Agan’s fists clenched tightly as he watched the human conscripts laugh and jeer from across the training grounds. Every word, every sneer felt like another needle pricking his already raw patience. He had been taking their insults for days—biting his tongue, swallowing his pride. But the anger simmered, threatening to boil over, each sneer and taunt stoking the fire in his chest.

Around him, the conscripts were lined up, enduring yet another round of grueling drills. The instructor paced back and forth, barking orders, his voice blending with the harsh sound of boots crunching against the dry ground. Agan stole a glance at Garik, whose face was pale with exhaustion. They’d been pushed to the breaking point and beyond, yet the insults kept coming, their tormentors’ laughter echoing through the camp.

He knew he couldn’t afford to draw attention. But when the broad-shouldered boy from before—a swaggering brute named Joran—caught Agan’s eye, sneering as he mimicked Agan’s stance with exaggerated mockery, something in him snapped.

“Hey, blue-skin!” Joran called, his voice loud and mocking. “Lose your balance? You look like you’re about to topple over with those spindly arms.”

The other boys with him laughed, their voices a grating chorus of contempt. Agan felt his fingers curl tighter, his nails digging into his palms. He should ignore it. He’d been telling himself that since the first taunt, the first shove. But today, something inside him refused to be silent.

Joran stepped forward, his smirk widening as he jabbed a finger in Agan’s direction. “You’re quiet, swamp rat. That tongue of yours shrivel up in the mud?”

The words didn’t bother Agan as much as the look on Joran’s face—the smug satisfaction, the condescension. It was as if he’d already decided what Agan was, like he saw nothing but dirt when he looked at him.

Agan’s jaw clenched, his heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t take it anymore. All the insults, the threats, the pain of the training—it had pushed him to the edge. He wasn’t going to let Joran walk all over him. Not today.

Without another word, he dropped his training staff and strode toward Joran, each step fueled by the anger that had been building for days.

Joran’s eyes lit up with surprise, quickly replaced by a gleeful grin. “Oh, you want to play, swamp rat? Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The other conscripts moved back, forming a loose circle around them, their faces eager with anticipation. Agan barely registered them. His entire focus was on Joran, the boy’s smug face, his posture relaxed, like he thought Agan was beneath him.

Joran swung first, a lazy, taunting jab. Agan ducked, slipping to the side, his eyes narrowing as he watched Joran’s stance shift, preparing for a real hit.

“Come on, blue-skin!” Joran taunted, throwing another punch, harder this time. “Show me what your kind’s got.”

Agan dodged again, his heart racing as he sized up his opponent. Joran was big, bulky, but his movements were slow, clumsy. Agan could feel the rhythm of the fight, the way Joran’s weight shifted, leaving him open after each swing.

Then, Agan struck.

He lunged forward, driving his fist into Joran’s stomach, feeling the satisfying impact as his knuckles connected with solid muscle. Joran grunted, his smug grin vanishing as he staggered back, his eyes wide with surprise.

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But Agan didn’t stop. He followed through, landing another punch to Joran’s side, then another to his jaw. The force sent Joran reeling, his face twisted in shock and anger.

“You think I’m just going to stand here and take it?” Agan snarled, his voice low and fierce. “I’m done with your insults, your arrogance.”

Joran recovered quickly, his face darkening with rage. He lunged, throwing a wild punch that caught Agan’s shoulder, the impact sending a jolt of pain down his arm. Agan gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain as he ducked under Joran’s next swing, landing a sharp kick to the side of his knee.

Joran stumbled, cursing as he tried to regain his balance. But Agan was already moving, driving his fist into Joran’s side again, his knuckles grazing bone. Joran howled in pain, his face twisted with fury.

“You little rat!” Joran spat, swinging wildly, his movements more desperate now. Agan dodged, weaving around the flurry of punches, each miss fueling his determination.

Then, Joran grabbed Agan by the collar, pulling him close. His breath was hot, rank with anger, as he hissed, “I’ll crush you, swamp scum.”

Agan didn’t hesitate. He brought his knee up, driving it into Joran’s stomach with all his strength. Joran’s grip loosened, and Agan broke free, delivering a brutal punch to Joran’s face that sent him sprawling backward.

The crowd of conscripts gasped, a murmur rippling through them as Joran hit the ground, blood trickling from his nose. He struggled to get up, his face contorted with rage, but the strength had left him. Agan stood over him, breathing hard, his fists still clenched.

“Get up,” Agan growled, his voice filled with barely controlled fury. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

But Joran didn’t move. He glared up at Agan, his eyes burning with hatred, but he made no attempt to stand.

Around them, the other conscripts shifted uneasily, glancing between Agan and Joran with a mixture of awe and fear. Agan could feel their eyes on him, the tension thick in the air, but he didn’t care. All that mattered was the release, the feeling of standing up for himself, of showing them that he wasn’t weak.

Then, a voice cut through the silence.

“What’s going on here?” It was the instructor, his tone dangerously quiet.

The crowd parted as the instructor approached, his gaze narrowing as he took in the scene—Joran on the ground, bleeding and humiliated, and Agan standing over him, his fists still clenched, his face bruised but unyielding.

The instructor’s gaze shifted to Agan, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “You think you’re a fighter, swamp rat?”

Agan held his gaze, refusing to back down. “I won’t be treated like dirt.”

The instructor’s lips twisted into a cold smile. “Oh, you’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that. But defiance won’t get you far here. It’ll only make your life harder.”

He turned to the crowd of conscripts, his voice sharp. “Get back to training! This isn’t a spectacle.”

The conscripts dispersed quickly, their faces averted, leaving Agan standing alone with the instructor. Joran staggered to his feet, his face a mask of fury and humiliation, but he made no move toward Agan. The lesson had been learned, and for now, he wouldn’t challenge Agan again.

The instructor regarded Agan for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You may have won this little fight, but you’ve made an enemy here. You’ll have to learn that every action has a price.”

Agan nodded, the fire in his chest undimmed. “I understand, sir.”

The instructor’s eyes narrowed. “Good. Then let’s see if you can back up that defiance in the next drill.”

Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving Agan standing alone in the dirt. He could feel the eyes of the other conscripts on him, a mixture of respect and caution. They had seen him fight, seen him stand up to Joran—and that had shifted something, a subtle acknowledgment that Agan was not to be dismissed.

As he turned back to join the line, Garik caught his eye, a hint of a smirk on his face. “Nice to see you let loose for once,” he murmured, his voice low.

Agan gave a slight nod, his face set in determination. He’d shown them, today, that he wouldn’t be broken. And no matter the consequences, he wouldn’t regret it.

They could try to beat him down, to break his spirit, but as long as he had strength left, he would fight. And one day, he would make sure the empire understood exactly what he was capable of.