The crowd erupted in roars as the air crackled with tension, the setting sun throwing long shadows across the open arena of Ironclad Academy. The worn stone floor showed the scars of countless battles, each one a testament to the academy's brutal doctrine: strength was law, and failure meant exile.
Kade stood at the edge of the fighting ring, his fists clenched tightly and his heart pounding like a drum. He hadn't asked for this fight—he never did. He wasn't one of the elites, destined for greatness. He was just another face in the crowd, a nameless student clinging to survival with grit and luck. Yet, here he was, facing Jarek, one of the academy's brightest stars.
"Come on, Kade. Don't be such a goon," Jarek sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. He was everything Kade wasn't: tall, confident, and already hailed as a prodigy. Twirling a wooden practice staff like it was an extension of his arm, he exuded effortless control.
Kade exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering toward the instructors seated high above in the viewing balcony. Their expressions were cold and unreadable, their judgment absolute.
"You can still forfeit," Jarek taunted, his voice carrying effortlessly over the murmuring crowd. "Nobody will blame you for running. Well… almost nobody."
Laughter rippled through the spectators. Kade blocked it out, his jaw tightening. He'd grown accustomed to being underestimated, dismissed, and ridiculed. But today felt different. A nagging sensation lingered at the edge of his thoughts, as though unseen eyes were watching him from beyond the arena's shadows.
"Begin!" the instructor's voice bellowed like a bell, quieting the crowd.
Jarek went first, a blur of speed and precision. His staff came down hard, and Kade barely raised his forearm guard in time. The impact shot through his arm, and he staggered backward, gritting his teeth against the sharp, biting pain.
"Too slow," Jarek jeered, smoothly transitioning into a sweeping strike aimed at Kade's legs.
Kade sprang back just in time, dodging the swing. He couldn't possibly take Jarek head-on; the other had the reach, the skill, and the arrogance. Kade had only instincts and an unwavering determination not to lose.
"Be calm," he whispered to himself, taking in a few more deep breaths. "Wait for a hole."
Jarek came on strong, striking faster and harder than ever. Kade narrowed his world down to the beat of his opponent's moves. His concentration grew sharper than a razor. He tuned out the crowd, listening only to their distant hum, as he dodged, parried, and sidestepped.
Then he saw it—a fleeting hesitation, a slight overextension of Jarek's left arm. It was barely noticeable, but Kade reacted on instinct. He stepped in, closing the gap, and drove his shoulder into Jarek's chest with all the force he could muster.
Jarek staggered, caught off guard. The crowd gasped in unison, a ripple of disbelief coursing through them. For a fleeting moment, hope surged in Kade's chest.
But it did not last.
Jarek recovered quickly, his smirk replaced by a snarl. With one strong swing, he clipped Kade's side, the impact sending him tumbling across the stone floor. Air escaped from his lungs, and his vision blurred as he crashed onto the cold stone.
"Pathetic," Jarek spat, looming over him. "You should have stayed down."
Kade's body screamed in protest, but he refused to give in. He clenched his fists against the stone as he steeled himself and tried to rise; sheer willpower moving him to his feet.
"Enough!" The instructor's voice cut across the arena, sharp and commanding. "The match is over."
Jarek lowered his staff, a smirk returning to his face as he stepped back. "Try not to get in my way again, Kade. Next time, I won't go easy."
The crowd was dispersing; their cheers grew faint as suddenly as they'd burst forth. Kade remained on the floor, his breathing shallow gasps. He did not feel defeated—just… different. A cold, numb feeling crept along his spine, as though the shadows themselves were reaching out to him.
"You're lucky he didn't break your ribs," a familiar voice said.
Kade looked up to see Mira standing over him, arms crossed and wry smile twisting her lips.
"I don't feel lucky," Kade said, accepting the hand she thrust out.
She pulled him upright with a surprisingly strong effort, considering her own slender frame. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up before you pass out. You're bleeding, by the way."
As they walked away from the arena, Mira kept the conversation light, recounting her own exaggerated tales of clumsiness during training. Kade found himself smiling despite the pain.
But his mind couldn't shake the nagging sense of unease. Something had changed during that fight. He couldn't explain it, but he knew this wasn't the end—it was only the beginning.
In the shadows of the arena, two unseen eyes kept landing on Kade. Then there was this whisper, soft as a breeze, floating on the air:
"Fists of the forgotten…"