For two straight days, Tyron's fists had pounded against the trunk. He had lied to his parents just so he could dedicate himself fully to the trial. By the last day, frustrated at having achieved nothing, he began packing up his camp.
Tyron: "Hey, old man, why can't I make any progress on this task? After all the hits I've given it?"
Without even turning around, Jayden replied:
Jayden: "Old man? The hell did you just call me, you son of a sociable bitch? Look, I've got no idea where you got it in your dumb head that you could turn a trunk into a board just by beating the shit out of it. Try using some fucking common sense, short-ass."
He muttered as he walked away: "Old man? I'm only twenty-eight."
On the bus ride home, Tyron called the person who had been covering for him.
Tyron: "Hey Antonio, thanks a ton for covering for me while I was training."
Antonio: "Don't worry about it. We're even now."
Back home, Tyron thought about Jayden's answer. It didn't sound helpful at first, but after so long with him, Tyron had learned there was always something hidden—even in the insults.
"…where did you get the idea you could turn a trunk into a board just by pounding it…"
That meant he needed something new. Another way. He stared at his hand, scarred and hardened. Stronger, yes, but still not enough. His fists could bend the tree—but he needed to cut it. He mulled it over until sleep claimed him.
The next day, storm clouds loomed. It was going to be a bad one. Tyron knew it: today his ex-friends were returning. A fight was inevitable.
At school, he wandered the halls, lost in thoughts of how to cut the tree. Entering the classroom, he realized he'd have to sit beside Kiev and the others. He ignored them completely—until near the end of classes, when Kiev slung an arm over his shoulder.
Kiev: "Hey Ty. Let's let all that shit slide, huh? Just two conditions. You apologize, and after school, we give that nerd what he deserves."
He lifted his hand for a high-five.
Tyron: "I'm sorry…" (then, brushing Kiev's hand off his shoulder, staring him down) "…but before you hurt him again, you'll have to go through me."
He moved seats, closer to the board.
At dismissal, Tyron stuck by Antonio, knowing the others might strike. Between jokes and small talk, he realized they had more in common than he thought. They took a shortcut between buildings—a dangerous choice, since nobody would see them there. Tyron went first, ready to protect Antonio. Their plan was simple: if anything happened, Antonio would run no matter what.
When Antonio finally made it out of the alley, Tyron was shoved back inside. Two boys blocked the exit, while two more appeared behind him. Antonio kept his word and ran, leaving Tyron alone with four attackers: Kiev, Monguer, Soner… and a blond kid he recognized from first year of high school.
The fight started brutal. Tyron was slammed against a wall, Kiev's fist smashing into his face.
Kiev: "Well, well, Ty. What happened? Not so tough now, huh? Bet you can't hit me like last time!"
Tyron shoved him back, ready to fight—but Monguer swung a metal trash can into his face.
Monguer: "You know, I actually liked you. What a shame."
He smiled as he pounded Tyron, who fell to the ground. The blond joined in, stomping on Tyron's head. A shrill whistle rang in Tyron's ears. The two backed off, giving him a chance to breathe—only for a kick to the chest to drop him again.
Kiev grabbed him by the shirt.
Kiev: "Now it's my turn, friend. And I'm gonna enjoy every fucking second." (He punched him.)
Soner: "Let me help."
He picked up a wooden plank and smashed it into Tyron's stomach until it broke.
Rain poured down over the beating. Tyron barely felt it—the pain of every strike drowned it out. After ten minutes of punishment, they left him lying in the mud, bleeding and broken, laughing as they walked away.
He fled as soon as he could.
In the forest, soaked and trembling with rage, Tyron unleashed everything on the trunk. His fists bled, his chest heaved. Jayden appeared silently, planting a parasol to keep him dry. Tyron shoved it aside, letting the rain wash over him. He tore the bloody bandages from his hands, extended his arm, loosened his fist, and breathed deep.
A calm unlike any before settled over him. His hand became like a blade. In one swift, precise motion, he drove it through the trunk, piercing it from one side to the other. Without breaking his focus, he pulled free, sliced again, and again—cutting piece after piece, until the task was finally his.