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.