Zach stood across from the elder's champion no wasted movement. Just blood already dripping from someone's brow and the faint pulse of essence in the air. Their domains had clashed early on, hard enough to crack the stone floor under their feet.
Then, nothing.
No fancy techniques. No fireworks.
Just fists. Elbows. Blood.
I couldn't help it—I muttered, "What the hell…"
Zach was losing ground. Barely. But it was enough to make you tense up. The champion was older, heavier in frame, and had the kind of low center of gravity that made every hit feel like a dropped anchor. You could feel it even from where we stood. The crowd didn't cheer. They braced.
"Good," the Elder said from his perch above, arms folded. "That's how a Breaker should fight. Pressure with every breath. No rest. No breaks. If you're breathing, you're not breaking."
Zach ducked under a hook, caught a rising knee with his forearm, and countered with a gut shot. The sound was dull, but the recoil from the champion said it landed.
"He's not bad," another of the elder's loyalists muttered, arms crossed. "But he's too modern. Still relying on those soft resets and breathing patterns."
Zach didn't respond. He never did. His fists did the talking, and his footwork was starting to shift—less reactive now, more aggressive.
"That's it," I said under my breath. "Start carving."
The elder champion came forward like a boulder with arms, fists swinging like warhammers. Zach slipped left, popped a jab, then slid back right. Not far enough. He took a cross to the ribs and went skidding across the arena floor.
Gasps.
I stepped forward, but Nel threw her arm out. "He's still up."
He was. Knees bent. Chest heaving. Blood on his lip.
The elder's champion didn't wait. He moved in for the finisher.
And that's when Zach surged.
He didn't dodge. He absorbed the first strike, twisting with it, using the momentum to slide under and launch an uppercut so clean I heard the champion's jaw pop.
"Nice," Amir muttered.
The champion staggered, but didn't fall.
"You see that?" the elder growled, now watching with interest. "He's adapting. Finally. Maybe he wasn't a wasted nomination after all."
"Too early," another loyalist replied. "He still hasn't faced real punishment."
Zach spun, landing a hook to the liver, then a straight punch to the throat. Clean. Precise. But his face was already bruised and his shoulders tight from impact. This wasn't a showcase. It was a war of attrition.
Every blow was a coin flip.
And still, Zach kept going.
Blood flew. Teeth cracked. The champion hit him with a shoulder charge so hard I saw the air ripple.
Zach hit the floor again. This time, hard.
The elder laughed. "There it is. That's the end."
But Zach didn't stay down.
He pushed himself up—arms shaking, one eye barely open. And he didn't square off. He launched forward, low and fast, like a goddamn missile. He didn't need finesse anymore. He needed finish.
They clashed.
No aura. No grace.
Just hands.
Then it happened.the champion stumbled back.
Zach was still swinging. From his knees, from his core, from the kind of place only real Breakers understood. Where pain didn't stop you—it fueled you.
The elder's voice dipped. "No. He's not supposed to—"
Too late.
Zach moved like a man possessed. Ducking low, stepping in, unleashing a flurry of body blows, elbows, palms—using every tool the clan had taught him and every instinct he'd earned the hard way.
The champion tried to clinch.
Zach dipped right then threw a knee straight up.
Crack.
Then silence.
The champion dropped.
Everyone froze.
I could feel my heartbeat in my throat. Then my chest.
Zach was still standing. Barely.
But the champion wasn't moving.
I don't know who said it first, but the words spread like wildfire:
"He won."
And as the crowd murmured, cheered, or stood in stunned silence—I smiled to myself.