"Get up."
Bram’s voice wasn’t loud. But it didn’t need to be. It slithered across the arena like commandnt from sothing ancient, and it struck Avin’s ears with a chill that wasn’t cold. The boy’s body responded before his thoughts did.
He rose, limbs shaky. Blood buzzed in his temples. Both of his fists rose—not in wild defiance, but in that universal posture of soone who’s seen real fists, who expects pain, who knows how to try surviving it. His hands frad his face, elbows tucked in tight, forearms vertical like twin towers of flesh and will. It was the stance of a cornered fighter—a boxer staring down his execution.
Bram didn’t speak. He didn’t smirk. He simply rotated both of his machete-like wooden swords—one twirl, two—and then planted them deep in the sand. His hands, now free, flexed slowly before tightening into fists.
Then ca the sound.
Crack.Pop.Crack.
One knuckle at a ti. A full chorus of bone snapping into readiness. The arena, despite its size, seed to amplify it—every knuckle a war drum echoing into Avin’s chest.
AVIN’S POV
What the hell is wrong with this guy...?
He’s enormous—like a bear wearing a man’s skin—but the way he moved... It didn’t match. Soone that big shouldn’t be able to move that fast. Shouldn’t be able to appear in front of you without warning.
But he did.
My eyes dart across the sand, desperate for logic, for anything that makes sense in this madness. And then, through the blur, I catch sothing.
Leo.
His eyes.
They shimr again—glowing that sa disturbing, bile-green light I saw before. My heart stutters.
Then Ashborn. He’s looking directly at .
That stare—it’s not cold. It’s not neutral.
It’s disappointnt.
It lands heavier than Bram’s fists ever could. Like I failed a test I didn’t know I was taking. Like sothing in his gaze reached into my chest and started twisting.
I didn’t want to see him look at like that.
I didn’t want his disappointnt. I wanted sothing else. Sothing I didn’t understand.
Maybe... I wanted him to be proud.
But why? Why does Clive care? Why does Avin?
I force my attention back to Bram. He’s advancing again—slow steps now, but his posture radiates purpose. Power. That military calm of a man who’s fought enough to not fear the next swing.
I kept my arms up, but beyond that... I had no plan. No training. Nothing real to pull from.
So far, the only thing keeping alive has been—
Instinct.
But that doesn’t make sense. I’ve never been in a fight before. I avoided confrontation like it was cancer.
Then again...
I’m not Clive.
I’m Avin.
This body, this history—it knows things. Has scars. Has done this before. Maybe the experience is locked sowhere deeper than I’ve tried.
I should be using it.
My eyes lock on Bram again. His steps quicken. Not by much. But enough to make my chest tighten.
I try to reach for it—whatever "it" is. That locked-up muscle mory. That buried knowledge. If Avin was trained... then I need him to take over.
Maybe if I just—
Wait—
He’s gone.
I blink.
No sound. No wind. Nothing.
Then, suddenly, he’s in front of .
Before my brain can even scream, my legs begin to react—too slow.
He swings.
A heavy left fist cuts the air. It’s wide and dense—like being hit by the trunk of a falling tree.
I stumble back with sheer panic. My body reacts faster than my mind. I cross both arms to block, forming a wall of flesh and bone in front of my face.
And then—
THUUUUD.
The sound echoes in my skull like a cathedral bell.
The impact blasts through both arms. It feels like my bones are getting forged in a furnace. Not snapped—but cracked, strained, pushed to their limits.
I feel sothing give.
I get thrown back like a rag covered in blood.
And Bram—he doesn’t even stop.
The right hand follows like a hamr looking for a nail. It crashes into my ribs before I can blink.
I hear it.
My ribs buckle. Not a clean break, not an elegant snap—no, they bend. Curve. Warp like wet wood.
The pain isn’t sharp. It’s full-body. It’s a roar under my skin.
I’m lifted.
Thrown.
Tossed through the air like a sacrifice.
My face collides with the sand first.
Rough, coarse grains scrape across my cheeks, lips, brow—dragging skin as if the arena itself wants to devour . My body flips once. Twice. Then it rolls, bouncing unevenly until I co to a stop.
My chest burns.
My lungs are fire.
My heart—
It feels like it’s trying to escape. Like it doesn’t want to be in this body anymore.
Thud. Thud. THUD.
I hear him again.
He’s walking.
No. Charging.
Every step is a drumbeat of violence.
I can’t stay down.
Even though every molecule inside is begging to stay down.
I shove my arms under . Push. One leg, then another. Wobbling. Shaking. But standing.
Barely.
Then—he’s there.
Again.
I lift my arms.
He swats them aside like they’re paper.
His other hand—like a clamp of pure muscle—shoots forward and locks around my neck.
The breath leaves my throat instantly. My body flails.
He doesn’t pause.
He keeps moving.
Still sprinting—with in the air, suspended like a doll.
My feet drag in the dirt behind , kicking up dust in my wake. My vision flickers.
Then it happens.
He stops.
Suddenly. Brutally.
And smashes my back into a stone wall with enough force to cave in my spine.
It’s not pain. Not yet.
It’s shock.
Like my organs have all moved to the front of my body at once. Like they’re all trying to scream together.
I try to suck in air—my mouth gapes open—but the grip on my throat tightens, crushing off the last bit of oxygen.
He yanks off the wall like I weigh nothing and slams downward, into the ground.
CRACK.
My back folds in like a broken staircase. Every bone screams. Sothing inside shifts—my shoulder? My hip? I don’t know.
I’m not even sure I still have a spine.
My arms flail.
They twitch more than move—like a fish out of water, flopping hopelessly.
I hit his wrist. His elbow. Nothing works.
I’m choking.
Fading.
Dying again.
His eyes bore into mine.
Wide. Wild. Empty.
I was in a place I could not leave.
My lungs shrank smaller with each second. My arms barely moved now. My ribs? Shattered. My spine? Pulverized. I couldn’t even feel my legs anymore.
Then I saw it.
He raised his fist—open-pald at first, then clenched it slowly, like a man gripping the final nail of a coffin. He raised it high above his head. Higher than I thought he could reach.
This was it.
One more hit. That’s all it’d take.
I lowered my arms. Palms pressed into the rough sand. My mind slowed down.
Maybe after this... I wouldn’t feel anything anymore. Not even the sand.
...Wait.
The sand.
My hand moved on its own.
I clenched my fingers into a fistful of coarse, dry grains.
And threw it.
Straight into his eyes.
"AAAGHH—WHAT THE FUCK!?"
He scread—genuine shock in his voice for the first ti. Both his hands flew to his face, wiping frantically.
And ?
I dropped.
Gasping.
Free.
Finally.
I didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t care how it looked. Didn’t even look back.
I ran.
Sprinting through the dust and blood, stumbling and swaying and wheezing, but moving like my life depended on it—because it did.
I didn’t care how cowardly I looked to the audience.
I didn’t care if the nobles scoffed, or if the knights laughed, or if my na beca a joke tomorrow.
I was sick of dying.
And scared this might be my last chance to avoid it.
END POV
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--To Be Continued--
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