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!"
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.