The students gathered in the arena, filling the front seats that Gabriel had never seen occupied before. Ahead lay the circle of sand where the instructors and the Grandmaster stood in a straight line, conversing amongst themselves.

“How are you feeling?” Lakan’s voice was tinged with concern, his eyes searching Gabriel’s face for any sign of doubt. “I’ll be fine,” Gabriel said, forcing a smile to reassure Lakan.

“What will you be fine about?” Derax asked in his deep voice.

“Orion will be fighting Velar. I expect it will be the first bout,” Ryn said.

Derax let out a hearty laugh. “How could you possibly know that?”

Ryn looked at Gabriel, oddly seeking permission to speak. Gabriel gave a subtle nod. “Velar asking earlier gives Soltis a plausible reason to choose him. He would be a strong opponent for anyone, and we all know Soltis doesn’t like Orion. He will make it appear it was a random choice.”

“It ain’t Ash-damned random,” Jonan muttered under his breath.

“So?” Derax asked, raising an eyebrow.

Ryn rubbed a thumb against his temple. “So, they’ll force Orion to fight against a student who has had years more experience than him, and Velar will try to hurt him.”

Gabriel clenched his fists, determination hardening his resolve. Today, he would show them the strength he had built, leaving his past weaknesses behind.

Derax shrugged. “We’re all here to fight. He wins or loses.”

Ryn exhaled sharply, clearly irritated by Derax’s simplistic view. Derax was a boy who only knew strength. Like he said, you either win or lose. Oddly, the thought comforted Gabriel. He removed the distractions from his mind. I’ll just win. No matter the cost.

The chatter in the arena dimmed, and Gabriel turned to see the Grandmaster stepping up in front of the line made by the instructors. “Master Soltis will commence the spars now.”

Gabriel gripped the wooden bench, his knuckles white. The moment had arrived.

Soltis stepped forward, saluted the Grandmaster, and addressed the students. “This spar is like any other. A death blow, a yield, or a knockout will end the match. You have three minutes, otherwise it’s a draw.”

A knot of anxiety formed in Gabriel’s stomach. Would Soltis judge him unfairly? He had no time to dwell on it as the master continued.

“Velar, since you’ve shown such enthusiasm, step forward,” Soltis said.

Like clockwork, Ryn’s predictions were becoming reality. Gabriel turned to him, and instead of pride at being right, Ryn’s downcast eyes revealed his dismay at the predictable unfolding of events.

Velar vaulted over the guard rails separating the benches from the center of the arena. He raised his fist, turning to face the crowd with a triumphant cheer. His lackeys echoed his enthusiasm, their shouts of support filling the air.

Soltis pointed towards the weapon rack, and Velar began searching through the wooden swords, looking for the most ideal weapon. He selected a double-handed sword that appeared too large for him. It was clear he intended to inflict as much pain as possible with his blows. But Gabriel didn’t mind. A heavier weapon meant Velar would be slower, and Gabriel intended to exploit that.

“Well, it’s time to choose your opponent.” Soltis made a show of scanning the crowd multiple times, as if deeply contemplating his decision. Then his gaze locked onto Gabriel's. “Orion, step forward.” The weight of Soltis' words sent a shiver down Gabriel's spine.

Words of encouragement leaped from nameless mouths: “You’ve got this,” “We believe in you,” “Show him hell.” Gabriel absorbed their support, feeling it bolster his resolve as he stood, slowly walked and stepped over the guard rail.

Gabriel's mind was a sea of calm, a tempest in the wind. He emptied himself of inhibition and fear, focusing solely on cold calculation. The students observing him might have mistaken his expression for one of fear or shock, but it was anything but. Reaching for a one-and-a-half-handed sword on the rack, he knew he had the power to compete with Velar and the speed to surpass him.

Stepping into the rope-bound circle, Gabriel stood his ground, swinging the sword a few times to feel its weight.

Velar sneered at him. “I’m going to hurt you.”

Gabriel remained silent. Words were useless now; only the might of his swing mattered.

Stepping back from the circle, Soltis shouted, “Begin!”

Lowering his body, Gabriel rested his weight on the balls of his feet, circling Velar with measured steps. He wouldn’t strike first; he would let Velar make the opening move.

“Are you just going to skulk around to earn a draw? You really are a pathetic coward,” Velar shouted, his voice loud enough to echo through the arena.

Gabriel didn’t waver. He wouldn’t let his anger control him. Not again. But the slight twitch of his eye betrayed him—the anger was surging, cold calculations giving way to the beast within. He struggled to keep it in check.

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In a few quick steps, Velar closed the distance, swinging his sword with the intent of decapitating Gabriel. Gabriel ducked and followed up with a swing at Velar’s midriff, which his opponent easily deflected. Blow after blow was traded, Gabriel’s shoulder beginning to ache from the impact of parrying the larger blade. He knew he was tiring, while Velar still appeared at ease.

Velar’s frustration grew with each powerful swing, forcing Gabriel to dodge more than counter, trying to slow the relentless assault. The truth was undeniable: Velar was better than him. No matter what strategies Gabriel tried—low strikes, high feints—he couldn’t breach Velar’s defenses. Yet, this was Gabriel’s best showing to date. Though he longed to win, he realized that holding out for a draw might be his best option.

For the next minute, he dodged, parried, ducked, and jumped, evading the wooden blade. He sustained a few glancing blows, but nothing severe. Meanwhile, he hadn’t managed to land a single hit on Velar.

Velar's rage intensified, his pupils dilating, angry breaths hissing from his reddening face. “Fight back, you weakling. No wonder your parents abandoned you. They must have killed themselves from the shame of knowing they brought you into this world.”

Images of his father’s lifeless body and his mother’s final pained blinks as she bled out overwhelmed Gabriel’s mind. A tidal wave of grief and fury eroding his defenses. Rage consumed him, a fiery beast that devoured his caution. With a primal roar, he lunged at Velar, his vision tinted red, every swing of his blade a desperate bid to quell the storm of pain inside. He needed to inflict pain, if only a fraction of his own, to see if it could compare to the torment he had endured.

Gabriel's blade moved with deadly precision, each strike powered by a burning desire to make Velar pay. The crowd's roars faded into a distant hum, overtaken by the rhythmic thump of wood on wood and his own labored breathing. Pain radiated from every blow Velar landed, but Gabriel used it, embraced it. Pain was an old friend. Each hit was a reminder of his purpose, driving him to fight harder. He lost track of time, his world reduced to the next parry, the next strike, the next breath.

His initial calculations and strategies dissolved in the heat of the fight. Abandoning speed, he attempted to overpower Velar, who was both larger and wielded a bigger sword. Desperation fueled Gabriel's next move as he aimed a jab at Velar’s eyes. But he overextended, leaving a fatal opening. Velar sidestepped with practiced ease, his body a blur of motion. In an instant, he was inside Gabriel’s guard, delivering a crushing punch to his gut. The air whooshed out of Gabriel’s lungs as pain exploded in his abdomen. Velar seized his arm, and with a swift, brutal motion, flipped him over his back. Gabriel crashed to the ground, the impact jolting through his entire body, his face pressing into the sand. Before he could react, Velar straddled him, knees pressing against his back.

The boy took hold of his arm and pulled it back slightly. Gabriel’s sword lay flat on the ground, trapped beneath him. He struggled, but with his arm immobilized and his body pinned, he couldn't maneuver to free himself.

“You really are a weakling,” Velar whispered harshly into his ear, tightening his grip and pulling Gabriel’s arm into a painful lock.

Gabriel's body surged with rage as he tried to buckle his opponent off him. He fought to control the anger, knowing the power he needed was just out of reach. Not here. Not now. The arena had quieted, the audience sensing the match’s imminent conclusion.

In a loud and triumphant voice, Velar yelled, “Do you yield?”

“No,” Gabriel gritted out through clenched teeth.

Velar yanked his arm back even harder, the socket in Gabriel’s shoulder screaming in agony, teetering on the brink of dislocation.

With even more force, Velar demanded, “Do you yield?”

Gabriel continued to struggle, every fiber of his being resisting the urge to surrender. It was futile, but he would not give up. He would not yield—to Velar or anyone.

“I tried to reason with the beast. Seeing as he will not yield, I must do this,” Velar declared in a falsely diplomatic tone, his voice dripping with mockery. With his knees pressing into Gabriel’s shoulder blades, Velar yanked Gabriel’s arm back with brutal force. A sickening pop echoed through the silent arena, followed by Velar’s haunting, triumphant laugh.

The crowd erupted in loud shouts of protest, but Gabriel’s world was consumed by a blinding haze of pain. He felt the oppressive weight of Velar’s knee lift from his back, a momentary relief. Rolling onto his back, Gabriel stared at his dislocated shoulder, his arm limp and unresponsive.

Gabriel’s eyes tracked Velar’s retreating form, noticing the smug bounce in his step. But Velar had not yet left the circle. Summoning every ounce of strength, Gabriel silently stood, his body battered, his shoulder a cacophony of agony. He refused to scream, to give Velar the satisfaction. The pain was his alone to bear, a familiar companion. He grasped his sword gingerly with his off-hand, moving swiftly and silently toward his unsuspecting opponent.

His rage had cooled, transforming into a cold anger. “Velar,” he whispered, his voice icy and controlled.

Velar’s brows shot up in shock as he turned, his eyes widening at the sight of Gabriel’s loosely hanging arm and the sword clutched in his other hand.

Every muscle in Gabriel’s body screamed in protest, but he channeled his pain into one final, desperate effort. He swung the blade with all his might, his vision narrowing to the point of impact. The flat of the sword connected with Velar’s temple with a resounding crack, a sound that seemed to freeze time. Velar’s eyes glazed over, his expression one of stunned disbelief, before his legs gave out beneath him. He crumpled to the ground, the crowd's collective gasp a mere backdrop to the ringing in Gabriel’s ears.

“I did not yield,” Gabriel declared, his voice steady. His eyes bore into Soltis, unwavering and defiant, as if daring him to challenge the statement.

Soltis hurried into the circle, his fingers deftly checking Velar’s pulse and breathing. Soltis exhaled a sigh of relief, the tension momentarily easing from his features. Gabriel watched with detached indifference. Velar’s fate was inconsequential. Velar could have died, and he would have felt nothing at all—except perhaps some satisfaction.

A stunned silence cloaked the arena, thick with uncertainty and disbelief. Gabriel surveyed the students, catching glimpses of wide-eyed shock and whispered fears. Whilst others looked on with newfound respect.

He then turned to his instructors. Master Abel, the librarian, looked at Gabriel with perplexity, no doubt trying to reconcile the boy who frequently visited the library with the ferocity he had just witnessed. Master Indlar looked down in disdain, likely seeing Gabriel's lack of gentlemanly conduct as further proof that he didn’t belong at the academy.

Soltis stood, his face a mask of barely controlled anger, his eyes blazing with contempt. Gabriel cut him off, his voice calm but resolute. “Can I go to the infirmary now that I’ve won?”

Soltis turned even redder, about to retort, when the calm voice of the Grandmaster cut through the tension. “The win is yours. See to your shoulder.”

Gabriel nodded respectfully to the Grandmaster, then glanced down at Velar's prone form before meeting Soltis' gaze once more. Despite the throbbing pain, a genuine smile escaped him.

He had won for one reason alone. I will never yield. I will never give up.