The tournament aide led him to the same room Blake had been in. A small, windowless area deep beneath the arena with a few benches and chairs.

Jacob went and sat down on one of the benches facing the door.

"You have fifteen minutes. Then I will knock and call you up for your match." The tournament aide said. "Would you like to request a Pre-Match Advisor?"

Maybe Blake. Maybe Camilla? But Blake was out of commission. And he and Camilla had already talked a bunch last night. Besides, he didn't want them to see how nervous he was. And something about Archie not requesting anyone had resonated with him.

Nobody. It felt right.

"No thanks," Jacob said.

"I will see you in fifteen minutes."

The door shut behind the tournament aide, leaving Jacob alone in the room. He clasped his hands together to stop them from shaking and took deep breaths. It helped a little.

Get it together. Look at how easily they all won. You'll be fine.

But what if he wasn't?

What if he lost?

He didn't have the motivation that Blake did. He didn't even have the motivation that Camilla or any of the others did. All their families were watching. They'd all been watching this tournament, waiting for their turn, for their entire lives. They would have been all working their asses off for their first match, desperately eager to succeed in something that meant so much to them. Look at how Archie went on about the tournament. It was everything to him. And it wasn't that Jacob didn't care about it, but how could he compete with that? It just simply didn't mean the same to him. Camilla's father would be watching. Her name had so much weight she would have to do well. Grace too. This was their world, with their families. Even if it wasn't as intense as Blake's had been, they could all draw on their families, their lives. What could he draw on? His parents didn't know he was here. They'd probably never know he was here. It didn't matter to them and he would never be able to tell them about it.

Not for the first time in his life he naïvely wished something traumatic had happened to him as a child. It always did in the stories about successful people. Being orphaned, a car crash, anything. Anything. Something to drive him. Someone to take revenge on. Some distant, singular goal to chase. If he'd been orphaned like Ishaan then would he have worked harder? If he'd watched his parents fail at something like Blake would that give him a surge of determined energy to succeed where they had failed? He'd even settle for John Altman having been an asshole or bully to him at some point, but that just wasn't the case. He'd basically never interacted with the guy.

Was that his problem? He just didn't have any motivation? Sure he wanted to be able to protect himself and wanted to make Jimmy proud but neither of those things meant he had to win this match. Neither of those things lit a fire in him. Like the fire he had seen in Blake's eyes. That almost crazy, desperate, desire, or ability—he didn't know which—to do whatever it took.

Jacob put his head in his hands. He wanted to win. He wanted to win badly. That was the thing. He just didn't know why and he thought that was giving him trouble because he didn't have a reason to win, to push himself to win.

But wasn't that enough? Did it matter what the reason was? Did it matter that he couldn't find a motivation like the rest of them? Didn't Blake and Camilla and Archie and even someone like Ishaan just boil down to them wanting to win? Did it matter what the conviction was as long as there was conviction? Blake had a better reason to win than Jacob did, but if they got up against one another in a fight would Jacob just let him win?

He instantly thought: No. But then was that the case?

How many times had he stepped away, passed something up, because someone else wanted it? How many times in gym class had he passed the ball or the puck to some louder boy who called for it because they played the sport or just wanted to score? It wasn't like he didn't want to score. He wanted to fucking score, but he always just passed it up. Like when he'd first entered his dorm and Blake had taken the bed he liked and he just hadn't said anything. Like a hundred other times he'd just let stuff happen. Like every time he let his parents boss him around.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Why?

A knock came at the door.

Jacob tensed. Fifteen minutes already?

The tournament aide opened the door.

"Mr Caibo, it's time."

Jacob stood and followed her out of the room, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his uniform to keep from fidgeting with them. He wished he'd had enough time to sort things out.

No. He needed to take his own advice. Don't overthink it. Just do.

He heard the crowd drumming through the stadium walls and funnelling down the tunnel as they neared the surface. The tournament aide stopped at the mouth of the arena entrance. Jacob stared at the mouth of the entrance, leading up into the light.

"...From Vancouver, Canada, it's Jacob Caibo!"

Shit.

The tournament aide gestured him forward.

Jacob ascended through the tunnel and out into the arena. Cheers and applause filled the air, his ears. He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the bright sunlight. Before him stretched the unnaturally smooth expanse of clay, ringed by the white boundary line. The stadium looked huge from down here, the walls and swooping semi-roof towering impossibly high above him.

"And his opponent, at the 75th seed, from Spokane, Washington, it's John Altman!"

Altman emerged from the opposite tunnel and strode out into the arena, waving at the crowd, basking in the cheers and applause. Altman was bigger now that Jacob stood level with him. Well over six feet and broad-shouldered.

Christ, he was really out here, about to fight. Everything rushed at him.

Focus. He tried to drown out the noise and the spectators and the unanswered questions in his mind and narrow down to just him and his opponent.

"Contestants get ready!"

A deep breath.

"Start!"

Jacob engaged his magic, got a hold of it, casted strength, and felt Altman do the same. Without thinking Jacob rushed forward. Altman didn't hesitate either, didn't waste a movement, he simply bulled forward.

The gap between them closed in an instant and suddenly Altman was right there in front of Jacob, blocking the sun, taking up his entire field of view. Altman's fist hit Jacob in the stomach. The breath went out of him and he went flying back through the air. He smacked the clay ground and skidded to a halt.

The shock of the blow, the quickness of Altman, and the fact that he'd taken the first hit, rippled through him in an instant. His side throbbed where he'd taken the blow. Altman hadn't hesitated, hadn't thought. He'd taken control of the fight just as he had against Maria the other day. Following it was a simple thought: Again. It's going to happen again.

Jacob hadn't had a choice against the rogue mage or the chimera. It had been life or death. He'd been forced to act because of the circumstances. That's what was different here. There was nobody, nothing, forcing him to win this fight. Nobody but himself. Now he had to choose to win, to beat someone else, to make them lose.

Altman dropped into a stance and started eating up the ground between them.

Jacob pushed himself up, the sun-baked clay hot against his palms and knees. He wasn't going to let it happen again. He had to choose, to take control. Take control of his own life. He was too used to his parents controlling him, making decisions for him. He could see that now. He'd spent his whole life watching, not getting to do what he wanted because he was too scared or timid or too used to other people doing what they wanted and telling him what to do. But he'd had enough. If he couldn't take control and win this fight, how could he ever take control of his own life?

Anger flared to life within him. No. Not again. Never again. He clenched his fists and squeezed his magic as hard as he could and forced it almost unconsciously into his strength. More. More. More.

Jacob leapt at Altman. He sailed through the air like a pouncing tiger. Altman's eyes went wide and he tensed. Jacob slammed into Altman and latched onto him, left hand grabbing Altman's left arm, right hand grabbing a handful of his shorts. They slammed into each other and fell back, onto the clay. Jacob got a foot beneath him, somehow, pivoted, fingers digging into Altman's uniform. He swung the big boy over his head and hurled him.

Altman ejected out from his hands like he'd been slung from a trebuchet. He sailed up, up into the air, high above the arena wall, flew past the boundary, and slammed into the invisible ward separating the arena from the stadium. The ward rippled with his impact, like the disturbed surface of a calm lake, and then Altman plummeted back to the arena floor.

Jacob realized he was yelling, pouring out an exaltation that filled him to bursting. He clamped his mouth shut, suddenly aware of all the people watching.

His heart was pounding and his fingers were flexing as if looking for something to crush. What the hell had that been? Maybe you went a little overboard.

"Altman is out of bounds! Caibo wins!"

Jacob blew a breath out. He took a page from Blake's book and raised his hand and waved at the crowd.

Altman pushed himself to his hands and knees and shook his head. A pair of white-uniformed medics hustled out of the tunnel and went over to him.

Jacob barely noticed. He turned and walked back out of the tunnel, all the emotion and elation and a whole concoction of things he'd only felt whispered, second-hand shadows of pouring through him, rendering him speechless.