"Begin!"
Isack's voice sliced through the air with authority, and in that instant, the pressure around us doubled.
It was as if someone had placed invisible weights on our shoulders, our ankles dragged down like they were chained to iron. My lungs took an extra second to expand. The air felt thicker, harder to breathe.
Isack had been increasing the pressure little by little, almost cruelly. Sometimes, like now, at the start of a new round. Other times, right in the middle of a fight, catching us off guard—as if to see who still had hidden reserves to tap into.
But one thing was certain: it never let up.
Not even during breaks. Even when we stopped to catch our breath or sip water, it clung to us—pressing against our skin, dulling our muscles. A constant reminder that in real combat, the world doesn't pull punches.
I raised my fists and adjusted my stance.
In previous rounds, I'd tested different stances Isack had taught us. None were absolute—each had strengths and weaknesses. But I knew this wasn't about winning. The training was about understanding.
Understanding how my body moved. How it reacted under pressure. How it adapted.
This time, I took on a looser stance, something more instinctive, one that allowed me to conserve energy by responding to my opponent rather than forcing my own rhythm. It didn't require a tight guard, but rather an open, reactive one.
My left leg forward, body weight slightly leaning over it. Right leg back, ready to spring or retreat. Left arm half-extended, elbow bent just enough, hand hovering near the opponent's collarbone—ready to block or feint. Right arm lower, close to the abdomen, elbow tucked tight to the ribs, guarding my core. My head tilted slightly forward, chin tucked near my chest, eyes locked on his.
It was a flexible, adaptive stance—but fragile if poorly executed. A guard that demanded full awareness, because it depended more on reading the opponent than brute force.
Drent didn't move. Not a step. Not even a blink.
Head held high, dark eyes fixed on me like an eagle poised to dive. His stance was compact and tight-knit. Legs apart, heels just off the ground—primed to leap forward or sideways with equal ease. Torso slightly hunched, shoulders relaxed, both fists up like barriers—one guarding his chin, the other extended slightly ahead like a watchdog.
'Looks like boxing', I thought, studying his stance. But not the polished, modern kind from Earth. It reminded me more of the gritty, old-school street boxing I'd seen in historical films and shows.
His knees were slightly bent, a signal he could generate power without needing to step back. The kind of posture built for delivering hard hits in close quarters. The kind chosen by someone who's used to finishing fights quickly.
As I readied myself, adjusting my footing to the ground, Isack watched us silently. I didn't notice—didn't see the subtle way he furrowed his brow as he stared at me.
We stood in deadlock, like seasoned chess players, each waiting for the other to flinch.
The world seemed suspended. Then finally, after seconds that felt like minutes, Drent made the first move.
He advanced steadily, without haste. Feet grounded, shoulders loose, chin slightly lowered. As soon as he entered mid-range, he began throwing punches with his right hand—quick and precise—while keeping his left up high, shielding his chin and the side of his face.
The punches weren't full force. They were short, efficient, probing. One jab, then another, and a third—retracting his hand fast each time. He was gauging distance, testing my reactions.
I held my ground, eyes trained on his body's subtle cues—shoulders, hips, feet. Reading those micro-adjustments would determine who landed the first real hit.
I slipped left from the first punch. Then right, feeling the breeze of the second graze my skin. The third came faster, straighter—I pulled back just enough to avoid it.
Then I struck back.
A sharp, controlled lunge forward, and I launched a low kick at his left leg—aiming for the outer knee. Hit just right, it could twist the joint and drop even a bigger opponent.
But Drent wasn't just any opponent.
His body reacted instantly: left leg dropping to meet my kick, shin like a slab of wood. At the same time, his right hand pulled back to guard his face, and his left arm swept downward at an angle to shield his ribs.
And Yet, the Impact Never Came
That kick was a feint.
At the last second, I pulled it back with a flick — a dry tap! against his block, just enough to trick him for a split second.
Then, I twisted my hips and used that same leg as a pivot. My body spun fluidly, letting my right foot lift off the ground in a clean, swift arc.
Now with my left leg free, I unleashed a spinning roundhouse, aimed precisely at Drent's right flank — the spot he'd left exposed when he repositioned his arm to block the first strike.
This time, I landed it.
THWACK!
The sound of impact echoed, muffled by the dense, magical pressure still weighing on us.
But… I was exposed too.
CRACK!
'Shit!' I cursed silently the moment I felt it coming.
Even before my foot touched the ground again, Drent's fist was already in motion, arcing toward my head. He didn't retreat, didn't lose his balance — he'd used my own movement against me.
His right fist sliced through the air in a tight hook, and by sheer instinct, I raised my arm to block.
The blow rippled through my forearm with a dull thud, making my vision rattle from the force.
My feet had just landed when I saw the shadow of his next strike: his left hand swinging upward in a brutal uppercut, aimed right at my chin.
He smiled. A small, nearly invisible curl at the edge of his mouth. But it was there: respect, amusement… maybe provocation.
'Damn... there's no way to dodge this', I thought.
My weight was still off from the spin of my last kick. No space to move.
But I still had one arm free.
Driven by desperation-honed instinct, I curved my left elbow into a tight block, sliding my forearm inside Drent's attack line.
The uppercut skimmed past my jaw — close enough to yank out a few strands of hair, but not close enough to shatter my teeth.
He missed. Barely. But "barely" was the fine line between staying in the fight… or hitting the ground.
Drent didn't pause for even a breath. No hesitation. He charged in again — a barrage of punches more like a storm than a calculated combo.
He wasn't trying to break me with raw force. He wanted to overwhelm me. Smother me. He pressed forward, challenging my footing, my focus, my breathing, my patience.
"Not going to give me a moment's peace, huh?" I panted, blocking one strike with my forearm and sidestepping another with a pivot of the hips.
"Who gives an enemy time to rest?" he shot back, voice dry, eyes locked on mine like the pressure from Isack didn't even register to him.
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
All I needed was one opening. Just one.
And then I saw it — almost imperceptible. A fraction-of-a-second lag when he spoke.
I lunged in that instant, seizing his forearm with both hands. My feet slid across the dusty floor, my body twisted, and I used the momentum to pull him toward me — while stepping out to the side, flipping our positions.
With some luck, he'd trip on his own momentum and fall out of the ring, giving me the win.
But luck wasn't on my side.
Drent stumbled a step, but a heartbeat later he spun back around and came charging like nothing had happened.
Relentless. Stubborn. A damn bloodhound with a nose for combat.
"Man, you fight like a starving animal," I muttered, trying to cut the tension, breath ragged, sweat now dripping down my back.
"The same trick won't work twice," he said, already closing in again, his fist reloading.
"I know," I muttered with a crooked grin, "but even so… I figured it was worth a maybe."
The Answer Wasn't a Punch.
It was silence—the kind of silence that comes right before something real happens.
I used the seconds I had to breathe. Not much, just enough to steady my pulse.
We were back in the center of the ring. And I knew the truth: Drent was stronger. His breathing, steady. Isack's magical pressure still pressed down on us like a mountain, but Drent moved through it like it was nothing—like it was part of the air itself.
I had speed. I was lighter. I could read patterns better than most. But he was endurance. He was force. And while my body had started showing signs of fatigue, he moved like the fight had just begun.
I was holding on. But I knew what was coming.
Drent was closing in again. His strikes no longer had the wild momentum of earlier—they were clean now, calculated, refined. As if each motion had been honed through countless quiet repetitions when no one was watching.
I blocked the first with my forearm, feeling the shock ripple through bone. Slipped past the second with a twist of my torso and a single step back, squeezing in a breath between heartbeats.
Then came the third. A feint.
Exactly what I'd been waiting for.
I surged forward. My right hand latched onto his attacking wrist, and my body spun in sync with the movement, trying to execute one of Isack's techniques. I used my weight, twisting his arm downward in a sweeping arc—if I could bring him to the ground, that would end it.
And for a second… I thought I had him.
Drent faltered.
But it lasted only a second.
His expression shifted. He'd been expecting this.
His elbow reversed direction, slipping out of my hold like water through fingers. The dry crack of bone in my forearm was nothing compared to the white-hot pain that shot down my arm.
Adrenaline surged.
I didn't stop.
I pushed forward, pain screaming through my limb, and launched a sweeping low kick to knock him off balance—and it landed.
His knee gave. Drent staggered, and there it was—my opening.
I twisted my hips, drawing back my good arm for a counterstrike. A clean shot to the stomach.
But before I could let it fly…
His fist was already rising.
Upward.
Target: my head.
CRACK!
A sharp flash of pain detonated in my left temple. My vision warped, the edges blurring like wet glass. My body stuttered—my legs tried to hold me up, but didn't get the message.
I tried one last move—a reflex to back away or maybe counter—but nothing was in sync. My feet missed the ground. My arms were either too heavy or too loose.
And suddenly…
Everything went dark.
Like someone had snapped their fingers and shut the world off.