The announcement of Dean's opponent left the entire stadium in stunned silence. A murmur rippled through the crowd like a wave of disbelief. One of the strongest students at the academy—Dean Ryder—was going to fight *Sean Blake*, the weakest, a non-magical outcast. It was a spectacle, but it wasn't one anyone had been hoping for.
A few boos echoed through the stadium. Discontent rippled among the students, but there was nothing they could do. Once the names were drawn, the matchups were set. The rules were absolute. And the crowd? They were already preparing to witness a slaughter.
Sean's heart hammered painfully in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears as the weight of his situation began to settle. He'd thought maybe—just maybe—he would face an F-rank, someone weak enough to let him take a few punches and make an early exit. But Dean Ryder? The guy who could wipe the floor with most of the academy?
This was insane. He was dead.
"Hahaha, I must've gone senile…" someone jeered from the crowd. "Did I hear that right? Sean Blake? Dean's opponent is *Sean*?" The laughter that followed was sharp, cruel, like the sound of a thousand knives scraping together.
Sean could feel the mocking eyes on him. Every sneer, every whisper, it was all aimed at him. He wanted to shrink away, to disappear, but instead, he clenched his fists, determined not to show them his fear.
"Sean Blake, please come to the arena."
The voice of the announcer sounded far away, like it was coming from the bottom of a well. But Sean's legs—weak as they were—propelled him forward. He couldn't stop himself. Not now. He was already here.
He stood up, his mind a haze of panic, as the laughter of his peers echoed behind him. The whispers. The sneers. They followed him as he made his way toward the arena. His feet felt like they were made of lead, but he trudged on, feeling every mocking glance like a slap across his face.
When Sean reached the arena steps, he stopped. For a moment, he froze.
Dean Ryder was standing at the center, his posture perfect, his dark eyes locked on him with a gaze so cold, so calculating, it made Sean's skin crawl. Dean's stance was nothing less than perfect—confident, relaxed, and dripping with arrogance.
Sean swallowed hard. He could already feel the weight of the fight pressing on him. He'd been through nothing like this before.
Dean's smile was a slow, predatory thing. He tilted his head, as though admiring his prey. "Ready to die, Sean?" His voice was low, mocking, almost lazy.
The crowd shifted restlessly, murmuring in anticipation.
With a deep breath, Sean climbed the stairs and reached his side of the arena. The air was thick with tension. His heart raced.
A referee appeared between them, holding a whistle in one hand, glancing between the two fighters.
"Are you ready?" the referee asked, looking at Sean first.
"Uhh… y-yeah," Sean stuttered, trying to force the words out, but the fake confidence he'd tried to muster earlier had vanished. It was like a balloon deflating, leaving nothing behind but a pit in his stomach.
The referee turned to Dean, who shrugged nonchalantly. "Ready."
The referee stepped back, raising the whistle to his lips. "Begin!" he shouted, signaling the start of the match.
Dean stood unmoving, hands behind his back, his gaze never leaving Sean. He looked every bit the untouchable academy prince. A few girls in the stands gasped, watching him with wide eyes.
Sean clenched his fists, his knuckles white. He raised his hands in a defensive stance, keeping his body low. His legs were shaking, his mind racing with a million thoughts. The air around him felt colder, heavier, as if the weight of everyone's judgment was closing in on him.
And then, the familiar pain from when Lyra had broken up with him resurfaced. It hit him harder than ever, crushing his chest with a pressure so intense it felt like his ribs were about to snap. His vision blurred, and for a split second, he thought he might collapse.
The agony was so sharp, so brutal, that Sean couldn't help but groan, staggering forward, his right hand clutching at his side. His knees buckled beneath him, and he sank to one knee, the pain overwhelming him.
The crowd watched, confused. They thought he was begging for mercy, that he had given up before the fight had even begun.
*What a joke. A weakling. He doesn't even have the guts to stand up for himself.*
Lyra stood off to the side, watching the spectacle unfold. A disdainful sneer curled her lips. *I made the right decision. What a worthless guy.*
The pain was unbearable, but it didn't last long. After what felt like an eternity, the sharp sting dulled, fading as quickly as it had arrived. Sean blinked rapidly, his chest heaving as if he'd just run a marathon.
What the hell was happening to him?
He stood, his mind still reeling, but he could feel something inside him stirring. There was a fight left in him. He wasn't done. Not yet.
He looked up at Dean—who still stood with that arrogant grin plastered on his face—and squared his shoulders, his eyes narrowing.
Dean's smirk widened. "You done begging for mercy, weakling? I'll give you the privilege of attacking first." He chuckled darkly, almost bored. "If you don't hurry up, this fight'll be over before it even starts."
Sean didn't hesitate. His body moved before his mind had time to fully catch up. With a roar, he surged forward, faster than he thought possible, his fist aiming for Dean's face.
Dean barely flinched as he easily blocked the strike, but Sean wasn't done. He was quick—faster than Dean had anticipated. He followed up with a left kick, aiming for Dean's side.
Dean's eyes widened just slightly as the kick whooshed toward him, but with a swift motion, he caught Sean's leg in his hand.
*THWACK!*
Before Dean could react, another kick came from Sean's other leg, landing hard against his cheek with a sickening *crack*. The force was enough to make Dean's head jerk sideways.
For a brief moment, the crowd gasped in shock. It wasn't much—just a glancing blow—but it was enough to surprise everyone.
Sean didn't hesitate. The moment Dean staggered back, he was on him, his fists flying. Punch after punch slammed into Dean's face, landing with an intensity that left the crowd in stunned silence. *One, two, three…* Sean didn't stop. He kept swinging, driven by a force he didn't fully understand.
*One... two... three... four... five…*
He was hitting Dean. The *Dean Ryder*, the untouchable one. The punches were landing. They weren't the cleanest, but they were connecting.
Dean's smirk faltered. His pride, his arrogance—everything that made him so untouchable—was starting to crumble. For the first time, he was *fighting* to defend himself. He couldn't block a single hit. He could only take it. The humiliation was burning him from the inside.
The punches kept coming. Sean's hands were like battering rams, each one driving him closer to the edge of his limits. This burst of speed, of fury—it was all he had. His stamina was fading, his strength waning, but he couldn't stop. If he did, it would be over.
And then it happened.
A slight hesitation. A split-second stagger.
That was all it took.
*PAH!*
Dean's hand shot out, gripping Sean's fist mid-air, halting the attack with terrifying ease.
The crowd went silent.
Dean's eyes narrowed, a dark, murderous glint flickering in his gaze. Slowly, he lifted his head, his lips curling into a smile that was colder than ice.
"Are you done?" Dean's voice was low, venomous. "My turn."
And just like that, the fight had shifted.
The real battle was only just beginning.