Class (3)

Hector's fist cut through the air like a hammer, and I could feel the force behind it. If it had landed, it would have hurt, but the problem was that it was too obvious. It was a brute force attack with no finesse, no subtlety. He wasn't thinking; he was reacting. And that made him easy to counter.

I ducked under his swing, using his momentum against him. His arm overextended, and I saw the opening I'd been waiting for.

I struck.

A sharp, clean jab to his ribs—right between his guard—caused him to stagger back. His breath caught, and for a split second, his eyes flickered with something other than arrogance: surprise.

He quickly regained his posture, teeth gritted, hands raised in a more defensive stance. He was no longer underestimating me. That small hit had gotten his attention.

"Is that all you've got, Slick?" Hector growled, shaking off the pain, trying to regain his composure. He lunged at me again, but this time with more caution, his footwork more deliberate.

I could see the hesitation in him now—the seed of doubt had been planted. The once smooth movements were now more erratic, less confident. That was what I'd wanted. I wasn't here to overpower him with strength; I was here to make him question his every move.

He threw a series of jabs, each faster than the last, but none of them landed. I danced around him, my feet barely touching the mat as I swayed just out of reach of his punches. His frustration was evident now, his moves becoming more reckless, and I saw his guard begin to slip.

Then it happened.

He rushed forward, thinking I was off balance, thinking he could corner me with an aggressive advance. But I was already prepared. As he lunged for a wild haymaker, I dropped low, sweeping my leg in a controlled arc that took him completely by surprise.

Hector hit the ground hard, his breath leaving his body in a huff as his back slammed against the mat. A collective gasp rose from the crowd as he struggled to push himself up, his movements sluggish and strained.

I stood over him, watching as he tried to catch his breath, the faintest hint of panic creeping into his eyes. But I didn't make a move to attack. Not yet. I wanted him to experience this. The sting of defeat without having to take a single punch.

Hector's pride was his biggest flaw. It made him sloppy, reckless. He thought he could bully his way through fights with his status and his name, but I wasn't some poor, helpless student who'd cower at the sight of a noble. I wasn't even the original Desmond Slick. This body might've been weak, but my mind wasn't.

"Getting tired already, Blackwood?" I called out, my voice cool. "I thought you were supposed to be a big shot."

Hector's eyes blazed with anger, and he pushed himself up again, faster this time, his fists clenched. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his breath still coming in sharp bursts. He wasn't going to give up. I could respect that. But his pride had taken a hit, and that was something I'd exploit.

"You—" he started, his voice low and dangerous, "—you'll regret that."

I raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

With a growl, Hector lunged once more, but this time I was ready. He was angry, and anger always clouded judgment. As he swung at me, his form was wide open. I stepped aside, letting him pass, and then spun behind him.

It was a simple move, but effective. I grabbed his wrist, twisting his arm and forcing him down onto the mat with a well-placed knee to his back.

Grall's sharp gaze was fixed on us, his arms crossed. He hadn't said a word, but I could feel his scrutiny. The crowd was still murmuring, and I could sense their shifting opinions. Hector had been the favorite, but now I was in control.

Hector struggled beneath me, his breath ragged and desperate. His pride was a wildfire, but I could see the flicker of fear beneath the surface. He didn't like being on the defensive. He wasn't used to being the one who couldn't land a blow.

"Give up, Blackwood," I said calmly, pressing my knee a little harder into his back. "You're not going to win this."

He grunted, trying to twist free, but I was already one step ahead. I had the leverage, and I knew how to use it. This wasn't about brute strength—it was about control.

"Not a chance, Slick," Hector snarled, his face red with frustration. He tried to buck me off, but I kept my position steady, making it clear I wasn't going anywhere. He was pinned. It wasn't going to take much more for him to tap out.

"Suit yourself," I said, shifting my weight slightly to increase the pressure. "But this doesn't look good for you."

The crowd had gone silent, all eyes on us. Even Grall's sharp eyes seemed to gleam with interest now. He wasn't just watching a fight—he was analyzing it. Evaluating us.

Hector's movements slowed, his body growing limp under my control. The fight was draining from him, and he knew it. He had underestimated me, and now he was paying the price. But he wasn't finished yet. I could see the determination in his eyes, the refusal to give in.

I knew that if he wasn't careful, his pride would get him in trouble.

And then, as expected, Hector let out a frustrated groan and tapped the mat, signaling his surrender.

Grall's voice rang out immediately, sharp and satisfied. "Blackwood concedes. Desmond Slick wins."

I released Hector, stepping back to give him room to rise. He didn't get up immediately, though. He stayed on the mat for a few seconds longer, breathing heavily. His pride was wounded, but his body wouldn't let him keep going.

As Hector stood up, I locked eyes with him for just a moment. He didn't say a word, but the look he gave me was one of grudging respect—or at least, the first taste of it.

I turned toward Grall, who was already moving on to the next match, but his eyes flicked back to me once more. He was watching. He was always watching.

I didn't care about Hector's respect. I didn't care about the crowd's opinions. I was here for one reason, and one reason only—to survive. To prove I belonged.

And with that fight, I had made a small but significant step toward doing just that.