I don’t even ask the girls to join them. Victoria says, “Let’s go,” staring at me.

“Sure,” I slung my bag over my shoulder and gesture invitingly down the corridor. “Ladies first.”

“A moment’s hesitation won’t save you,” Victoria snorts, straightening her back and marching forward with an aristocratic stride. But then she slows down in the corridor, waiting for me. Tiana looks at her in silent amazement. We leave the building together.

As we approach the Warway clubs, my neighbor, Eugene Axel, stops me. He’s clearly irritated.

“I’ve heard some interesting rumors,” he almost growls.

I hold out my hand to stop him. There is no need to make a scene in public. I don’t care about rumors, but they would certainly involve Alice.

“Go on without me,” I say and nod to the girls. “Don’t worry, I’m not planning to leave.”

Curious about my upset neighbor, Victoria and Tiana continue down the sandy track.

“If you’re talking about me and Alice, we just strolled through the park. I’m not claiming her.”

“Look at Mr. Generous Commoner here,” he sneers. “Not claiming a lowly princess!”

What the hell is he so angry about? This is ridiculous.

“What do you want?” I snap, losing my patience. “Have you come to persuade me to go out with your lover? Fine, deal. I’ll invite your princess tonight.”

“No!” Eugene exclaims, clearly alarmed. “You can’t go out with her.”

“Uh-huh.” I’m tempted to brush him off, but I just walk past him.

“Arthur, it’s not about my jealousy,” he says, his voice breaking. “Even if I am jealous, I wouldn’t say a word if you were at least a Warrior. Alice needs a protector! And you’re about to get your ass kicked!”

“Go to hell,” I say.

I stroll under an archway festooned with floral garlands, entering a courtyard framed by lush hedges. Club buildings emerge into view, and it doesn’t take long to find the one I’m after, thanks to its clearly marked sign: the Warway Club. Further on, a red-roofed two-story building catches my eye — the very one Ella mentioned. That’s where they hold the Military Games, but that’s not my destination today.

In this world, martial arts competitions are divided into two categories. The first encompasses field-based Military Games, a circuit in which Arthur the Imp has notably excelled. The second is more of a tournament style, where combatants go head-to-head or team against team in an arena. Warway tournaments are often the preferred method for settling student disputes at the Academy.

The gym is packed. My entire class seems to be here, as well as some of the upperclassmen. In the front rows are Gruson and her friends, and Lana the Snow White, surrounded by her entourage. So, the Queen herself has come to watch the commoners’ brawl.

I head to the locker room and change into a T-shirt and shorts. Thankfully, today was a PE day; otherwise, I'd have had to trek back to the dorm for my gear.

Coming back out, I scan the multiple arenas that resemble octagons. The crowd is gathered around the nearest cage. I make my way toward it, and the people willingly clear a path for me. As I climb onto the platform, I hear shouts.

“Is he seriously going to fight? He’s mad!”

“Demont, don’t enter the arena! Go home. I’ve got money riding on you today!”

“Damn it, I had my bet on yesterday. Demont! Wait another six months, let everyone else lose their money too!”

“Six months? Ha! Don’t make me laugh! He’ll be in the emergency room within the hour.”

At the cage, my five opponents flip a coin to see who gets to fight me first. Luck favors the broad-shouldered guy who called me a proletarian earlier.

The referee, who looks no older than a junior, shouts,

“Boar, stop stalling and come into the cage. Hey, Princess, get off the steps! You’ll be in the way of the medics if he need first aid.”

“Fine, I’m an alternate fighter.”

I look back. Alice is standing near the exit of the octagon, dressed in a T-shirt and shorts. Her black hair is pulled back in a ponytail, her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pressed into a thin line. Her bare thighs gleam with a whiteness that resembles polished porcelain. I sigh heavily. What a twisted feminist world we live in! Girls shouldn’t stand up for big guys like me, regardless of any level of Prana control.

“Princess, I don’t need any help. I’m the only fighter on my side.”

“Against five of them?” She shakes her head. “No way.”

“Give me ten seconds,” I say to the referee.

I leap out of the arena, quickly grabbing the dark-eyed beauty by her hips and lifting her up. She grabs my shoulders, startled, and looks up at me with a quizzical expression as her ponytail lightly brushes against my face. I carry her away from the arena, her body cradled in my arms. She says nothing, her nostrils quivering as if absorbing my scent while her floral perfume accelerates my own heartbeat. Naturally, our breathing synchronizes.

The people around us watch, smile, and gossip. I don’t care. I find Axel and hand him my precious cargo. As I slowly release my arms, Alice glides down against my frame, her soft palms remaining on my shoulders, her thumbs gently caressing the sides of my neck. I don’t want to let her go, but summoning my willpower, I grip her waist and turn her to face Eugene. Then I give her a gentle nudge.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

“Hold your woman,” I growl in frustration. Would he really let Alice take part in this brutal fight? What a weakling!

Eugene stands frozen, staring at me in disbelief. His indecision infuriates me. A man shouldn’t waver when the welfare of the woman he loves is at stake! Emotions are swirling within me; Yak’s polyhedra are boiling inside the astral body. A turbulent psychic wave erupts.

“HOLD HER.”

Axel immediately grabs Alice’s shoulders, his fingers trembling. Alice pushes her childhood friend away without even looking at him; her eyes are fixed on me alone, as if in rapture.

“"I don’t belong to him!” she yells loudly, then adds in a whisper, “I belong to you...”

I struggle to contain the psychic wave of intense emotion. It takes a moment.

“THEN. HEAR. MY. WORDS.” I pause, taking deep breaths to regain my composure. “I’m fighting alone today. Understand?”

“I do.” She looks deep into my eyes and repeats, “I understand.”

Taking two more breaths, I finally calm down and go back to the arena, amidst the hushed silence of the crowd. Someone in the crowd lets out a soft exhale.

“What the hell just happened?”

“Looks like the Intimidation skill... Can I change my bet?” someone mumbles.

“Too late to get cold feet now. But don’t worry, the lumpen isn’t a Kmet. His wells are empty. Dager shared the medical reports in the chat. Don’t panic!” another replies.

“Then why are your lips trembling?”

“Shut up!”

The referee looks at me unhappily. It seems the psychic storm hasn’t reached the arena. The burly guy doesn’t look rattled either.

“Finished running?” the referee asks.

“Yes.”

“Hmm. The fight continues until one of the fighters either surrenders or loses consciousness. Then, Demont, your opponent will be replaced by the next one. You’ll have a total of five fights, if you can endure them.”

“Okay.”

“Fight!”

“I’ll kill you!” The guy is the first to charge me, fists raised.

I dodge his lunging attack, sending him stumbling three extra steps forward. Before he can fully turn around, he swings wildly in my direction, but it’s too late — I’ve already snared his arm. As I grip him, I feel the resilience of his mental armor. Knowing I can’t break through it, I quickly torque his shoulder upward and give him a gentle push from behind. His head crashes into the arena’s fence, bending the bars slightly. Unfazed, he scrambles to his feet, eyes darting around the arena as he tries to regain his bearings.

Seizing the opportunity, I grab him by the ears and yank him backward. He lands with a resounding thud, flat on his back. He attempts to rise again, only for my swift leg sweep to send him tumbling back to the ground. When he manages to throw a punch my way, I sidestep it effortlessly, using the momentum to topple him once more. This cycle of rising and falling continues for what feels like an eternity. Mental armor is hardy, especially when you have no nearby bricks or stones to exploit as weapons, but it has its limitations. An average Disciple can only maintain their mental armor for a half-hour stretch; they inevitably need a moment to recharge.

Twenty minutes pass, filled with the weary panting of the stumbling and rising guy and the increasingly discontented murmurs of the audience.

“He’s so elusive, like Houdini or something,” one spectator comments.

“The guy’s putting up a great fight, no doubt. But when is it going to end?” another chimes in.

“If he takes this long with the other four, we’ll be here till we’re old and grey,” the third guy adds.

“No, Serge will finish him off in no time. All those grappling moves won’t work on a real Warrior,” someone predicts.

Finally, during another hold, I feel his joint give way. The mental armor is off! Wasting no time, I break it.

“A-a-a-a-h!” my opponent cries out in agony.

Trying to help him calm down, I swing a hook at his jaw. Ouch! My knuckles sting as they collide with his suddenly restored mental defense.

In the end, my opponent continues to scream and crawl across the platform until the referee decides that his incoherent cries are tantamount to surrender. Medical staff quickly escort the defeated fighter away, and the lanky guy steps into the arena — Serge.

The crowd immediately comes to life.

“Finally, it’s over.”

“We’ll be going home soon!”

Standing in the center of the arena, the referee shouts, "Fight!”

Unlike my earlier opponent, Serge approaches with a calculated slowness, a faint smile playing on his freckled face. With a swift flick of his wrist, I’m doubled over, winded by a crushing blow to my solar plexus. The taste of metal invades my mouth as a drop of blood trickles down to my chin. How could I have missed that?

Serge’s smile widens. Another quick gesture, and my head snaps back from an invisible force. I crumple onto the arena floor, my vision clouding over. My split lips sting, and my heart hammers against my fractured ribs.

“You’re still conscious? Impressive,” Serge finally approaches with a grin on his face. “So, shall we get serious now?”

I grab his leg, but I don’t have the strength to pull the mat out from under him, as my broken ribs stop me.

“You’re doing fine, commoner,” he taunts, venom in his voice. “Crawl and squirm like the worm you are.”

Serge stomps hard on my hand with his other foot. My fingers crunch under his heel, breaking, and I’m forced to let go of the bastard.

There is a kick. I jerk my head and tumble to the side, quickly rolling away and managing to get up on all fours. I try to regain my footing. Rage overcomes me. The shattered fractals of high demons hum in my head. What is this? A mere mortal schoolboy beating me, the hellhunter Thunderer? Never!

I close my eyes for a moment, trying to assemble the polygons of the smallest fractals. Not the Generals’, but of other weaker High Demons — their codes are simpler. I don’t think, I don’t try to rationalize my actions. Purely by intuition, I graft a shimmering octahedron onto a heated tetrahedron, and to this octahedron I add two weightless dodecahedrons. On top of this geometric monstrosity, I place a heavy cube. The result is the fractal of Gib — a resilient lizard demon. It’s a far cry from General Esklop’s regenerative powers, but it will mend my broken bones. I already feel my fingers coming back to life, curling obediently into a fist. My ribs no longer crack with every breath, and my bruised muscles are healing as well.

Next, I construct a fractal of Jamba, which gives me contemplative vision -— the ability to see bursts of aura and other movements of etheric energy. In the Terrifying world, this ability was as useful as tits on a bull. But here, in a world suffused with the Prana, its usefulness is obvious.

I open my eyes, crane my neck, and rise to my feet.

Serge looks at me incredulously.

“What the hell? How are you standing? Your ribs are all broken!” he yells as he approaches me.

A smile spreads across my lips.

“Are you sure? Maybe you should count again.”

“You—”

I raise my hand and catch his armor-piercing fist in mid-air. The force shatters my fingers, but they snap back together immediately. I don't even have time to flinch. Serge stares in horror as I neutralize his attack with my bare hand.

“How did you do that without any armor?” he mutters.

With a malicious, gleeful grin, I deflect his fist to the side. Thanks to the Jamba fractal, I can see all the energy flows in his defense. A thin line of energy forms a basic knot for his armor, growing narrow just above it. Striking there with something sharp might...

I squeeze my middle and index fingers together and drive them forcefully into the center of that weak spot under his right collarbone. It produces a crunch, followed by a searing pain that immediately turns into a healing itch. His armor vanishes into thin air. With a crack, Serge falls to his knees. His freckled face goes pale. You’re mine now.

With a friendly smile I ask, “So, shall we play for real now?”