Albert Ziloman wasted no time. The moment his feet steadied on the platform, he launched himself like a predator at the second man who had nearly thrown him out. His rod whistled through the air with savage precision, and with one clean strike, he smashed the boy in the ribs.
The poor lad flew across the stage and off its edge as if struck by a giant's club, his body tumbling through the air like a helpless ball swatted aside.
The crowd erupted—half in shock, half in uncontrollable laughter.
"Did you see that? Like a golf swing!" someone roared, slapping his knee.
"Damn, just like his father—Albert holds a grudge like no other!" another added, cackling.
"He doesn't forget, he doesn't forgive. You threaten him, he smashes you off!"
The jeers, the shouts, the clapping hands—it all became a chorus of exhilaration. The audience loved it, their blood boiling as the martial arts stage became an arena of grudges, grudges settled with fists, rods, other weapons, and sheer brute force.
But elsewhere, the mood was very different.
On the far side of the stage, Blaise Dean was being battered back step by step. His rod clashed again and again against a bronze-ranked spear wielded by a massive boy with bulging arms and a barrel chest. Each strike rang out like thunder, the wood of the stage groaning under the force of their exchange. Sparks hissed as metal scraped against metal, the weight of the spear hammering Blaise backward.
Every impact rattled through Blaise's bones, his arms trembling from the relentless pressure. His feet skidded against the rough planks, heels digging grooves into the wood as he fought not to stumble. The edge of the stage loomed behind him like a hungry abyss, and with each step back, it grew closer, its silent threat gnawing at his mind.
The crowd leaned forward in their seats, murmurs rising as they sensed the impending fall. Some had already written him off, whispering about how his brief glory would soon be extinguished by brute force.
But Blaise's eyes burned—not with fear, but with calculation. He felt the sting of every strike, yes, but beneath the pain, his mind was whirring. He could not overpower his opponent in raw strength. The boy's barrel chest and bulging arms carried the momentum of a battering ram. Yet power without precision had cracks—Blaise only needed to find them.
His rod vibrated in his hands, the silver glint betraying its superior quality. Unknown to him, it was a weapon far above the bronze spear he faced, a weapon that could shatter it in a decisive clash. But Blaise lacked the training to wield its full potential, so he relied instead on something else: his eyes, his instincts, his will to not be cast aside again.
Step by step, he neared the brink. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, but his gaze never wavered.
The boy's laughter was cruel. "Just because you were able to defeat Natasha Mills, don't think you've become something you're not," the 14-year-old sneered, his voice sharp and venomous. His name was Eljab Ram, and his booming strikes carried the confidence of a predator sure of its kill. "You're still a worthless pauper. That scholarship from the emperor won't change your fate—you'll always be nothing."
The words stung. Blaise's breath came heavy, his heels scraping dangerously close to the ledge. He could hear the gasps of the spectators—some already writing him off.
But Blaise Dean's eyes were not those of a defeated man.
No.
He remembered the last match, when he had been nothing more than a nameless figure, dismissed so badly that the announcer hadn't even cared to call him at all, let alone properly. It was only when His Majesty himself intervened—when the emperor had ordered his name to be spoken aloud—that Blaise had seized that moment and clawed his first victory. That day, he earned not just a win, but a name.
Now, Eljab Ram sought to strip him of that fragile flame of recognition. And Blaise would not allow it.
The low level, silver rank rod in his hands trembled with energy, its quality far superior to the mid level, bronze rank spear of his opponent—but Blaise didn't know. He had no training in how to draw out its full potential. Yet raw instinct and quick observation had always been his allies. And here too, they did not fail him.
As Eljab pressed forward, Blaise's sharp eyes caught something—a tiny misstep, a lack of balance. He watched—not just the spear, not just the boy's muscles—but the way his feet moved, the way his knees bent with each lunge.
And in that moment, Blaise noticed it. The flaw. A subtle wobble in the boy's footing, a hesitation in his balance when he shifted his weight. The massive frame was intimidating, yes, but it was built on weak foundations.
Blaise's lips tightened into the faintest smile. He had found the opening.
The giant's movements were powerful, but clumsy. His knees were unstable, his footwork sloppy.
There. That was the crack.
Blaise decided to test it. He feigned a slip, a dummy movement to the left. Eljab lunged to capitalize, but in his eagerness, his stance faltered, his knees wobbling like an unsteady foundation.
That was all Blaise needed.
His silver rod snapped forward with ruthless precision, smashing directly into Eljab's knee. A loud crack rang out, followed by a strangled cry as the towering boy collapsed, unable to hold himself upright. The mighty spear clattered to the floor as his massive body swayed and fell.
Gasps tore through the crowd.
And Blaise, without hesitation, drove his rod forward one last time, knocking Eljab's sprawling body clean off the stage. The fall was hard, undignified, and absolute.
For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then the arena shook with uproar.
"Impossible! That giant… taken down by him?"
"He toppled him like a tree! Did you see that? He cut the roots first—genius!"
"This Blaise Dean… he's dangerous."
The fighters still battling on the platform suddenly gave him a wider berth, their eyes flicking toward him with wariness. He was no longer just the boy who beat Natasha Mills. He was becoming something else—someone who defied expectations, someone who turned humiliation into opportunity.
Albert had shown fury.
Blaise had shown cunning.
The stage was shifting, piece by piece, as reputations were forged in the heat of survival.