Every time I’d fought Azam, something would come and tear us apart. The more I thought about it, I realised that it had mostly been Birgit that had done so.

But she couldn’t step in now. She was watching from the stands or a screen at her changing room while she was getting ready for her next match.

And so I stood opposite to him, ready to finally prove myself to everyone that had ever called me a monster. A villain in the making.

The small, petty part of myself wanted to be there and watch all those high school idiots eat their words. Only that mattered right now. All thoughts about Lady Doom, Alpha Surge and Jensen? They were whispers in the background, no matter how much Paragon wanted to ensure the opposite.

Right now? Right now Azam–with smoke literally pooling out of his mouth–was the closest thing to that I could get.

“Are you ready, little man?” asked Azam as he crouched slightly.

“First time I’m hearing that,” I said. “Kind of nice to take a break from all the ‘tall’ and ‘giant’ jokes to be honest.”

He growled at that. And I smirked.

“The two heroes-to-be are facing each other and the tension is so thick you can cut it with a knife!” The announcer’s voice spread across the whole stadium. “It looks like two rivals gearing up for their final confrontation! Who will win! Only one way to find out!”

Azam took a deep breath. The parts of his skin that weren’t already covered scales began to slightly glow. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen this. He’d always started off with a burst of fire.

I crouched even lower. Attack first. That was what Beatrice had taught me–and even though I hadn’t seen her all year and she might have been working with Jensen–it was good advice.

“And as our colleagues over at WPW say! Le’ts get ready to ruummmble! ”

My hands were on the ground. I heard Azam’s roar. The ground shook and broke. A cloud of dust covered the air between us but it was broken almost instantly. A wave of flames too fast for me to dodge shot straight in my direction.

The whole world rippled with heat. My left side felt like it would be burned off.

But he didn’t hit me. I was still standing, facing s heavily breathing, clearly angry, Azam.

I ran to him again. Another shot of fire. It was smaller. Slower. Easy for me to dodge and maintain my momentum.

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And so, I was the one reaching out to him. Attack. Dodge. Attack. Dodge. Only this time, I had been the one doing the attacking. My fingers grazed his scales multiple times. One hit. That was all I needed and he knew it. I had him on the back foot.

I-I got overconfident. Opened myself too much. A wide lunge to hit his side that he caught. Next thing I knew, the air was hitting my body like an unending slap on the face.

The, unfortunately familiar, tasting grass hit my taste buds. The field border was in my peripheral vision. Too close of a call. The ground shook and I wiggled out of his way, barely managing to get out of his fist’s way.

“You’ve gotten better than I thought, I’ll give you that,” he said between breaths. “Always surprising me. But I've learned your tricks. Hard work is important. But it can only get you so far. Talent will always be needed. And you’ll never have enough to make it in the big leagues.”

I got up. Neither of us was really hurt so far. I maybe had a few bruises. I winced as I got up. Definitely had a few bruises. I looked down at my hand. Paragon was ten times stronger than Azam–a thousand in his hay day when I took him down.

Azam charged at me.

I didn’t move.

He raised his arm.

I kneeled and spread my arms. It was a stupid move. Too reckless and had too small of a chance to succeed. And his fist connected.

One single moment that felt like it lasted an eternity. The people, the debris, the cheers, they were all in slow motion.

A surge of pain filled my body. All I could do was not to scream. The dirt and fibres pushed against my back. And my sides. My everything was buried down. A strong hit, probably stronger than most people here. Definitely enough to put those people out of commission.

But I’ve had worse. Instead of flailing around I focused on my arms. Both of them. And before he could fully bring back his arm, my hands connected. A scream of pain and a light rain of blood followed.

And I was free. With what little strength I could muster, I slammed my hands on the already roughened ground, bringing down the whole ground around me. Without holding anything back.

The Paragon manoeuvre. I’d let him get close to deliver the final blow. Even though he had one arm, I barely managed to pull it off. It got me two decades of full hospital stays. Going in and out of comas, eventually killing me.

But Azam wasn’t Paragon.

I pushed my body. Grunting and groaning. Blood was pooling in my lungs, fighting its way up my throat. Still, I used everything I had and I got up.

Azam did the same. And, for the first time since I first met him, I could say we were in a similar position. His whole right side was covered in blood, and half of his body was covered in rubble.

The ground had held up surprisingly well. Well enough for me to be able to see the demarcation line of our arena.

I smiled.

“Wi-wipe that off your face. I’m-not-fuck it.”' He coughed and wheezed. Shakily raised his one good arm.

I coughed up some blood, spitting it to the side. It was a brief moment of respite. Doctors and healing heroes surrounded us.

“You’re-You’re out of bounds,” I said.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said once more. “A harrowing battle that had our doctors at the edge of their seat comes to an end. The man of Greek legend comes out on top!

“Moros wins!”