The arena was still buzzing from Cassian's victory as Zarek stormed out of the ring, his boots striking the polished stone with enough force to leave scorch marks in his wake. The crowd parted instinctively—no one dared block the path of a lightning-wielder in a temper.
Kenneth hesitated at the edge of the stands, watching Zarek disappear into the competitor's tunnel. His fingers flexed at his sides. Comforting people wasn't something he'd been taught.
But Zarek was…
Kenneth exhaled sharply and followed.
---
The tunnels beneath the arena were dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of oil and old sweat. Kenneth found Zarek leaning against the far wall, his fists crackling with unstable energy.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then—
"Come to gloat?" Zarek's voice was a whip-crack in the silence.
Kenneth didn't flinch. "You lost to someone who's been here a week. That's gloating enough for everyone else."
A bolt of lightning seared past Kenneth's ear, embedding itself in the wall behind him. The stone blackened.
Kenneth didn't move.
Zarek's chest heaved. "He shouldn't have been able to—"
"He outplayed you." Kenneth cut in, blunt. "You relied on raw power. He didn't."
Silence.
Then Zarek laughed, sharp and humorless. "Since when do you give pep talks?"
Kenneth shrugged. "Since you started missing the obvious."
Zarek's jaw tightened. "And what's that?"
"You're still the only one here who can throw lightning without burning out." Kenneth met his gaze. "He copies. You create. Next time? Don't give him the chance."
Zarek studied him for a long moment before pushing off the wall. The sparks at his fingers dimmed. "…You're shit at this."
Kenneth almost smiled. "Yeah."
A bell tolled in the distance—the signal for the next match.
Zarek jerked his chin toward the arena. "Go on, Prince. Don't keep your adoring fans waiting."
---
The crowd's roar was deafening as Kenneth stepped back into the light. His opponent was already waiting—a hulking figure with a shaved scalp and knuckles wrapped in iron-studded tape.
Name: Garrik Voss
Ability: "Ironhide"
Skin hardens to near-indestructible metal on command
Garrik cracked his neck. "Heard you don't use your fire in the ring."
Kenneth said nothing.
The referee's hand fell.
"Begin."
---
Garrik activated his ability immediately, his skin darkening to gunmetal gray as he charged. Kenneth dodged the first swing—but the second clipped his ribs, sending him skidding back.
The crowd gasped.
Kenneth exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He could already feel the bruise forming.
Garrik smirked. "That all?"
Kenneth lunged.
His first strike was a feint—Garrik blocked, but Kenneth's real attack came low, a brutal kick to the back of the knee. Ironhide or not, joints were still vulnerable.
Garrik stumbled.
Kenneth didn't let up.
A palm strike to the diaphragm—no fire, just precision. Garrik grunted as his breath left him in a rush.
The crowd was on its feet now, chanting.
Garrik roared, swinging wildly. Kenneth weaved through the blows, each movement calculated:
A thumb driven into the nerve cluster at Garrik's elbow deadened his arm
A knee to the thigh weakened his stance
A final, devastating heel kick to the chest sent him crashing to the mat
Garrik's ironhide flickered as he struggled to rise.
Kenneth stood over him, breathing steady. "Yield."
Silence.
Then—
Garrik spat blood and tapped out.
"Winner: Kenneth Prince."
---
As Kenneth walked from the ring, the whispers followed:
"Did you see how he moved?"
"Like he knew exactly where to hit…"
Cassian watched from the shadows, his fingers twitching as if memorizing every motion.
Zarek, leaning against the railing, gave a slow nod.
And Master Rhelgar?
He smiled.