Harry’s legs trembled. He felt it immediately, the weakness crawling up from his feet, threatening to steal his balance. He forced himself to stay upright, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles burned.

  Then the voice came. “Begin.” Kelly moved. He lunged forward with frightening speed, his fist cutting through the air toward Harry’s face. Harry reacted on instinct, twisting his body aside. The punch missed him by inches, the wind of it brushing his cheek.

  Kelly struck again. Harry dodged again. The third strike came fast, but Harry slipped past it and countered, driving his fist forward with everything he had.

  The blow landed on Kelly’s face. A dull sound echoed. Kelly froze. For a brief moment, Harry thought he had hurt him. Hope flickered dangerously in his chest.

  Kelly lifted his hand and touched his cheek. Then he laughed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t wild. It was calm. Amused. “Why can’t I feel your punch?” Kelly asked. The words cut deeper than any blow.

  Harry gritted his teeth. The insult stung, sharp and humiliating. He felt the heat rise to his face, his chest tightening as the crowd reacted.

  No one cheered for him. Not one voice. The students of Astania did not look at him as one of their own. To them, he was still what he had always been. A stain. A reminder. A bastard who did not belong standing beside nobles and heirs.

  Instead, they cheered for Kelly. “Break his bones!”

  “Put the bastard in his place!” The chant rose and fell like a wave, crushing in its weight. Harry’s stomach twisted. His breath came harder now, uneven.

  Kelly lunged again. Harry dodged. Again. And again.

  Each time Kelly struck, Harry moved. He stepped aside, twisted away, slipped past blows that should have crushed him. His body remembered what his mind barely kept up with.

  Harry struck back. Once. Twice. Three times. But the blows landed with little effect. Kelly barely reacted. He shook his head slowly, irritation creeping into his expression.

  “You are annoyingly weak,” Kelly said. He kept lunging. Harry kept dodging. The crowd’s noise grew restless. Kelly’s patience thinned. His movements became heavier, less controlled. Frustration flickered in his eyes.

  Then his hand dipped briefly to his side. Harry didn’t see it. Kelly lunged again. Harry dodged, but this time Kelly bent low, his movement sharp and unexpected. Something flashed.

  Pain exploded in Harry’s thigh.

  “Ahhhh!”

  Harry screamed and clutched his leg as warm blood spilled between his fingers. The pain was sudden, blinding. His balance shattered.

  “What just happened?” some of the students cried out.

  “Why is the bastard bleeding?” The knife was small. Too small. From a distance, it looked like nothing more than another punch. But it was enough.

  Enough to break his focus. Enough to slow him. Kelly smiled. “Let me see how you will dodge my blow again.”

  He struck. The punch landed squarely on Harry’s shoulder.

  Crack.

  The sound echoed through the arena. Harry staggered backward, pain tearing through his arm. His shoulder screamed as if it had been set on fire. He barely had time to gasp before his knees buckled.

  He fell. The stone floor slammed into his back, driving the air from his lungs.

  Kelly didn’t give him time. He stepped forward and struck again.

  Crack.

  Harry’s arm twisted unnaturally. Pain surged so violently that his vision blurred. He groaned, clutching at the ground, his breath coming out in broken sounds.

  Kelly raised his fist once more. He brought it down on the same arm.

  Crack.

  This time, the bone gave way completely.

  Harry screamed. The sound tore from his chest, raw and helpless. His body shook as pain flooded every thought. He struck the ground weakly with his free hand, his movements frantic and desperate.

  Surrender.

  He couldn’t speak it, but his body begged. Kelly leaned closer. His shadow swallowed Harry where he lay. “A little message from Prince Gabriel,” Kelly whispered.

  Harry barely understood the words before the knife plunged into his stomach. The pain was sharp. Deep. Different from the rest.

  Harry screamed again. “He stabbed me!” Harry shouted, his voice cracking as he looked toward the masters, toward anyone. “He stabbed me!”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Kelly raised his hand to strike once more. The knife gleamed faintly. Then his hand froze midair.

  Kelly turned.

  Master Kangfu stood at the edge of the ring, his eyes hard, his presence heavy enough to silence the arena.

  “Stop it,” he said. “He has already surrendered.”

  Harry remained on the floor, his right hand pressed tightly against his stabbed stomach. Blood slipped through his fingers, warm and unstoppable. His body trembled as pain rolled through him in waves, each one sharper than the last. His screams scraped the air, raw and broken.

  Then the monks came forward. They did not speak. They did not hesitate.

  Strong hands grabbed him and lifted him off the ground like something already discarded. His back arched as they hauled him out of the ring, his legs dragging uselessly behind him. Blood stained the stone floor in a long, uneven trail, red against gray.

  Some students laughed. Others turned their faces away. A few stared in silence, their mouths slightly open, their eyes fixed on the blood as if it might explain something they were not ready to understand.

  Kelly stood at the center of the ring and watched them take Harry away. His chest rose slowly, calmly. He showed no sign of exhaustion. “I hope you die,” he said, his voice carrying just enough to reach Harry. “If not, I will inflict another pain on you.”

  Harry’s response was another scream, his body convulsing as the monks carried him farther from the noise, farther from the ring.

  They took him to the monk cave. The air there was cold and damp, thick with the smell of herbs and old stone. Hands worked on him quickly, pressing, stitching, wrapping. The pain blurred into something distant, then sharp again, then distant once more. His broken hand lay twisted beside him, swollen and useless.

  They mended the wound in his stomach. They could not fix the hand. Harry stayed there for three days. Three long days of staring at stone ceilings, of clenching his teeth through pain, of listening to his own breathing echo in the dark. Each time he tried to move his hand, fire ran up his arm. Each time he closed his eyes, Kelly’s face appeared, calm and smiling.

  On the fourth day, they told him to leave. Fight two was the following week. Harry needed his hands to be whole. But the hand never healed.

  The swelling stayed. The pain stayed. The weakness stayed.

  When fight two came, it was quick. Stanley stepped into the ring with him and did not waste time. His eyes locked onto the broken hand immediately. He struck once.

  Just once.

  Pain exploded, bright and blinding. Harry went down. The fight was over before the crowd could even rise.

  Fight three followed the same path. A rush. A strike. A fall. His body learned the ground too well, the taste of dust and blood becoming familiar.

  When it ended, Harry stood before Master Kangfu. “You have lost all three fights,” Master Kangfu said. His voice was calm. Final.

  “You can not proceed to level two.” Harry’s broken hand throbbed at his side. “But you must win one out of the remaining two,” the master continued, “in order to remain a fighter.”

  The pause that followed felt heavier than any blow. “Else,” Master Kangfu said, “you will be sent to the monastery to become a monk.”

  The words settled into Harry’s chest. Cold, and unmovable.

  Harry recovered for another two weeks. Recovered was a generous word.

  The pain in his broken arm never truly left. It lived there now, deep in the bone, a dull throb that sharpened whenever he moved too fast or breathed too hard. Some mornings it felt like the arm belonged to someone else. Heavy. Useless. Punishing him for daring to hope.

  Still, he rose.

  On the third morning of the second week, he tried to clench his fist. His fingers trembled, refused, then curled halfway before pain shot up his arm and forced a hiss from his lips. Sweat gathered on his forehead. He did not scream this time. He had learned not to.

  A monk watched him from the doorway, arms folded inside his robe.

  “You are not strong enough,” the monk said quietly. Harry lifted his head. His eyes were sunken, ringed with shadows, but there was something stubborn burning behind them.

  “I need this fight,” Harry said. His voice cracked slightly. He swallowed and tried again. “I need to win this fight.”

  The monk studied him for a long moment, then turned away without another word.

  The day of combat came. The arena buzzed with low voices, whispers crawling from bench to bench like insects. Harry walked slowly, his injured arm held close to his body. Every step sent a small shock of pain through him, but he kept his head up. He had learned that lowering it only invited more eyes, more judgment.

  This time, when the pairings were announced, there was a stir. “Tag two, fight four,” the announcer called. “Angela Stoneborn of Dovel land against Harry Jones of Astania.”

  Harry stopped breathing for a second. Angela Stoneborn. He knew the name. Everyone did.

  She was the smallest fighter in the academy. Narrow shoulders. Thin arms. A girl whose blows rarely landed and whose defeats were always quick. Like him, she had lost all her combats. Like him, she stood on the edge, desperate for a single win to stay.

  Harry exhaled.

  For the first time in days, his lips curved into a faint smile.

  “I will beat this one,” he murmured, almost afraid to say it aloud.

  Around him, heads nodded. Some smirked.

  “The weak bastard will finally have his day,” someone said, not bothering to lower his voice.

  Harry stepped into the ring. Angela was already there.

  Up close, she looked even smaller. Her hair was tied back tightly, her jaw clenched, her eyes sharp. There was something tense about her stance, like a wire pulled too tight.

  “Begin,” Master Kangfu’s voice rang.

  Angela moved first.

  She lunged, fast and low, and her fist clipped Harry’s cheek. The impact snapped his head to the side. Pain bloomed across his face, but it was nothing compared to what he had endured before.

  Harry shifted his weight, dodging her next strike. For a heartbeat, hope flared in his chest. He saw the opening. He saw the path.

  Then Angela’s right hand moved. Not toward his chest. Not toward his face. Straight toward his broken arm.

  The strike landed.

  Just one knock.

  The world went dark. Harry fell without a sound, his body hitting the ground like a dropped sack. His head struck the stone, and everything vanished.

  The arena gasped. Seconds passed. Then more. No movement. No groan. No struggle. Master Kangfu stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the still form. “Angela Stoneborn wins,” he declared.

  A roar of laughter burst from the stands. “He couldn't even win the tiniest girl in the academy,” they mocked.

  Angela raised her hand, breathing hard. She looked down at Harry’s unconscious body and spat beside him. “You are truly pathetically weak,” she said.

  The laughter grew louder.

  Monks entered the ring and lifted Harry, his limbs hanging loosely. His face was pale, his breathing shallow. Some students watched with curiosity. Others turned away, already bored.

  Many believed that was the end. That he would simply die, and end his misery."

  In the monk cave, cold water was splashed on Harry’s face. Pressure was applied to his chest. A sharp scent filled his nose. He gasped. Air rushed back into his lungs, violent and painful. His eyes flew open, unfocused, his body jerking as if pulled back from somewhere far away.

  The monk leaned over him, steady hands holding his shoulders. “You are alive,” the monk said. Harry’s chest heaved. His mind slowly pieced things together. The ring. Angela. The strike.

  The single punch. From the tiniest girl in the academy. His lips trembled. Then he broke. A sob tore out of him, raw and uncontrollable. His shoulders shook as tears streamed down his face, soaking the thin bedding beneath him. He turned his head to the side, trying to hide it, but the sound betrayed him. Each breath hitched, dragging more pain out with it.

  The monk sat beside him. “Maybe it isn’t your calling to be a fighter,” the monk said gently. “You can be a monk and possess the healing ability.”

  Harry’s crying slowed. He turned his head back, eyes red, jaw clenched. “Healing is for the weak,” he said hoarsely. “I want to be called strong.”

  Silence followed. For two days, Harry mourned his failure. He did not leave his bed. He did not train. He stared at the stone wall, replaying the fight again and again. The lunge. The strike. The darkness.

  On the third day, news spread through the academy. The mid test assessment of all fourteen kingdoms had been concluded. The results were announced publicly.

  Astania ranked thirteenth. The white belt hall erupted. Students shouted. Benches rattled. Fists slammed against wood and stone. Faces twisted in anger and disbelief. Astania had never ranked below third.

  Never.

  Gabriel heard the news and smiled. That night, he slipped into the white belt hall, his presence drawing immediate silence. Broad shoulders filled the doorway. His red eyes swept over the gathered students.

  “Astania has never ranked below third before,” Gabriel said. His voice was calm, sharp. “The kingdom will be disappointed in you.”

  A heavy weight settled in the room. One boy stepped forward. Elvis. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched. “What can we do to change this?” Elvis asked.

  Gabriel tilted his head slightly. “Get rid of the failure,” he said. “Harry is the cause of this poor result.”

  Murmurs rippled through the hall. Nods followed. “He is the one,” someone said. “He must leave.”

  Gabriel smiled. He turned and walked away. “My job here is done,” he whispered to himself.

  That night, they gathered. Voices were low. Faces tense. “Maybe we should kill him and bury him,” one boy suggested.

  Heads shook. “That will take too much time,” another said. “We might be caught. One day they will definitely find his corpse.”

  Silence stretched.

  Then a boy straightened. “We can tie him up and throw him into the river,” he said. “He will sink and drown, and people will think he committed suicide.”

  The room froze.

  Then, slowly, nods spread. Agreement settled like a shared breath.

  That night, they moved. Feet padded softly through the corridors. Shadows clung to the walls as they approached the monks’ quarters. Their hearts thundered, but their resolve held.

  Inside, Harry lay on his sick bed. His eyes were closed. He knew nothing of the danger creeping closer.