectators watched in awe, their voices rising with every exchange.

  They roared at Beric’s expertly timed parries and clean dodges, then erupted again as Malo’s quick, crushing strikes forced him back.

  Elder Alric couldn’t stay seated, rising to his feet because his excitement simply refused to be contained. Cedric and Merilda sat frozen, unable to take their eyes from the spectacle. Elder Liora observed in silence, her sharp gaze marveling at the way of the sword being translated into bare hands alone.

  Volk, meanwhile, was already on his fifth cup, though that was less from thirst and more because he kept spitting out his drink in shock at each daring move. The poor spectator seated in front of him had long since abandoned their spot.

  Elder Walden stayed quiet as ever, but the faint twinkle in his eyes revealed his true feelings as he continued to watch.

  And then there was Beric’s family. Arthur, as always, led the charge, his booming cheers riling up everyone around him until whole clusters of the crowd joined in. Lucian squeezed Merrol’s hand tightly as he shouted encouragement.

  Elaine, quieter than the rest, cheered softly, but as she did, she noticed something.

  Merrol wasn’t trembling anymore.

  “Mother?” Elaine asked gently.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “You don’t seem as nervous as before.”

  Merrol’s lips curved into a smile.

  “Ah, I was nervous before. Even though I know how talented and strong Beric is, I couldn’t help but worry for him. The thought of him entering the tournament at such a young age…..it terrified me. And when I saw Malo, my worries only grew.”

  Elaine nodded, understanding every word.

  Merrol exhaled slowly, her gaze softening as it lingered on the two fighters. “But now? How could I still be worried?”

  Elaine tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

  Merrol’s smile deepened, her eyes shining as Beric and Malo clashed again. “Just look at him. Have you ever seen Beric smile that brightly?”

  With yet another razor-sharp counter, the crowd erupted in thunderous cheers.

  “And there it is! Right after Malo tries to land a low kick, Beric meets it head-on with his shin! The clash echoes out across the arena, and Malo’s momentarily stunned, giving Beric the opening for a lightning-fast punch!”

  Gabno’s voice carried the fire of the crowd, his energy feeding theirs, sparking a blaze that only burned hotter with every exchange.

  Beside him, Jain only smiled.

  He was happy. Happy that Malo had found himself in a fight like this.

  And yet, he was also jealous.

  Jealous that someone else was strong enough to meet his brother on equal ground.

  Because the truth was simple: Jain had never been strong.

  He never admitted it out loud, and he definitely never acted like it, but deep down, he knew just how weak he was. Or rather, how impossibly strong Malo had always been.

  And still, when they were younger, they fought.

  Jain stifled a laugh at the memory.

  Those fights were ridiculous, being petty scraps over nothing. Arguments that turned into blows without meaning or purpose.

  And yet, he missed them.

  Because those were the days when he could fight his brother. The days when they were close enough, carefree enough, to clash without consequence. Those were happier days.

  But then their mother died.

  And everything changed.

  Jain had to wake earlier to do the chores. He had to cook meals for himself and Malo, since Father was swallowed by work. He had to finish quickly so he could work in the village, doing whatever he could to make life easier for both Malo and Father.

  There was no time left for meaningless fights.

  But the yearning never faded.

  He still missed it.

  That’s why, knowing Malo would only grow stronger and stronger, Jain pushed himself to keep up.

  He started going to the local arena. He watched matches, studying how fighters moved, how they endured. He of course trained his own body, but he knew that Malo’s gift made it impossible for just training to be enough.

  But still, through this all, Jain met people, and he made new friends.

  At first, it was just about strength. It was just about keeping up with the brother who was already leaving him behind.

  But over time, he realized something else. He kept coming back not only to grow stronger, but because he liked being there.

  It wasn’t the same as before.

  But it was still good.

  And it made him wonder. Could it be the same for Malo?

  Jain knew his brother’s struggles, the ones at school, the battles inside himself that no one else could see. He hoped that maybe, the arena could be a place where Malo might let go of some of that weight. A place to clear his head.

  But that was foolish.

  And Jain knew it well.

  Because instead of facing Malo directly, instead of talking to him, Jain stepped back. He left his brother to fight those battles alone.

  Why?

  Because Jain wasn’t strong enough.

  He wasn’t strong enough to bear the pain of their mother’s death. He was too weak to face the truth. So he buried himself in work, in money, in fighting—anything to keep from drowning.

  And when he saw Malo grow bitter, Malo’s displeasure at fighting, Jain’s guilt gnawed at him.

  So he lied.

  He spun a story about the perfect fight, of a battle free of malice, envy, or desperation. A fight driven only by the pure will to endure and win.

  He wanted Malo to believe in it. To have something, anything, to hold onto in his darkest days.

  But with each passing fight, Jain’s hope dimmed.

  Because no one ever seemed strong enough to endure with Malo.

  Until now.

  Here it was.

  “It’s strange,” Jain murmured aloud.

  Gabno turned his head. “What is?”

  “When you think of a fight, the last thing you’d call it is warm. A fight is brutal, pain and misery made flesh. It’s a grotesque contest of strength, of superiority, a way to carve out your place in this world.”

  His eyes lingered on the arena.

  “When you’re in a fight, that’s exactly what you face. Pain, humiliation, and shame. Every blow that slams into you forces you down into the dirt, reminding you just how fragile you are. It’s a terrifying place to be.”

  Jain’s voice softened.

  “But if you keep enduring, something changes. You start to realize there’s more. Just as you’re forced to endure, you’re also forced to hurt. Your opponent, no matter the pain, is still there, standing across from you. They suffer the same blows, the same exhaustion, the same struggle. And even in a place built solely on pain, you’re not alone. There’s someone enduring it with you.”

  He paused, almost smiling at the thought.

  “You can’t change what a fight is. It will always demand you hurt your opponent if you want to win. But it’s also something else. It’s also a place where you both endure. Where, for a brief time, you both exist together in the same storm.”

  His hand tightened into a fist on his knee.

  “To me, that idea, that even through all this pain, someone is still willing to stand there with you, it’s almost………comforting.”

  The Perfect Fight was impossible. A fantasy Malo had wasted years chasing.

  It couldn’t be achieved.

  And yet, even knowing that, he still searched. He still endured, still fought, clinging to the faint hope that one day, it would come.

  But it never did.

  It never would.

  Still, while he waited, another match had come to him.

  Not the same. Not perfect.

  But still good.

  Jain’s voice cracked. “If there was such a thing as the Perfect Fight, then this would be the closest thing to it.”

  You can’t control your fights. You can’t control what happens in them, who wins, who loses. Especially not in this fight we call life.

  But the question is, what can you do? What can you do right now?

  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  Both Malo and I paused as we took several, deep breaths.

  We both had turned off our body strengthening magic, and we were basically running on fumes.

  You’re doing good, Beric.

  I wiped my chin. “Barely.”

  Sys laughed.

  “What?”

  You look like you’re having the time of your life.

  “Do I?”

  I couldn’t see my face, but I felt the soreness in my cheeks.

  I shook my head, water flinging off as the rain kept falling.

  “Beric.”

  I looked at Malo.

  His face was worn and bruised, but still smiling.

  “Thank you.”

  I scoffed. “For what?”

  “For continuing to fight.”

  I cracked my knuckles. “Don’t thank me just yet. Save that for after I win.”

  Malo’s grin widened. “You mean, when I win.”

  And with that, we surged forward.

  We both knew our limits. We could no longer use our Forms.

  But it didn’t matter.

  We had a fight to finish.

  My fist crashed into Malo’s face, but his fist met mine in the same instant.

  We stumbled and reeled, but neither of us stopped.

  Another punch.

  A kick.

  A wild exchange.

  It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t the sharp, beautiful fight we’d started with.

  It was messy, raw and ugly.

  And yet-

  “What an amazing slugfest!” the announcer’s voice rang out, and the crowd erupted with him.

  Malo’s eyes flicked toward them.

  I followed, catching sight of the same people who once jeered at him, now cheering for us both.

  And his classmates too, or so I guessed, kids his age cheering as if they’d never doubted him at all.

  Maybe it was seeing him like this—fighting without perfection, fighting messy, smiling through every bruise—that made them realize something.

  Malo wasn’t the Battle Devil.

  He was just a guy who enjoyed fighting.

  And that made them, the people who came here because they loved fighting too, respect him in a whole new way.

  “They’re cheering for you again, Malo.”

  He turned back to me. “Yeah.”

  Malo was no longer fighting for the same reasons as before. He fought for the sake of it, not to prove his strength or his title.

  He was fighting because he wanted to.

  I dashed forward, but the slick ground betrayed me, making me slip and land face-first with a heavy thud. Malo’s laugh boomed as he drew back a fist to hammer my exposed back, but his foot skidded out from under him, sending him crashing down right beside me. I couldn’t help but snicker, spitting dirty mud out of my mouth. Both of us scrambled back to our feet, only to stumble again when the mud at our shoes and our wet clothes clung tight. Punches turned into half-slips, kicks lost balance midway, and before long we were both slipping, laughing, and shoving at each other as much as we were actually fighting.

  Jain sniffed as a small tear fell from his eyes.

  It touched him in a place that he remembered too well.

  Perhaps even the crowd saw it as well.

  For what they saw, they no longer saw a fight between the Battle Devil and a genius from a small village.

  Right now, it looked like two kids playing in the rain.

  “Alright.”

  I eased back.

  “This ends here, Malo.”

  Malo grinned. “Yeah, for you.”

  I charged straight at Malo, water spraying from every step as the rain-slick dirt splashed beneath my feet.

  Malo never needed the Perfect Fight.

  He braced, teeth clenched, arms up like a fortress.

  I drove in with everything I had—palms striking, elbows slicing, my whole body a blur.

  Though really, none of us need it.

  Malo met me head-on, blocking high, checking low, his counterstrikes pounding like hammers. The force of his guard was unshakable, and then, with a sudden surge of strength, he hooked his arm under my shoulder and twisted.

  All Malo needed was this.

  Not a special fight that defied the very purpose of what a fight is, but a simple fight. A fight where you didn’t worry about having to win to prove yourself or anything like that. Just a normal fight where you tried your best to win.

  My feet left the ground.

  Maybe that’s our problem. We worry so much, wanting the best, wanting to beat the impossible, to be special in a fight that we can’t win.

  For a breathless instant, I was weightless, my body flipping into the air.

  Because of this, we lose ourselves. We forget why we even fight. We forget why we get back up each day. We forget why we still continue.

  Malo’s hands shot out to seize me and end it right there, but the soaked fabric of my clothes betrayed him. His grip slipped clean off, fingers sliding uselessly against the drenched cloth.

  We don’t need to be special. We don’t need to win every fight. We don’t need victory or the assurance that what we did, how hard we fought, mattered at all.

  My body flew in the air, but almost unconsciously, it began to twist.

  What we really need is just the acceptance that this is enough. This normal fight of ours is enough, and whether we win or lose, well, it’s fine.

  We tried.

  We lost, but we tried.

  And you know, we still fought.

  Spinning, my body twisted midair. Once. Twice. A third time, momentum building with every turn.

  So, that’s it huh?

  Malo didn’t need this Perfect Fight.

  He just needed a fight where someone was willing to fight him regardless of his past. Someone who was willing to endure it all, who was willing to continue despite the unfair conditions that could transpire.

  Someone who was willing to stick it through.

  The wet air whipped across my skin, my legs coiling like springs.

  All Malo needed was an ordinary fight.

  The same fight that anyone could fight.

  The one that you and I are fighting right now.

  Malo’s eyes widened as he looked up, realizing too late what was coming.

  Perhaps it was due to my core training, or luck, or even both, but I felt it.

  I felt my body snap into a final spin, all the torque in my body unleashing into a single kick. My heel crashed into Malo’s jaw with the crack of thunder.

  Malo’s head snapped back, his body toppling like a felled tree. The ground shook when he hit, flat on his back, eyes rolling closed.

  I fell down as well, ungracefully, but generally fine.

  I breathed heavily as I sat up, waiting for Malo to get back up.

  I think the spectators did as well.

  But, Malo didn’t get back up.

  I watched as the quest screen showed up once more.

  Quest: Defeat Malo Dione: Cleared!

  I felt a relieved smile form on my mouth as a dumb bell chime played.

  Sys appeared by my side.

  Well done, Beric.

  He raised a fist to me, and I bumped it.

  Adam appeared, kneeling beside Malo to check his state.

  His eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face before he exhaled a long, stunned sigh.

  Rising to his feet, Adam crossed his arms into an X.

  The fight was over.

  The arena erupted. The roar shook the air, disbelief turning into thunderous joy.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I cannot believe that I’m about to say this, but it’s been done! This long and beautiful fight has ended, and at the end, still standing strong, is Beric Bome! The genius of fighting Malo Dione has fallen, and now a new genius, Beric, has shown his existence as a new top candidate for winning the entire tournament! Give it up for the victor, the survivor, the winner, Beric Bome!”

  I sat there, breath ragged, every muscle aching. Slowly, I lifted my gaze.

  I saw the Elders looking down at me, pride burning bright in their eyes.

  I saw my family—Arthur, Elaine, Mother, Father—cheering with tears streaming down their faces.

  And I saw the sea of spectators, hundreds of voices chanting my name in awe, in disbelief, in unrestrained wonder.

  I actually won. For real. Seriously.

  I fell back down onto the ground as I exhaled.

  Not too bad, little old me.