The sun hadn't fully risen, yet Velmora Academy was already alive with voices—excited, expectant, anxious. The arena was packed, every seat taken, every railing crowded with students leaning over to glimpse the tournament's opening match.
"The first match of the Velmora Trials: Kenneth Prince of Class A versus Xen Karr of Class S," Master Rhelga's voice thundered.
The field fell still. No one spoke.
Kenneth stepped forward, calm but coiled with tension. His crimson eyes held a silent focus. He wore a black combat vest and gloves, his expression unreadable. Opposite him, Xen Karr strolled onto the field, stretching lazily, lips curled into a faint, mocking smile.
Then, as the announcer's voice declared "Begin," Xen vanished.
No light. No shimmer. No sound. Just gone.
Kenneth's head turned sharply. He didn't move at first, just rotated slowly, scanning with his ears, his senses. Then—
Crack!
A sudden, brutal impact slammed into his right shoulder. Kenneth staggered back, catching his balance—only for a knee to slam into his stomach from seemingly nowhere. He coughed and doubled over, only to be met with a rising elbow to the jaw that threw him off his feet.
He crashed to the ground. Groans rippled through the audience.
"Already?" Darien Kross winced.
Zarek leaned forward, fists clenched. "Damn it…"
Kenneth pushed himself up, only for another blow to his ribs to hurl him sideways. He hit the dirt and rolled, the pain spreading sharp across his side. Before he could rise, a foot came down on his chest. Then another—on his face. Kenneth grunted and rolled, but Xen didn't let up.
Invisible fists lashed out, striking his legs, his back, his temple. Kenneth tried to block, but he was punching air, defending shadows. Every time he planted his feet, another blow broke his rhythm. Xen was toying with him.
"I expected more," Xen's voice echoed cruelly from somewhere close, yet unreachable. "This is class A's best? You're nothing but hype."
Another savage punch snapped Kenneth's head sideways. Blood dripped from his lip. He gasped as his knee buckled—then was met with a flurry of strikes to his ribs, his sides, his throat. He staggered backward blindly, trying to swing, but Xen ducked and vanished again.
A spinning kick hit Kenneth behind the ear. His vision blurred.
He fell again. His cheek scraped the dirt. His breathing was labored now—uneven, shallow. Blood dripped onto the sand.
Kael whispered, "He's being picked apart."
Mira looked horrified. "He can't even see the hits coming."
"Xen's doing more than attacking," Lira muttered darkly. "He's humiliating him."
Kenneth coughed hard, nearly choking as he rose again, only to be kicked straight in the ribs with such force he flipped onto his back.
Snap.
A rib cracked. He tasted blood in his mouth.
Zarek rose halfway from his seat, face pale. "Get up, Kenneth…"
And still Xen didn't stop. Another kick to the shoulder. A blow to the gut. A stomp on the back.
Kenneth lay facedown, blood mixing with the dirt. The air was cold against his bruises. The pain flared in waves. Something inside him curled—weak, helpless.
His fingers dug into the dirt. No more.
No more.
His body began to tremble, not from pain—but from something deeper. Older. Primal.
The part of him that wasn't human.
He stopped moving.
Then he inhaled—slow, deep, deliberate.
The cheers, the taunts, the pounding in his head—they faded.
And he scented something.
Faint. Sweat. Adrenaline. Metallic trace.
There.
He moved.
Fast.
Kenneth sprang up—not blindly, but guided by something ancient. He ducked, sidestepped, and pivoted. Xen's fist whistled past his face—too close.
Kenneth twisted, letting instinct guide him, and slammed his elbow into the invisible form. There was a sharp gasp.
Xen's shimmer cracked.
But Kenneth didn't stop.
He advanced with predatory grace, head tilted, his breathing calm—too calm. He ducked again, grabbed Xen's wrist—this time sure of it—and hurled him into the ground with a bone-rattling crash.
Xen coughed as his invisibility failed for a moment—just enough for Kenneth to see the shocked expression before he drove his fist into his stomach.
Once.
Twice.
Ten times.
Kenneth's eyes were red with fury. The predator in him had surfaced.
He felt every movement Xen made. Every twitch. Every breath.
He wasn't fighting blind anymore.
He was hunting.
Xen screamed as Kenneth kneed him in the chest, then grabbed him by the throat and flung him into the arena wall.
The audience was frozen in silence.
Kenneth stalked forward, fists clenched. He didn't stop.
He reached Xen again and began to beat him—relentlessly, mercilessly.
The official tried to call the match.
"The match is over! Prince wins—stand down!"
But Kenneth kept going.
Another punch. Another. His breathing was ragged, eyes glassy.
"KENNETH!!" Zarek screamed, standing from the Class A stands.
Kenneth's fist raised again—but froze.
A flash in his mind.
A garden. A woman's voice. Soft hands cupping his cheeks.
"You're not a monster, Kenneth. You're my beautiful boy."
His fist trembled.
Then dropped.
Kenneth stood upright, chest heaving, face pale with horror as he looked at his bloodied hands.
He turned slowly to the crowd.
The students stared in stunned silence. Some stepped back instinctively. Even the members of Class S remained frozen.
Zarek whispered, "He almost lost control…"
Kael muttered, "But he didn't."
Jaxon Pyre leaned forward, eyes narrowed. "That boy's not just power… he's surviving something none of us understand."
Aeron Vale, arms folded, stared with deep interest. "He was about to kill—and he pulled himself back… not because of rules. But because he chose to."
Kenneth returned to Class A's podium. The crowd parted instinctively.
Even as he passed, no one cheered. They just watched.
In awe.
In fear.
The scoreboard flashed again:
KENNETH PRINCE – VICTORY
And in every corner of the academy, the whispers began.