The crowd roared as the air crackled with tension, the setting sun casting long shadows over Ironclad Academy's open-air arena. The worn stone floor bore 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. Try not to embarrass yourself," Jarek sneered, his tone 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 rang out like a bell, silencing the crowd.
Jarek moved first, a blur of speed and precision. His staff came down hard, and Kade barely managed to raise his forearm guard in time. The impact jolted through his arm, and he stumbled back, gritting his teeth against the sharp sting of pain.
"Too slow," Jarek jeered, seamlessly following with a sweeping strike aimed at Kade's legs.
Kade jumped back, narrowly avoiding the blow. He knew he couldn't win this fight in a head-on clash. Jarek had the reach, skill, and confidence. Kade only had his instincts—and an unyielding refusal to give up.
"Stay calm," he whispered to himself, his breathing steadying. "Wait for an opening."
Jarek pressed the attack, each strike faster and more precise than the last. Kade's world narrowed to the rhythm of his opponent's movements, his focus sharpened to a razor's edge. The roar of the crowd faded into a distant hum as he dodged, parried, and sidestepped.
Then he saw it—a brief hesitation, a slight overextension of Jarek's left arm. It was barely perceptible, 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 didn't last.
Jarek recovered quickly, his smirk replaced with a snarl. With a powerful swing, he struck Kade's side, the force of the blow sending him sprawling to the ground. The air was knocked from his lungs, and his vision blurred as he hit the stone floor.
"Pathetic," Jarek spat, looming over him. "You should've stayed down."
Kade's body screamed in protest, but he refused to yield. His fists clenched against the cold stone as he struggled to rise, sheer willpower driving him to his feet.
"Enough!" The instructor's voice cut through the arena, sharp and commanding. "The match is over."
Jarek lowered his staff, his smirk returning as he stepped away. "Try not to get in my way again, Kade. Next time, I won't go easy."
The crowd began to disperse, their cheers fading as quickly as they'd erupted. Kade remained on the ground, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He didn't feel defeated—just… different. A strange, cold sensation 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, her arms crossed and a wry smile tugging at her lips.
"I don't feel lucky," Kade muttered, accepting her outstretched hand.
Mira pulled him up with surprising strength for her 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, a pair of unseen eyes lingered on Kade. A whisper, soft as a breeze, drifted through the air:
"Fists of the forgotten…"