The loudspeakers crackled to life as the announcer's voice boomed across the stadium, "Oliver, to the arena, please!" The roar of the crowd swelled. I glanced over at the one friend I’d managed to make in this hostile place, Mason, sitting casually on the viewing bench. "I'll show you what I'm capable of." I called out confidently. Mason gave me a supportive nod, his eyes steady. "I wish for your success, buddy." he said. He leaned back on the bench, arms crossed. I walked to the heavy metal door that separated me from the arena. The dull clank of the hinges echoed as I pushed it open.

On the other side, a staff member slouched lazily in the direction of the exit tunnel. His posture screamed boredom as if this was just another day for him, another pair of fighters walking into the spotlight. He barely acknowledged me, yawning exaggeratedly before pointing down the hallway. "That way." he said, indifferent. I rolled my eyes. Yeah, I know. Crossing my arms in mild irritation, I moved toward the light at the end of the corridor. As I neared the exit, the gritty scent of sand filled my nostrils. Sand wasn’t ideal for fighting—too loose underfoot, making it harder to find traction. But that was the point, wasn’t it? They wanted us uncomfortable, off-balance.

Stepping out into the blinding sunlight, I was momentarily stunned by the sight before me. The stadium was enormous, packed to the brim with spectators—some leaning forward eagerly, others laughing amongst themselves. The moment they saw me, the crowd erupted. A chorus of cheers mixed with jeers echoed across the stands. I could hear snippets of taunts: "Weakling!" "Is this the best they've got?" But amid the noise, there were voices of recognition too. Some people knew my reputation, and they knew better than to underestimate me. The announcer’s voice rang out again, cutting through the chaos. "And here we have Oliver, also known by his moniker—the Pipsqueak!" The words reverberated through the arena, eliciting laughter from certain sections of the audience. I clenched my fists at my sides, heat rising to my face. I’m not short. I’m average height.

A man in the crowd bellowed with laughter, louder than the rest. I shot a glare in his direction. I’ll teach him a lesson after this match. The announcer continued, his tone shifting to something more respectful. "But don’t let his moniker fool you, folks! This man is fast—faster than anyone I’ve ever seen in the arena." That’s right. My speed was my greatest weapon, and I wasn’t about to let a silly nickname overshadow that. As the crowd settled, my focus sharpened. From the shadowy tunnel opposite mine, a figure emerged slowly.

"But this man... is not just fast." The announcer’s voice took on a dramatic edge, drawing out each word for effect. I raised an eyebrow, suspicion creeping into my thoughts. Don’t tell me they have me going against... The announcer roared with renewed excitement, his voice echoing off the walls of the arena, "It's Ryan! Moniker; The Spinning Genius! I don’t even need to explain his accolades! Against someone of Oliver's caliber, his bet return is only one and a quarter times! Oliver's is four times! The favorite by far!" The crowd responded in a frenzy, their cheers and gasps rising like a wave.

I tensed, my mind racing as I gauged the distance between us. I’m fifty feet away right now... could I kill Ryan before he even notices my movement? I entertained the thought briefly. I will not accept this slander! The insult of being seen as the underdog. Ryan stepped further into the light, his long hair catching in the wind, waving like a flag of arrogance. While I wore mine pulled back in a tight ponytail, keeping it controlled, Ryan let his mane fly loose, as if to taunt me with his carefree demeanor. He seemed unconcerned, but I could see the sharpness in his eyes. He was aware, ready. The announcer piped down, his voice dropping as he addressed the crowd once more. "Anyways, this fight will be good..." He leaned forward, pointing dramatically from the announcer booth, "Referee, are you ready?!"

Ah, so that’s who I had sensed earlier. From the arena's edge, a skinny man in a white and red striped uniform emerged, walking toward the center of the arena. He had the appearance of someone who’d seen more than a few fights. His eyes flicked between me and Ryan before he spoke, his voice steady. "If you want to surrender, yell it. Other than that, anything is allowed. Even killing..." The crowd hushed at the mention of the word "killing" a reality settling over them. My blood surged. The sand beneath my feet shifted as I adjusted my stance, preparing for whatever came next. The referee raised his hand, his voice booming with finality. "Three... two... one..." He slammed his hand down. "Begin!"

I needed to show my superiority. With deliberate calm, I started walking forward, my hands casually resting in my pockets. The crowd buzzed with confusion, unsure of what to make of my slow, confident approach. The announcer’s voice cut through the chatter, his tone laced with surprise. "Oliver... is taking it slow?" His disbelief mirrored the crowd's as they watched me close the distance at my own pace.

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Ryan, on the other hand, moved like a machine—his body rigid, each motion devoid of any emotion or hesitation. This idiot... I thought, already recognizing the flaw in his mechanical style. His next move was predictable. Spinning on his heel, he launched a spinning back kick at my head. His speed was decent. I smoothly weaved under the strike, barely feeling the air as it brushed past me. Sliding forward on the sand, the grains tugged at my feet, slowing my movement although not enough to stop me from connecting. My fist slammed into his liver, and for a second, I felt the sharp sting in my knuckles. Damn, that hurt. The rumors about his toughness weren’t exaggerated. His body felt like punching a brick wall, absorbing most of the impact. I can whittle him down. His resilience didn’t worry me—it just meant I’d have to break him piece by piece.

Ryan didn’t flinch. Instead, he jumped, his leg swinging high above his head as he attempted a slow but powerful descending kick. I watched his movements carefully, twisting my chest just enough to avoid the blow by a hair's breadth. He crashed down heavily, his foot sending sand scattering, but he wasn’t done. As he leaned back, extending his leg forward, he tried a pointer kick aimed straight at me. I didn’t blink. With a quick sweep of my forearm, I deflected his foot to the side. Before he could recover, I shot forward with a snap jab, aiming for his chin. My fist connected cleanly, and I felt the impact reverberate through his jaw. His head jerked back, and I caught a glimpse of a small trail of blood dripping from his lip. He reeled, stumbling slightly, the first sign of weakness. Let's pick it up.

Ryan threw a powerful roundhouse kick, the air whistling from the sheer force behind it. I bent my knees and leaped over the strike, the sand shifting beneath me as I soared above his leg. While airborne, I sent a kick to his sternum, expecting to wind him. Instead, he barely faltered. What is this guy made of? The hit connected, but his resilience was unnerving. He was taking damage—just slowly, methodically, as though his body was built to endure.

He spun again, this time with a kick aimed from his side. I quickly retreated, taking a calculated step back to avoid the strike. His movements were deliberate, but he was wearing down. He took a deep breath, and I could see the focus in his eyes as he dashed forward. His leg lashed out with a surprising speed, a kick aimed straight for my gut. Reacting instinctively, I pushed off the sand, moving swiftly to his right blind spot.

"That's slow." I mocked. I copied his earlier move, twisting low before driving an uppercut straight into his belly button. The impact sent a shock through his core, but once again, he pushed through the pain as if it was a mere inconvenience. He countered almost immediately, another fast kick aimed at my midsection. The speed was unnatural—that has to be a special technique of his. I seized his foot in a firm grip, locking it in place. Our eyes met, and I could see the cold defiance in his gaze. He was relentless. Without missing a beat, he mocked me back, his voice icy, "That's predictable." In a blur of motion, he sprang off his grounded leg, twisting his body and sending a kick toward my cheek.

I barely had time to react. My head snapped to the side, spinning at the last possible moment to dilute the force of the blow. The kick still connected, but the impact was lessened, and I tightened my grip on his foot. His balance wavered as I pushed forward, using his trapped leg to throw him off-kilter. His footing faltered, and he stumbled backward, unable to regain his stance. Seeing his chin wide open, I seized the moment. With all my force, I flung a powerful haymaker into his jaw. My fist connected with a sickening crack, and I felt something give under the pressure. Ryan’s body lurched, his eyes momentarily glazing over from the force of the hit. As he fell backward, his instincts kicked in, and he tried one last desperate kick. But the angle was awkward, and his strike was weak. I easily sidestepped the attempt, watching as his body crumpled to the sand.

Ryan slammed his left foot into the ground, using the momentum to twirl upright in a defiant spin. His long hair whipped around him like a cape. I stuck my tongue out at him, giving a casual thumbs down as he steadied himself. "You trained in the wrong discipline." I taunted, my voice cutting through. "Taekwondo, while strong, is not fast. You telegraph all of your kicks." I kept the thumbs down, holding the pose to drive my point home, savoring the frustration flickering in his eyes. He stared back, his jaw clenched, but I wasn’t done. "I've almost entirely focused on my speed."

I continued, "My power and endurance may be more than a step down from yours, but that doesn't matter if you can’t land a blow." I let the weight of my words sink in before adding, "A specialist can almost always beat an all-rounder." I adjusted my hand, flexing my fingers and stretching them out. "Let me give you an analogy." I grinned, locking eyes with him. "Would you rather have a ten-kilogram weight fly in your direction at twenty miles per hour... or a two-kilogram weight at a hundred?"