"From Vancouver, Canada, he's already forced a rule change once, it's Jacob Caibo!"

The crowd roared as Jacob strode out into the arena. It was cloudy, noontime, the faint sun casting muted shadows on the stands. The cheering was as loud as he'd ever heard it. He grinned. It felt good to have people rooting for him, to have the crowd at his back. He wondered if this was how varsity athletes felt at each game, then banished his thoughts and zeroed in on the fight.

He'd spent his prep time clearing his mind. There was no strategy to think of, which left him uncannily calm, unbothered. Maybe he was getting used to fighting in front of people. Maybe he had nothing to lose against Victor. Maybe he had been eagerly looking forward to this since last week.

"From St Louis, Missouri, he's yet to show sign of weakness, it's Victor Vincent!"

A solid amount of cheers went up. Victor strode out into the arena. His uniform was tight across his bulging arms. He stared Jacob down from across the arena, expression unreadable.

"Contestants, get ready!"

Jacob took a deep breath and lowered into a slight stance. Victor did the same.

"Start!"

Jacob engaged perception, then strength, and launched himself at Victor.

Victor did the same, but stayed where he was, crouched in a low stance.

Jacob ate up the ground between them in a flash. Go right in, feint, tackle him, throw him out of bounds.

The crowd was a subsonic boom above and around him.

He got within striking distance, feinted left, then swerved right and in.

Victor didn't take the bait. He just lowered his stance.

Jacob tackled him. Victor twisted, doing something with his body. His hands gripped Jacob's arms, his knee in Jacob's chest. They fell back, Victor giving—too easily—into Jacob's tackle. Victor fell onto the ground, pulled Jacob over him, and tossed him. It was a move Jacob had seen in wrestling shows.

Jacob sailed through the air. He twisted his body, landed on his back, then bounced up to his feet, still well in bounds. Victor had already sprung back up. He grinned, relaxing his stance.

Jacob didn't hesitate. He ran in again, this time feinting twice, then throwing a bullet jab at Victor's face.

Victor didn't even tense at either of the feints. He casually raised his palm, swatted Jacob's strike aside, then backhanded him across the face with his other hand.

Jacob went spinning back, but kept his feet. He whirled to face Victor, but despite the opening, the boy hadn't pursued him.

His loss. Jacob thought. He ran back in, this time staying within striking distance, but not committing to anything. He threw several non-committal jabs, but Victor swatted them away like flies. Jacob ducked in, going low to tackle Victor around the waist. Once again, Victor caught him by the arms, torqued, and heaved him and threw him.

Jacob sailed through the air. He landed in bounds, but hesitated as he got to his feet. Victor could have thrown him out of bounds that time. Maybe the first time too. He could feel the restraint in the other boy's movements.

He looked up. Victor stood where he'd started, not pursuing, not closing the distance, not capitalizing on the openings as Jacob recovered.

Victor grinned, then raised his hand and beckoned Jacob.

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Jacob hissed and stumbled to his feet, enraged at this arrogant fool and his stupid notions. He went back in. Victor clinically dismantled his assault and tossed him away again. Far enough to reset, but not out of bounds.

Jacob attacked again. Victor tossed him away again. None of his attacks were effective. Victor's movements were precise, efficient, expert cuts and swipes and complex rolls and grapples. It was like an eager child fighting an Olympic wrestler.

After another half dozen tries Jacob straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He eyed Victor, but didn't approach. The crowd muttered.

Victor grinned, his eyes flashing eagerly, almost hungrily. "C'mon, Jacob. I thought you wanted to win."

Jacob attacked him again, to a similar result. He pushed himself up off the ground, shaking with rage. Defeat he could have handled. Even a quick defeat wouldn't have been the end of the world. After all, he was the gross underdog. But this toying... To show the gap between them was this big, in this manner... Had all that talk last night just been to humiliate him like this? In front of everyone? That smug, smiling piece of shit.

"There's ten minutes left, Jacob," Victor said. "Are you giving up already? What happened to that conviction?"

His tone wasn't mocking. If anything it was voraciously intense, that of a trainer egging on his boxer in between rounds.

Jacob didn't notice.

"You fucking piece of shit," Jacob hissed. He twitched, the enraged part of him thrashing to get at Victor, the rational part knowing that he looked more and more foolish each time he got thrown into the dust.

But what was the other option? Give up?

Hell no.

He threw himself at Victor again.

Casual backhand.

Again.

Duck and throw.

Again.

Grapple and flip.

Victor was grinning wolfishly now, clearly enjoying the fight.

At last, the timer went off, a great blaring sound that filled the arena. A couple other matches had gone to time in earlier rounds, but it was rare.

"Contestants, stop fighting!" The announcer called out. "The judging committee will now convene and decide a winner."

Jacob turned and walked out of the arena, shoulders hunched, humiliation searing him like a hot iron. He couldn't stay out here and wait for the verdict. He wouldn't.

He entered the cool, dark tunnel, hands clenched into fists. He didn't think he'd ever been this angry. If Victor appeared in front of him right now he'd slug him across his grinning face.

He needed to calm down before he went back up to the seats.

No, fuck that! Why should he be calm now? He'd just been humiliated in front of everyone. He'd be the laughing stock of the school. Blake and Archie and Grace had seen that. Camilla had seen that. Everyone in the school, all his friends, all his classmates, all the faculty, had all been watching. How could he face any of them?

Christ, who had he thought he was, thinking he could win today? Thinking he was a mage? He'd only beaten Archie because of a gimmick. He wasn't like any of them. How many times had he been utterly lost while Camilla and Tanaka talked about magic? He wasn't strong, he was just above average. Fucking delusional.

He made for the exit to the stadium. He'd take a long walk to cool off.

But he couldn't. Camilla's match was next. He couldn't miss it. He'd never forgive himself.

"Goddamnit!" He cursed.

——————

Jacob emerged from the tunnel into the stands. He made his way up to where the gang was seated, trying not to make eye contact with anybody. The humiliation...

"Hey, tough loss, man."

Jacob looked up, cringing at being addressed. John Altman nodded to him from a nearby row.

"What can you do?" Altman shrugged.

"Thanks," Jacob said.

The stands were abuzz with chatter, whether about his match or in anticipation of Camilla's match, he didn't want to know.

He reached the gang's row.

"You good?" Blake asked.

Him, Grace, and Archie were looking at him, concerned. Even Archie.

Jacob wanted to collapse on the floor and cry. He dropped into his seat.

"Not really," he grunted.

"That asshole," Blake said, clenching his fists.

Wait, they were angry too? They weren't humiliated for him? They weren't ashamed of him?

"I'm deeply sorry you had to go through that, Jacob," Archie said. "I do not know why Vincent did that. Somewhat shameful of him, if you ask me."

"Yeah, what a douchebag," Grace said.

"Thanks, guys," Jacob said. He sat up in his chair. He looked around, hoping Camilla would appear nearby, but to no avail. Damn...

It hit him then that he'd been knocked out of the tournament, and he sagged back into his chair.

It was over, just like that.

A tiny candle of unlikely hope that he'd win it all snuffed out. He didn't feel like doing anything the rest of the day. What was the point? There was no reason to train now, and his classes seemed so superficial. And if he couldn't even beat Victor—at the very least not be humiliated—how could he think he could catch the killer?

Was this what defeat felt like?