Chapter 38
The announcer's voice cut through the noise, calling names, calling numbers. Elijah watched two more fights pass—a woman who moved like water, a man who hit like stone. The crowd roared for both, money flowing, voices rising. He kept his Ki sense spread, feeling the room, feeling the fighters.
Then Henry's name was called.
Elijah turned to Henry who was already standing, his jacket off, his sleeves rolled up. His face was calm, but his eyes were bright, the green sharper than before.
"Don't embarrass us," Kai said.
Henry smiled. "Watch."
He moved down the steps toward the ring, and the crowd parted around him like water around a stone.
Elijah watched him go,
The announcer called the other name. "Vincent Cole."
A man climbed into the ring from the opposite side, and the crowd's energy shifted again, a ripple of recognition passing through the spectators. Vincent Cole was tall, lean, his arms long and roped with lean muscle, his shoulders narrow but powerful. His hair was dark, cut close to his scalp, and his face was all sharp angles—high cheekbones, a jaw that looked like it could cut glass, a nose that had been broken and healed more than once.
He moved like Henry moved, easy, controlled, his eyes already tracking his opponent with the cold focus of a predator who had chosen his prey. There was a confidence in him that came from winning, from knowing the taste of victory, and the crowd responded to it. Money changed hands faster now, bets being placed, odds being set. Elijah caught snippets of whispers
"Vincent's been training for this,"
"He put down three men last month,"
"Henry's good but Vincent is—"
The crowd settled. The lights brightened, the overhead fixtures humming as they pushed back the shadows. The ring was a pool of white light now, and the two men in it seemed to be the only things that existed. The announcer stepped back, his voice dropping to a murmur that was swallowed by the silence.
The bell rang.
Henry moved first.
He crossed the ring in three steps, his fist already coming up in a straight line toward Vincent's jaw. It was fast, faster than Elijah had seen him move before. But Vincent was ready. He dodged, his body twisting at the waist, the punch grazing past his ear, and threw a punch of his own.
The impact made a sound like meat hitting a counter, and Henry's arm dropped for half a second. But he didn't stop. He stepped in closer, driving his knee up toward Vincent's midsection, and Vincent blocked it with his forearm, the collision sending a crack through the room that made the front rows flinch.
They broke apart, circling. The mat creaked under their feet, the ropes trembling with the force of their movement.
Henry came at him again, faster this time. His fists moved in combinations—jab, cross, hook, the punches flowing together like a single motion broken into pieces. Vincent blocked each one, his forearms rising and falling, but he was moving back, his feet sliding on the mat, his heels edging toward the ropes. Henry pressed forward, not giving him space, not letting him breathe, his punches coming in waves that crashed against Vincent's guard again and again. The crowd was rising, voices lifting, caught in the current of Henry's assault.
Vincent's foot caught the edge of the mat, and for a split second, his balance wavered. His heel slipped on the canvas, his weight shifting backward, his guard dropping just enough. Henry saw it. His fist came up, aiming for Vincent's jaw with everything behind it, and for a moment it looked like the fight was over.
But Vincent recovered faster than expected. His foot found purchase, his body twisted, and he ducked under the punch with a fluid motion. The momentum of Henry's missed punch carried him forward, and Vincent drove his shoulder into Henry's chest, the impact lifting Henry off his feet for a moment, sending him stumbling back toward the ropes.
The crowd shouted, a wall of sound that crashed against the walls and came back doubled. Henry hit the ropes and bounced forward, the cords snapping him back into the center of the ring, and Vincent was there waiting. His fist connected with Henry's ribs once, the sound low and wet. Henry's breath left him in a grunt. Twice, the same spot, and Henry's body bent sideways.
Each hit landed solid, the sound of it echoing through the room like a drum. Henry's face tightened but he didn't even stagger. He stood in the pocket, taking the punishment, and on the third punch, his hand shot out and grabbed Vincent's arm, fingers locking around the wrist, holding it against his side like a vise.
Vincent tried to pull back but Henry held him there, his grip like iron, his feet planted. Vincent's other fist came up, aiming for Henry's head, but Henry was already moving. He drove his forehead into Vincent's face—a brutal, ugly headbutt that connected with Vincent's nose. There was a crack, sharp and clean, and Vincent's head snapped back, blood already beginning to stream from his nostrils.
Henry didn't wait. He let go of Vincent's arm and threw a punch to Vincent's stomach, his fist sinking into the soft tissue just below the ribs. Vincent's body folded forward, and Henry hit him again, then again, each punch driving deeper, stealing more air. Vincent's guard dropped, his arms falling to his sides, his body betraying him. Henry's next punch caught him square in the jaw, the impact snapping Vincent's head to the side, sending a spray of blood and saliva across the mat.
Vincent stumbled. His feet tangled, his legs losing their coordination, and he went down on one knee, his hand pressed flat against the floor, his head hanging, blood dripping from his face onto the canvas. The crowd was on its feet now, screaming, a cacophony of voices that blended into one continuous roar. Henry stood over him, his chest rising and falling, his fists still raised, his eyes fixed on the man beneath him. He didn't move to finish it. He waited.
Vincent looked up. His lip was split, blood running down his chin and dripping onto the mat. His eyes were dazed but still focused, still searching for an opening, a way back into the fight. His chest heaved, drawing air in ragged gasps, and his arms came up again, slower now, the guard shaky but present. He pushed himself up, his legs unsteady, his weight shifting as he found his footing. He stood, swaying, his arms raised, his eyes locked on Henry's.
Henry nodded once, then he moved.
His fist came at Vincent's face, a straight line that Vincent managed to block, his forearm rising just in time. But Henry was already spinning, his body rotating with a fluid violence, his other fist coming from the side like a wrecking ball. It caught Vincent in the ribs—the same ribs Henry had been targeting from the beginning—and Elijah heard the crack this time, sharp and definitive.
Vincent gasped, air leaving his lungs in a rush, his face going pale beneath the blood. Henry stepped in, his knee coming up, and drove it into Vincent's chest with the full force of his weight behind it.
Vincent went down hard. His back hit the mat with a sound that silenced the crowd for a single, ringing moment. His arms splayed out to the sides, his legs spread, his chest heaving as he fought for air. His Ki flickered once, twice, a guttering flame in Elijah's senses, and then went quiet. He lay there, staring up at the lights, his body refusing to answer the commands his mind was sending. He wasn't getting up.
The crowd roared. Henry stood over Vincent for a moment, his chest rising and falling, his fists still raised, his body still coiled with adrenaline. Then he lowered his hands, the tension draining from his shoulders, and looked out at the seats. His eyes found Elijah and Kai in the crowd, and he smiled.
"Winner—Henry "
"Told you," Henry said, dropping into his seat. "Worth more than a thousand."
Kai laughed. "You got hit."
"Everyone gets hit."
"Vincent got hit more."
Henry's smile widened. "That's what matters."
Elijah sat back down, his eyes moving across the room.
"Next one's yours," Henry said, leaning back in his seat. "Or Kai's, but it doesn't matter. We will win."
Kai nodded slowly. "Let them call our names. We'll answer."
Elijah kept his eyes on the ring. Another fight was starting, two men he hadn't seen before, but his mind was elsewhere.
He sat back and watched, waiting for his turn.