Aramith's brow furrowed, but Mozrael squeezed his hand once more. "Aris will be fine. Trust me."

He followed her gaze. Aris, who was bloodied and barely steady, was still sitting at the edge of the arena. Refusing treatment and refusing to leave. His bruised face twisted with both fear and stubbornness as he clenched his fists.

"Aramith…" Aris croaked, "don't… don't let him walk away." He knew for sure Aramith was stronger than Sylas. When they chose to run away from the wolves back then, Aramith got rid of them when he appeared. It was a selfish request, but he desperately wanted Sylas to pay.

Aramith nodded once.

Sylas smirked as the boy approached, arms crossed loosely. His earth-brown eyes gleamed with arrogance, his stance relaxed. The arena seemed to tilt in his favor as whispers rippled:

"He'll crush him."

"Aramith doesn't stand a chance."

"Bet he won't last a minute."

Father Prince stepped forward, raising one of his staves. "The terms are simple. The fight continues until one yields or cannot continue."

"Yield?" Sylas chuckled, brushing back his hair. "He won't even touch me."

The staff dropped.

And Sylas moved.

He was fast, far faster than most expected. It was as if he wanted to end it all before it even began. He quickly slammed a fist straight toward Aramith's jaw, his hand covered in fragments of rock.

The crowd roared in anticipation of an instant knockout, but Aramith slipped aside, the blow cutting empty air.

"What?" Sylas blinked, then smirked wider. "Slippery."

Another punch.

A sweeping kick.

A sudden stone spike rising from the ground at Aramith's feet.

Again, Aramith moved fluidly, dodging, weaving, sliding just out of reach. His expression didn't change. Calm and focused.

The crowd, however, turned restless.

"Is that all he can do? Run?"

"Pathetic. He's terrified."

"Figures."

"Does he even have an attribute?"

Elira pressed both hands to her mouth. "He's just… evading. He's weaker than Sylas. He's going to lose." She turned to Mozrael, panic rising. "Please, tell him to yield, before it's too late!"

Mozrael's gaze never left the arena. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes cold. "Watch," she whispered.

Sylas laughed between strikes, his voice mocking yet polished, as if dripping concern.

Sylas's laughter spilled between his strikes, mocking and polished."You move well, Aramith. Better than I expected. But evasion only prolongs pain. Give up now, and I'll make it quick. For your servant's sake."

Aris flinched. Elira's eyes welled with tears. Mozrael's jaw tightened, her disgust barely restrained.

Aramith said nothing.

Sylas lunged, his fist sheathed in solid rock, bringing it down like a hammer meant to crush bone. The ground cracked on impact. Aramith slipped aside again, but this time he just glared at Sylas for a full second before putting some space between them.

Sylas felt a chill looking into those eyes, but he brushed it off.

He crystalized shards of rock, shooting them at Aramith, but he evaded them all. He wasn't just dodging Sylas. With every movement, he observed Sylas, calculated his every move, and broke him apart one by one.

Sylas was starting to hate Aramith. His calm facade was slipping, and desperation crept in. He attacked faster now, but none of his hits landed. For so long, this kept going on, and with time...

Sylas's fists were slowing. Each punch that had once cracked like thunder now came with a desperate tremor, his breath ragged, his stance growing sloppy.

The sweat dripping down his temples wasn't from exertion alone, but the dawning realization that no matter how hard he swung, no matter how much he postured, Aramith wasn't breaking.

And worse, Aramith hadn't even struck back yet.

The crowd noticed too. The same students who had mocked Aramith for his constant evasion now leaned forward with wide eyes. Their laughter had been replaced with whispers.

"Wait… isn't Sylas supposed to be very strong?"

"He can't even land a clean hit…"

"Aramith's not even trying. Look at his eyes."

That last whisper carried the most weight, for when Sylas finally dared to meet Aramith's gaze, he flinched. The boy's glowing purple eyes burned with quiet fury, unblinking, patient, studying. Every dodge, every sidestep, every measured breath. It wasn't survival. It was a dissection of his every move.

Sylas's heart pounded. The back of his mind screamed that he was no longer the predator. He was the prey.

"No… no!" he spat, forcing a grin even as his knuckles bled. "You're fast, I'll give you that! Dodging me for this long takes skill! But this isn't fighting. This is running. Everyone sees it!"

Some students nodded, but their voices wavered now. They wanted to believe him, but the sight of Sylas's mounting frustration betrayed the truth.

Aramith finally tilted his head, almost curious. His lips curled in a faint, mocking smirk. "Running?" His voice was low, calm, yet sharp enough to pierce through the arena's air. "No… I was waiting."

The first counterstrike landed like a thunderclap. Aramith's fist buried into Sylas's ribs, forcing the boy to stagger back with a strangled gasp. Pain spread through his chest like wildfire.

The shock of it—the fact that Aramith's first hit nearly broke him—shattered what remained of his pride.

Sylas froze for a heartbeat, blood pooling bitter on his tongue. Then he forced out a strained laugh, straightening, brushing his lip with the back of his hand."Tch. Lucky hit," he spat, chin lifted as though nothing had happened.

He surged forward again, fists swinging in wide arcs, slamming his heel into the dirt to kick up rocks, driving them like bullets. Anything to reassert himself. Anything to remind them all who he was.

But Aramith's movements were perfectly honed. Lynnor and Gebreth had taught him well. Sylas had no chance, and every miss left him panting harder, his strikes growing sloppy.

"You—stand still!" Sylas roared, voice cracking. He hurled another trail of rocks, larger and jagged. Aramith batted it aside with a single palm, stepping in close. His fist buried into Sylas's ribs again. The muffled crack silenced even the loudest hecklers.

Sylas reeled, clutching his side. His smirk faltered, twisting into a trembling sneer.

And Aramith didn't stop. He pressed forward with relentless precision, every blow honed, every step certain.

Even with the disgust he felt and hatred for what Sylas did to Aris, he wasn't flailing with rage. He was carefully dismantling Sylas, piece by piece.

The spectators gasped as Sylas stumbled under the assault.

"Wait, Aramith's winning?"

"No… he's destroying him!"

"But Sylas trained every day! How?"

Sylas's eyes darted to the crowd. Their stares cut sharper than Aramith's fists. The contempt, the disbelief, the disgust.

"He's weaker than him."

"Pathetic. Can't even handle someone who hasn't touched his attribute."

"Wasn't he supposed to be the best?"

Each whispered word lodged like a dagger in his chest. His breathing turned frantic, not from pain but panic.

His reputation, his pride, his name—all slipping away with every blow.

And then came the breaking point.

Aramith seized him by the collar mid-strike, dragging him close until Sylas could see the pure, unshaken wrath in those glowing purple eyes. The boy's voice was calm, too calm.

"I won't stop," Aramith said softly, almost like a vow, "until you admit it. Say it. You're weak."

Sylas trembled, teeth grit, unable to answer. His pride screamed louder than the pain wracking his body. He could never say it. He could never yield before this… this outcast.

"Then I'll break you until you can't lie to yourself anymore."

The next punch crunched into Sylas's face, snapping his head back. Blood sprayed. Another followed, then another. The arena had gone silent—no jeers, no mocking laughter. Only the sickening rhythm of fists on flesh.

Mozrael watched, flames flickering faintly at her fingertips, eyes narrowed with cold disgust toward Sylas. Elira covered her mouth, trembling, torn between horror and pity. Aris, beaten and bandaged, watched with wide eyes, whispering hoarsely, "Aramith… enough…"

But Aramith didn't hear. He was lost in that quiet, merciless resolve. His strikes weren't wild—they were deliberate, crushing Sylas's pride more than his bones.

Sylas's desperation hit its lowest when, between blows, his gaze flicked to Aris among the spectators. He saw only scorn in those weary eyes, and something inside him snapped.

Sylas roared, a desperate, broken sound. His fist slammed into the ground, stone erupting in a forest of jagged spikes. Dust and debris filled the air. He yanked a shard free, shaping it into a spear, and hurled it.

Aramith stepped back, tilting his head ever so slightly, and as everyone watched, it sliced through the air, not at his opponent, but at the defenseless Aris.

Gasps erupted across the arena, but before panic could spread, a searing blaze of blue incinerated the projectile mid-air.

Mozrael didn't even move from where she stood, her hand lowering as her flames died with a hiss. Her expression was calm, disgust curling her lips.

"Pathetic," she muttered, her voice carrying through the silence.

The spectators shifted uncomfortably, shame rippling through them. Sylas froze, the last of his desperation smothered, but his mind worked fast.

"There's no way you're strong! You must be using an artifact!" He spat.

The crowd thought, and some started to believe it. Aramith hadn't used any attribute. He must have some sort of artifact that allows him to fight like that.

But before anyone spoke, Mozrael's voice cut through the grounds.

"You think he's a coward like you? If he used an artifact to cheat, do you think Father Prince and Father Garrun would just stand there?"

Her words made more sense, and the students looked at the two men, who just nodded.

Now, the eyes fell back on Sylas.

"You're just weaker than me. And you choose to bully the weaker people with your power."

He shot forward again, grabbing Sylas as he punched again.

"I'm going to repeat myself. Accept and declare that you're weak, and I'll leave you. Everyone here sees it."

Hearing these words tore him apart so painfully, but he couldn't muster any strength to fight back.

"Stop…" he rasped, his voice cracking. But pride sealed his tongue. He couldn't yield. He wouldn't.

Sylas spat blood, trembling. His glare burned with hatred, but his knees buckled beneath him. He tried to rise, tried to prove them all wrong—but another punch dropped him, bone cracking beneath the force.

"Say it."

The crowd had fallen utterly silent. Every breath, every heartbeat, strained to hear.

Sylas's mouth worked soundlessly. No words came. His pride held him in place, even as his body collapsed under the weight of fists and whispers.

"Say it," Aramith repeated, his tone calm, unshaken, terrifying in its restraint.

Before the next blow could fall, a staff struck the ground between them, its impact ringing across the arena.

"Enough!" Father Prince's voice thundered.

But Aramith's hand moved faster, and his fist connected once more, square into his face. Bone cracked. Sylas collapsed, barely conscious, bloodied and broken.

Father Prince's eyes swept the bloodied boy at Aramith's feet. " I thought I said stop! He cannot continue. He is too weak to fight back."

Too weak.

The words dug deeper than fists. Sylas froze, his body trembling, denial burning in his throat. Weak? No… I can still—

But the crowd was already murmuring, the verdict carved into stone.

"He lost…"

"Not even to an attribute…"

"He just used physical strength to beat him."

Sylas's pride crumbled. He could feel it—their gazes, once full of awe, now dripping with disgust. His reputation was gone. His power meant nothing.

And through it all, Aramith stood tall, fists still clenched, chest heaving—not from exhaustion, but from holding back the storm within him.

The silence was heavier than any roar.

Sylas had lost. Not just the fight—But everything.

Mozrael's eyes lingered on Sylas with disgust.

Elira collapsed to her knees, trembling but relieved.

Aris, battered and bruised, allowed himself the faintest of smiles as Aramith looked at him.

"Thank you...boss..." Exhaustion finally took over his body, and he let the darkness take over.

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