The arena was silent.
Not the usual hush of anticipation, but something deeper—a held breath, a weight pressing down on every spectator as the final two combatants stepped into the ring.
Cassian Veyne. The mimic who had dismantled every opponent with terrifying precision.
Kenneth Prince. The enigma who fought like a man holding back a hurricane.
Master Rhelgar didn't bother with introductions. He simply raised a hand.
"Begin."
---
Cassian struck first—not with a copied ability, but with pure, unadorned speed. A testing jab aimed at Kenneth's ribs.
Kenneth deflected it effortlessly, countering with a sharp elbow that Cassian barely dodged.
The crowd murmured.
This wasn't like Cassian's other fights. There was no flamboyant copying, no psychological games.
Just two predators circling.
Cassian feinted left, then swung low—Kenneth caught his wrist, twisting hard enough to make bones creak. Cassian didn't flinch. Instead, he pulled, using Kenneth's grip as leverage to drive a knee toward his stomach.
Kenneth released him and sidestepped, but not fast enough. The knee grazed his side, drawing a hiss.
First blood.
Cassian's gold-flecked eyes gleamed. "You're holding back."
Kenneth adjusted his stance. "So are you."
---
Cassian darted in again—this time, his fingers brushed Kenneth's forearm as he blocked.
Nothing happened.
No phantom limbs. No stolen fire.
Kenneth didn't react, but Cassian's brow furrowed slightly.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Then he attacked in earnest.
A flurry of blows, each one mirroring Kenneth's own style—the precise angles, the calculated shifts in weight. It was like fighting a shadow that had memorized every move.
Kenneth blocked, countered, but Cassian anticipated each strike, adapting faster than should have been possible.
Because he wasn't just copying.
He was learning.
---
Kenneth feinted high, then swept Cassian's legs out from under him. Cassian hit the mat hard but rolled with the impact, springing back up—
—just in time to catch Kenneth's fist mid-swing.
Their eyes locked.
Cassian's grip tightened. "You're not using your fire."
Kenneth didn't answer. He wrenched free and struck again, this time aiming for Cassian's solar plexus.
Cassian twisted, but not fast enough. The blow landed, driving the air from his lungs. He staggered back, coughing—
—then smiled.
"Fine. Let's make it fair."
He raised his hands in a mock surrender.
And stopped copying.
---
What followed was a masterclass in combat.
No abilities. No tricks.
Just two fighters stripped to their essence.
Kenneth's strikes were like tempered steel—controlled, relentless, each movement honed through years of survival.
Cassian's were fluid, adaptable, as if he could rewrite his own muscle memory on the fly.
The crowd was silent, hypnotized.
Even Master Rhelgar leaned forward, his scarred fingers steepled.
Then—
Cassian misstepped.
A fraction of an inch, barely noticeable.
Kenneth didn't hesitate.
His fist connected with Cassian's jaw, snapping his head back.
Cassian hit the ground hard.
For a heartbeat, the arena held its breath.
Then Cassian laughed, wiping blood from his lip.
"Finally."
The referee stepped forward.
"End of round one. Combatants, regroup."
---
Kenneth turned away, his breathing steady but his mind racing.
Cassian hadn't been trying to win.
He'd been testing him.
And worse?
Kenneth had let him.