Dorian's Shield or Dorian's Blade?

That next morning, Clancy decided to eat breakfast with Evelyn. Luca, naturally, decided to sit with Clancy as well. The three of them talked about their shared love of music. Clancy himself was a massive music fan, and pretty much listened to everything, although his favorite artists were geared around rap and R&B. Evelyn also had a wide range, listening to female rappers more. Luca, on an insane curveball however, enjoyed classical music. Claire De Lune was his guilty pleasure and also what he put in his Hermes device when he was sparring in the afternoon.

Although the previous day's events were still fresh, lectures and combat instruction still went on as usual, and Garrick announced another 1-on-1 combat session. 

This time the matchups would have Clancy facing Dorian. He had been deathly afraid of facing him, considering the first week of combat instruction, he had broken a concrete wall with a punch he missed on Luca. Luca also secretly confessed to Clancy that he had lightly peed his pants from the impact. 

White padded floors. Neutral temperature. No weapons. Just two men.

The training room fell to a hush as Garrick's voice echoed:

"Clancy. Dorian. You're up."

Clancy stepped forward, stretching out his wrists. His shoulders were tense. Across the mat, Dorian loomed like a colossus—6'11" of coiled muscle and calm presence, his frame bearing scars and inked patterns like remnants of a forgotten war. Despite the size, there was a softness in his eyes—a fleeting warmth that made Clancy hesitate.

Dorian bowed slightly.

"I won't hold back, brother."

His voice was gravel and grace.

Clancy mirrored the bow.

"Wasn't expecting you to."

He took a stance—feet staggered, hands poised like a fencer ready to strike.

Clancy circled, measuring distance, reading Dorian's center of gravity.

Dorian stood relaxed, almost idle. But Clancy could feel it—like a spring wound tight.

Then it snapped.

Dorian lunged, not with a jab, but a wide, savage swing—more beast than boxer. Clancy ducked low, rolled under the blow, and countered with a quick jab to the ribs. His knuckles met steel. Dorian barely flinched.

The big man grinned.

"Fast."

Clancy exhaled.

"Dense."

Dorian moved again—his approach unorthodox, limbs loose like a predator stalking prey. Clancy struck with surgical precision: low kick to the knee, open palm to the jaw, elbow to the ribs. Each hit landed—textbook perfect.

But Dorian adapted like water, absorbing the punishment and retaliating with a brutal backhand. Clancy blocked it, but the sheer weight behind the strike slid him half a foot.

Clancy's thoughts raced. He's not just strong—he's instinctual. No rhythm. No form. Just destruction with intent.

Clancy found his breath again, this time weaving inside and laying into Dorian's midsection with a flurry. His fists were a blur—hooks, jabs, uppercuts, combinations drilled into him over years.

Dorian didn't block. He absorbed.

Then grabbed Clancy by the forearm and hurled him like a ragdoll.

Clancy slammed into the padded wall, tumbling to the mat. He stood fast, lip bleeding, but smiling.

"Nice throw."

Dorian cracked his knuckles.

"Not a throw. A reaction."

They engaged again.

Clancy used his speed—darting in and out, like a fencer picking apart armor. But Dorian shifted unpredictably, using elbows, knees, shoulders—even his head—as if the entire body was a weapon. He clawed at Clancy's defenses, breathing heavily, growling between movements. Not a lack of control, but an embrace of chaos.

Clancy went low—drop spin kick—barely avoided Dorian's downward hammerfist.

They separated, panting.

"You okay?" Dorian asked.

"Getting there," Clancy replied, massaging his side.

"You fight like a bear that read a boxing manual once."

Dorian chuckled.

"Better than a fox with a stick."

Clancy waited for Dorian to charge, then pivoted—redirecting his momentum into a judo sweep. The giant crashed down hard. For the first time, he didn't bounce back immediately.

Clancy pounced—mounted him, firing a few tight punches at the head and collarbone. Dorian grabbed Clancy's shirt and headbutted him point-blank. Blood shot from Clancy's nose as he was tossed off like debris.

Still, he landed on his feet, stumbled once, then cracked his neck.

"You're terrifying," Clancy muttered, almost with admiration.

Dorian rose slowly, grinning, blood trickling from his lip.

"And you're precise. You cut deeper with technique than I do with strength."

The final exchange was a blur. No more banter. Just rhythm and roar.

Clancy's body moved on instinct—form forged from drills and hours of discipline. Every strike had intent. Every dodge, purpose.

Dorian—pure momentum, pure unpredictability—used walls, angles, and his monstrous reach to hurl himself like a human wrecking ball.

At one point, Clancy vaulted over Dorian's shoulder, wrapped his arm around the neck, but was slammed into the ground. He retaliated by locking a leg and delivering a brutal elbow that sent Dorian reeling.

Neither man could breathe. Their limbs were bruised, faces cut.

Clancy raised his fists again.

Dorian lowered his.

"Enough," Dorian said, offering a hand.

"You've earned your breath."

Clancy hesitated, then shook it.

"You could've torn me apart."

Dorian smiled, wide and genuine.

"I don't fight to destroy. I fight to remember I'm not what they made me."

Outside the ring, they were brothers. Inside it, they were storms.

And for the first time since joining OTA, Clancy didn't just feel tested—he felt seen.

Let me know if you want to add Mira, Luca, or Garrick's reactions, or want to write a follow-up scene (e.g., post-spar bonding or a lesson debrief).

You said:

Rewrite it but don't end the fight, just have it at a pause, i need to read it and see if I want the fight to continue, Don't stop writing it with a clear winner yet

ChatGPT said:

Absolutely—here's the rewritten version where the fight between Clancy and Dorian reaches an intense pause, not a conclusion. No winner, no handshake—just a breath caught in the storm.

White padded floors. Neutral temperature. No weapons. Just two men.

The training room fell into silence as Garrick's voice rang out:

"Clancy. Dorian. You're up."

Clancy stepped forward, cracking his knuckles, shoulders slightly raised. Across the mat, Dorian approached like a mountain in motion—6'11", 250 lbs of scarred, tattooed, muscle-wrapped brutality. Yet his eyes, brown and calm, betrayed no arrogance. Just focus. He bowed slightly.

"I won't hold back, brother."

His voice was deep, steady—almost gentle.

Clancy mirrored the bow.

"Didn't expect you to."

He took his stance—tight, clean, legs slightly bent, guard high. Dorian simply stood, loose, almost uninterested—until he wasn't.

The first attack came sudden as lightning.

Dorian lunged in a blur—no form, no rhythm, just a wide, whipping hook aimed at Clancy's head. Clancy ducked beneath it, his instincts firing before thought could catch up. He slipped right, stepped in, and landed a sharp jab to Dorian's ribs.

It was like punching stone.

Clancy danced back, heart racing.

"You're built like a damn wall."

Dorian tilted his head, smiling.

"Try climbing it."

They engaged again.

Clancy struck surgically: low kick to the shin, follow-up elbow to the sternum, then a precise palm strike to the chin. He moved like a technician—fast, controlled, clinical.

Dorian barely flinched. Then, with a growl low in his throat, he shoulder-checked Clancy so hard he lifted off the floor, crashing into the padded wall with a grunt.

Clancy shook it off, wiped blood from his lip, and stood.

"Okay… okay."

Dorian approached on all fours for a moment—like a beast, knuckles scraping against the mat before rising again, using every part of his body as a potential weapon. Clancy stayed light on his feet, watching for the next blitz.

The next exchange was faster.

Clancy darted inside, landing a solid three-hit combo to the liver, jaw, and then a sweeping kick at Dorian's massive legs. The big man faltered—but didn't fall. Instead, he responded with a twisting elbow that nearly cracked Clancy's guard and sent him stumbling sideways.

Clancy countered with a low sweep, dropping Dorian onto one hand, but Dorian twisted on impact and threw his legs into a wild, scissor-like kick that clipped Clancy across the shoulder and sent him spinning.

Clancy rolled to his feet, breathing heavy.

Dorian was crouched low again, muscles rippling under the skin, chest rising and falling like a furnace.

"You're skilled," Dorian said between breaths.

"Precise. But you think too much."

Clancy's eyes narrowed.

"And you don't think enough."

Dorian grinned.

"Thinking didn't keep me alive."

They charged at each other again.

This time, Clancy fainted a high strike, spun, and landed a solid kick behind Dorian's knee, causing the larger man to buckle just slightly—just enough for Clancy to capitalize with a brutal uppercut that snapped Dorian's head back.

But Dorian didn't drop.

Instead, he gripped Clancy's waist, lifted him clean off the floor, and slammed him to the mat with a thunderous thud that echoed across the training hall. Clancy gasped as the air was knocked from his lungs, vision blurring for half a second.

He didn't stay down.

Rolling to the side, he sprang to his feet just in time to dodge Dorian's stomp. He launched forward, grabbing Dorian's arm and twisting it into a joint lock—shoulder pressed, hips tight, leverage perfect.

Dorian snarled—not in pain, but with thrill—and began to power through it, inch by inch, his muscles bulging, veins rising across his skin like cords. Clancy's grip strained, but his technique held. He adjusted his stance, pulled tighter.

"Tap."

Dorian didn't.

Instead, he headbutted Clancy in the chest, dislodging the lock just long enough to reverse their positions and shove Clancy backward. The two now stood across from each other again, bloodied, breathing hard—faces bruised, arms marked with red.

A brief moment passed. Just one breath.

They stared at each other.

Respect. Caution. Calculation.

Neither moved yet.

Clancy rolled his shoulders, spat red onto the mat, and raised his fists again.

Dorian tilted his head, chest still heaving.

The fire in his eyes hadn't faded. But neither had the calm.

"Still got more?" Dorian asked.

Clancy smiled through the blood.

"Do you?"

And there—between two breaths, on the edge of the next storm—the fight hung suspended.

Not over. Not yet.