Riven Thorne wasn't a name people remembered. Thin, quiet, always seated in the back row of class, he drifted through the school year like a ghost no one wanted to acknowledge. He wasn't strong, popular, or loud. He had no special grades, no group of friends, no presence.
What he did have was Ashren.
The bully. The beast. The reason Riven's ribs were always bruised, his pride constantly shattered. Ashren wasn't just any fighter—he was a prodigy. A trained kickboxer, a relentless wrestler, and a grappling demon in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. Three years of professional training in each, layered on top of a lifetime of natural aggression and discipline.
Ashren was the kind of student everyone feared and secretly admired. He ruled the school with his fists, a natural-born fighter with a cruel grin and no one to keep him in check.
For years, Riven endured him. He took the punches, the kicks, the humiliation. He clenched his teeth when others laughed. He kept his head down and mouth shut.
Until one day, something cracked.
The pain didn't stop. But something inside Riven did. The part of him that tolerated the beatings died quietly, and what remained was a hunger. Not for justice. Not for peace.
For strength.
Three years passed.
And Riven changed.
He had left the school grounds behind the day he dropped out. Gone was the pale, shaking boy with fear in his eyes. In his place stood a fighter.
Riven had immersed himself in the art of Muay Thai. Eight limbs of war. Discipline forged from pain. Day in and day out, he trained until he could barely stand. He learned how to turn his knees and elbows into weapons, how to make every strike count. He fought in underground gyms, took beatings from men twice his size, and stood up every single time.
He learned how to endure.
He learned how to win.
And tonight, he was ready.
The alley behind the old school was empty, soaked in rain and silence, save for the distant rumble of thunder. The walls around them loomed like giants, graffiti-tagged memories of a past Riven had tried to bury.
Ashren stood waiting.
He was broader now. His stance balanced between the upright guard of a kickboxer and the grounded readiness of a wrestler. Muscles coiled under his soaked hoodie, movements sharp and confident. But the smirk—that same, infuriating smirk—remained.
"Didn't think you'd actually show," Ashren said, cracking his knuckles.
Riven said nothing. He stepped out of the shadows, barefoot on wet concrete. No jacket. No protection. Just wraps on his hands and feet, soaked but tight. The white cloth was stained with old sweat and dried blood.
Ashren scoffed. "Muay Thai? What, you think some gym tricks are gonna save you from me?"
Riven's eyes narrowed. "You won't walk away from this one."
Ashren's laughter echoed through the alley, but there was a twitch in his smile. He remembered. Deep down, he knew this wasn't the same Riven he used to break.
The fight began with no warning.
Ashren lunged, throwing a high-speed jab. Riven weaved under and countered with a sharp elbow to the ribs. Ashren grunted—surprised.
Riven pressed forward, unleashing a flurry of Muay Thai combos. Knees to the body, an upward elbow, a leg kick that made Ashren stumble slightly. For a moment, Riven dominated the rhythm.
Ashren backed up, licking a trail of blood from his lip. "Hmph. Not bad."
He stepped forward again, this time faster. His footwork shifted—kickboxing footwork. Clean, aggressive. He threw a powerful body kick Riven barely managed to block. Then a low leg sweep that forced Riven to hop.
Riven retaliated with a clinch, yanking Ashren's head down and driving a knee up. Ashren grunted, but his arms wrapped around Riven's waist.
Wrestling.
Riven felt his body lifted and slammed into the wet concrete. The breath punched from his lungs. Ashren mounted him, raining fists.
But Riven twisted, slipped out, and popped back to his feet. Blood trickled from his nose. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
"That all you got?"
Ashren chuckled. "Not even close."
They clashed again. This time it was even. Muay Thai clashed with kickboxing, rhythm for rhythm. Riven struck with deadly knees and sharp elbows. Ashren answered with brutal combos, feints, and calculated counters. The rain fell harder, mixing blood with water on the cracked pavement.
But then—Ashren changed.
His smile disappeared.
His footwork grew tighter. His counters faster. Every block turned into a grab. Every mistake punished. His wrestling slipped into the fight like a second skin. Riven threw a roundhouse.
Ashren caught it.
Pulled him in. Slammed him again.
Riven rolled to escape, but Ashren transitioned into BJJ. Perfect control. He flowed like water, locking Riven's arms, mounting him again.
Riven twisted, threw elbows, scrambled to his feet. Breathing hard.
Ashren walked calmly.
"You trained three years, huh? Me too. But in three arts."
Riven didn't respond.
Ashren stepped in. Jab. Hook. Leg kick. Clinch.
Then it came.
The solar plexus blow.
A perfect, lightning-fast punch, just under the sternum. Riven's lungs seized. His body froze. Pain exploded like fire through his chest.
Then came the combo.
A kickboxer's low sweep to his leg.
A wrestler's lift and slam.
A Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu arm lock that twisted Riven's shoulder nearly out of place before he rolled free.
He barely stood.
Ashren didn't let him breathe.
Knee to the gut.
Elbow to the jaw.
Sweep. Mount. Strikes.
Darkness clawed at Riven's vision.
He fought to stay up.
But Ashren stood over him.
"This is the difference between us. Always has been."