Rend Stripclaw wanted to strip every rival prowler on Male Island bare, one by one, until nobody could deny his crown. But when he roared his challenge across the market square, the other prowlers only laughed. A gray wolf near the fruit stalls kept chewing a torn shirt sleeve. He swallowed it, licked his fangs, and did not even look up. "Where's your arena, lion?" the wolf said. "A champion needs a stage. You've got a dirt square and a loud mouth." Rend's claws twitched. The wolf was right, and everyone heard it. On this island, a stripping match meant nothing without a ring, a crowd, and a place to pin your rival's shredded clothes on the wall. Rend had none of that. He had only his claws and his name. He found Patch by the tailor's shop, sitting in the shade. Patch was his best friend, an elephant-lion hybrid with a wild blue mane and no clothes at all to lose. Patch chewed a stalk of grass and watched Rend pace. "Nobody takes me," Rend said. "That wolf says I need an arena." "He's not wrong," Patch said. He pointed his trunk at the tailor's window, stacked with bright bolts of cloth. "Whole island loves clothes. You strip them. So give them a show worth watching." Rend stared at the shop. An idea caught fire. The tailor owned the biggest yard on the island, a fenced lot behind the workshop where finished garments hung to dry. Rows of coats, dresses, and shirts swayed on lines like flags. Rend went in and made his offer. He would draw a crowd. Crowds bought cloth. The tailor could sell to every gawker who came. In return, Rend got the yard for his matches. The tailor squinted, counted the coins in his head, and shook Rend's paw. By dusk they had strung rope around the yard. Patch dragged in benches. Rend nailed a wide board to the fence, empty now, waiting for his first trophy. He stood in the ring and felt the dirt under his claws. This was a stage. The wolf came at sundown, drawn by the noise. A crowd gathered at the ropes. The wolf looked at the ring, the benches, the trophy board, and stopped laughing. "You built it," he said. "I built it," Rend said. "Now you can't say no." The wolf's ears flattened. He tore a strip from his own collar and chewed it slow, thinking. Then he grinned, wide and hungry. "Fine. I'll fight you here. But this ring is mine when I win. And I eat every rag you lose." The crowd roared. Rend had his arena. He had his challenge. But he had bet the whole thing on one match, against a rival who devoured clothes for sport. Lose, and he lost the ring he just built.

The wolf beat Rend by the last light of that first night. He tore the shirt off Rend's back, chewed it, and swallowed it whole. Then he laughed, dropped his stake, and walked away bored. He kept the ring only long enough to mock it, then handed it back. "Keep your empty pit," he said. "No one came to watch anyway." Rend woke the next morning with the ring still his, and no one in it. That was the real wound. The benches sat bare. The trophy board held one chewed scrap of collar and nothing else. Rend paced the dirt and roared his challenge again. The market crowd drifted past the ropes and kept walking. A ring with no crowd proved nothing. Patch found him kicking a bench. The elelion said nothing at first. He picked up the fallen bench with his trunk and set it straight. "You keep shouting into an empty yard," Patch said. "People don't come for a fight. They come to see someone big go down." Rend stopped. "Who's big?" Patch pointed his trunk across the square. A bear in a red jersey stood by the water trough, doing pull-ups on a beam. Muscles rolled under his fur. Every prowler nearby watched him. Marcus Strongpaw, the best athlete on the island, and Rend's oldest rival. Rend's gut tightened just seeing him. "Beat him," Patch said, "and the whole island shows up." Rend walked over. Marcus dropped from the beam and grinned down at him. "The lion with the empty arena," Marcus said. "I heard the wolf ate your shirt for free." "Fight me in my ring," Rend said. "Winner strips the loser bare. In front of everyone." Marcus laughed once, loud. Heads turned. "You want a crowd? I'll bring one. But when I win, I hang your fur on your own board." He shook Rend's paw hard enough to hurt. Word spread fast. By dusk the benches filled. Prowlers packed the ropes three deep. Someone even led in a strange elephant-dog to gawk at the noise. The tailor sold cloth from a cart. Rend stood in the ring and felt every eye on him at last. Marcus came in flexing. He was stronger. But strength was not Rend's game. Rend feinted low, then hooked one claw under the strap of the jersey. Marcus grabbed for it. Too slow. Rend spun behind him, gripped the shorts, and pulled. Cloth shredded. Marcus stumbled, caught his own feet, and went down bare in the dirt. The crowd exploded. Rend pinned the torn jersey to his board. His first true trophy. His first true audience. But Marcus rose from the dirt, fur bristling, jaw tight. He did not laugh now. "This isn't over," he said. "I'll bring every prowler on this island to watch you fall." He stalked out through the roaring crowd. Rend had his audience. Now he had an enemy who would summon them all against him.

By dawn, word of Rend's win had spread across the island. Prowlers came in packs. They wanted to see the lion who stripped Marcus Strongpaw bare. The benches filled fast. Then more came. They pressed against the ropes until the ropes bent. Rend stood in his ring and watched the crowd swell past its edges. The yard could not hold them all. Patch pushed through with his trunk, breathing hard. "You have your crowd now," the elelion said. "Too much of one. They'll trample the ropes flat." He was right. The back rows shoved forward. A bench cracked under too many feet. The ring Rend had built was breaking under its own success. Rend grabbed a stack of loose rope from the tailor's cart. "Then we make it bigger," he said. He and Patch worked fast. Patch lifted the corner posts with his trunk and dragged them wide. Rend lashed new rope across, doubling the ring. The crowd flowed into the new space and settled. The ring held. Now it fit everyone. But a bigger ring meant a bigger fight. The crowd wanted blood. They chanted for a match, and Rend had no opponent. He turned, scanning the packed faces for a challenger. At the far post knelt a figure the others gave space to. A giant tiger in cracked black armor. He gripped a broken sword by its snapped blade and stared at the dirt. He did not chant. He did not cheer. The crowd near him went quiet, uneasy. Rend had heard the name whispered at the market. Lorn Thade, who had guarded some ruined shrine and lost it, and now knelt wherever he stopped. Rend stepped close. "You're taking up ring space," he said. "Fight or move." Lorn Thade lifted his yellow eyes. "I don't fight for scraps of cloth." His voice was low and dry. "I fought for something once. It fell anyway." "Then you've got nothing left to lose," Rend said. "Stand up." The tiger rose slow, armor grinding. He towered over Rend. The crowd sucked in a breath. Lorn Thade set his shattered sword against the post, gently, like it still mattered. Then he raised both fists. Rend circled. The tiger was huge but stiff in his plate. Rend feinted, ducked under a slow swing, and hooked a claw beneath a strap of armor at the shoulder. He yanked. The cracked plate slid free and thudded in the dirt. Lorn Thade froze, bare-shouldered. For one moment his stone face broke. He looked down at himself, then at the roaring crowd, and something in him seemed to wake. He did not stalk off like Marcus. He picked up his broken sword, studied it, and dropped it in the dirt for good. "Maybe I've knelt long enough," he said. Rend had won. But he had also raised something that had been buried, and now the whole island wanted a piece of the ring.

The morning after Lorn Thade rose from his knees, Rend looked at his trophy board. It sagged. Jerseys, straps of armor, and torn shirts hung off every peg. New wins came faster now. Prowlers lined up each day to lose to him. But the board could hold no more. A stripped tunic slipped off the top and landed in the dirt. Rend picked it up and had nowhere to hang it. "You need a bigger board," Patch said. The elelion nudged the fallen tunic with his trunk. "Every match adds another trophy. Soon you'll have a hundred and no place to show them." Rend stared at the crammed pegs. An empty board had shamed him once. A full one shamed him worse, because it hid his wins under a pile of cloth. "Then it grows with me," he said. He grabbed rope and planks from the tailor's cart. Patch lifted the corner posts with his trunk. Rend lashed new planks across, wider and taller. But he built it different this time. He set the planks on sliding rails, so each fresh win could push the board out another notch. Now it would never fill. It would stretch as fast as he stripped his rivals. A heavy tread crossed the yard. The crowd went quiet and pulled back. Rend turned. Marcus Strongpaw stood at the ropes. The bear wore a new jersey, red and clean, the number nine bright on his chest. His fists were clenched. Rend had stripped him bare once and made him famous for losing. Marcus had not forgotten. "Big board," Marcus said. He looked at the sliding rails, then at the jersey Rend had taken from him, still hanging near the top. "You keep my old one up like a flag." "I keep every win," Rend said. Marcus pointed at the new empty planks. "Then leave room. I'm filling that space with your fur." A wide tiger stepped up beside the bear. Lorn Thade, no armor now, cracking his knuckles. He had lost to Rend, but the fight had woken him. He did not look beaten. He looked ready. "We live in your yard now," Lorn said. "We watch how you fight. We learn." Patch shifted closer to Rend, uneasy. The bear and the tiger had moved in, and they were studying him. Rend understood. The board he built to never fill had become a challenge. Every peg he added was a promise his rivals wanted to break. He looked at the sliding rails, then at Marcus and Lorn. "Fine," Rend said. He touched the empty planks. "Show me you can fill it." The board would grow forever. That was solved. But now the strongest prowlers on the island slept in his yard, learning his every move, waiting to strip the trophies back off his wall.

The next morning, the line outside Rend's ring stretched past the tailor's shop. Word had spread fast. Rend had beaten every local challenger. Now the whole island wanted a turn. Prowlers pushed at the ropes, waving old shirts they wanted back. Rend stood in the center and looked at the mob. He could not fight them one by one. Not this many. Not before the crowd lost patience and tore his ring apart. "Too many," Patch said. The elelion swept his trunk toward the pressing bodies. "You strip one, five more shove in. You'll drop before the board fills." His friend's ears flattened. Patch wore no clothes to lose, but he still looked worried for Rend. Marcus Strongpaw shouldered through the ropes. The bear had lost his jersey to Rend once, and it still hung near the top of the board. Now he wore a fresh one, number nine bright on his chest. He did not look at the crowd. He looked at Rend. "They want you tired," Marcus said. "They'll take turns till you can't lift your arms. Then someone strips you clean." He cracked his knuckles. "I want that someone to be me. Not them." Rend understood. His plan came fast. He climbed onto a bench and raised his hands. "One match," he called. "Winner takes my spot. Winner faces me." He pointed at the mob. "Fight each other first. I strip the last one standing." The crowd roared and turned inward. Prowlers grabbed shirts and grappled. The mob became a brawl. Rend stepped back and watched them thin themselves out. Marcus grinned and waded in, throwing bodies aside. Shirts flew. Shorts tore. The bench filled with stripped cloth. One fighter remained. Marcus stood over a pile of beaten challengers, chest heaving, jersey ripped at the shoulder. He turned to Rend. "Now me," he said. Rend met him at the center. They locked arms. Marcus was stronger, but the brawl had drained him. Rend twisted, hooked the torn jersey, and ripped it free. Marcus tried to grab back. Rend spun him, stripped the shorts, and dropped both trophies on the board's new rail. The board slid out another notch. Marcus stood bare in the dirt. He did not vow revenge this time. He breathed hard and nodded. "Better," he said. "You're smarter than last time." The mob fell quiet. Rend had not fought a hundred prowlers. He had made them fight each other and taken the winner. His board held Marcus's second trophy now, hung beside the first. But a shape moved at the back of the crowd. A gray wolf, the one who beat Rend long ago. He held a torn scrap of cloth to his mouth and chewed it slow. He swallowed. Then he stepped forward and pointed at the trophy board. "Cloth doesn't count," the wolf said, "if there's none left to hang."

The gray wolf did not wait for an answer. He crossed the ring and grabbed a shirt off the trophy board. He stuffed the cloth in his mouth and chewed. Rend's win over Marcus hung right beside it. The wolf swallowed and reached for the next one. He meant to eat the board bare, one trophy at a time. "Stop him!" Rend shouted. He knew this wolf. Long ago the wolf beat him and took his empty ring. Now the wolf wanted to erase every win Rend had earned since. Rend lunged, but the wolf twisted free and yanked down three more shirts. Lorn Thade stepped in first. The tiger had lost his armor to Rend and now lived in the yard to challenge him. He was huge, and his scarred paws moved fast. Lorn pinned the wolf against a bench. "You don't eat what he bled for," Lorn growled. He did not fight for himself. He fought because Rend's board mattered to him now too. The wolf kicked loose and spat cloth in Lorn's eyes. Patch swept his trunk low and knocked the wolf's legs out. The wolf hit the dirt hard. Rend dove on top of him. "You want to eat cloth?" Rend said. "Eat your own." Rend hooked the wolf's torn shirt and ripped it away. The wolf snapped at him, but Rend rolled and stripped the wolf's belt and pants in one pull. The wolf lay bare in the dirt, the same dirt where he once beat Rend. Rend held up the wolf's clothes for the crowd. "He came to destroy my board," Rend called. "Now his clothes hang on it." The crowd roared. Rend slid the wolf's shirt and pants onto the rail. The board slid out another notch. The wolf climbed to his feet, naked and shaking. He looked at the shirts still hanging, the ones he had not reached. Then he ran, pushing through the crowd, gone. Patch clapped Rend on the back with his trunk. "You beat the one who beat you," he said. "Full circle." But Rend looked at the board and saw the damage. Four trophies gone, chewed and swallowed. Marcus's second win was missing. Two of Lorn's were gone. The rail held empty hooks where his best wins had hung. Lorn wiped cloth from his eyes and stared at the gaps. "Your record's got holes," the tiger said. "Every rival you beat, that proof's in his belly now." Rend touched an empty hook. He had won the fight. But the wolf took the proof with him. If Rend wanted an undisputed board, he had to earn those wins back. He turned to Lorn. "Then I fight you again," Rend said. "All of you. I fill every empty hook." Lorn grinned and cracked his knuckles.

Rend restored win after win. He beat Lorn again and took his armor. He beat Marcus twice more and hung the bear's jersey back on the rail. The board filled, hook by hook. Only one empty hook remained. To fill it, Rend needed the match he had never dared to call. He had to fight Patch. Patch was Rend's best friend. Patch never wore clothes. That was the whole problem. In a stripping match, you win by taking cloth. Patch had none to take. And Rend had none to lose worth counting either. But the crowd wanted the fight, and one hook stayed bare. "You can't win this," Patch said. He swept his trunk toward his own green body. "There's nothing to strip off me. And you know my grip. I've knocked you down a hundred times in practice." Rend circled him in the ring. Marcus watched from the ropes, arms crossed. Lorn leaned on a bench nearby. Both had studied Rend for weeks. Both wanted to see if the champion could solve this. "I don't have to strip cloth," Rend said. "I have to pin you. That's still a win." Patch grinned and rushed him. His trunk wrapped Rend's leg and yanked. Rend crashed into the dirt. The crowd gasped. Patch pressed a heavy foot on Rend's chest. Rend clawed at the ground, but Patch outweighed him by far. "Told you," Patch said. Rend twisted his hips and slipped sideways. He grabbed Patch's trunk with both paws. Patch tried to pull back. Rend held on and used the trunk like a rope, hauling himself up and behind. He locked his arms under Patch's front legs. Patch stumbled. Rend drove forward with all his weight. The two of them toppled. Rend landed on top and hooked Patch's shoulders to the dirt. He pushed down hard. "One," Marcus counted from the ropes. "Two. Three." Patch stopped fighting. He lay flat and laughed. "Alright. You got me. Pinned clean." Rend rolled off, chest heaving. The crowd roared his name. He stood and looked at the last empty hook. He had no shirt to hang. He unhooked a strip of red cloth from his own belt instead and tied it to the rail. "For the friend I couldn't strip," Rend said. "But could still beat." Patch got up and clapped Rend's back with his trunk. "Board's full now." But it wasn't. As the cheers faded, a shadow crossed the ring. Marcus stepped down from the ropes. Lorn rose from the bench. They did not clap. Their eyes were on the packed board, every hook filled. "Your record's whole again," Marcus said. "So there's nothing left to reclaim. Nothing left to prove you're still the best." He cracked his knuckles. "Which means it's open season. We want the top spot. All of us. Starting now."