Fredric stepped into the aren and the metal felt like ice through his thin soles. That stupid grin was stuck on his face again, the one he used when he needed to look like he wasn't scared shitless. Across the mat, Lyric was just… standing there. Not even a twitch.
'It's a good thing that I offered to fight him first. Or he would have taken on Rafael.'
Fredric shifted his weight slightly, feeling the metal beneath his feet. His expression stayed calm and confident, almost teasing. He scanned Lyric, noticing the boy's stiff posture and the faint tension in his shoulders.
'Too calm… I don't like calm.'
Lyric's expression remained blank, unreadable. He didn't even blink. The silence between them stretched, heavy enough to press against Fredric's ears. Yet, inside, he felt… ready. Thrilled, even. The arena was alive, and he loved it.
Chronos's voice cut through the tension. "Begin."
Fredric took a step. Then another. His heart was a hammer in his throat. He threw a half-assed jab, all show, pulling it back before it even got close.
Lyric didn't move. Just watched it come and go with those dead-fish eyes.
"So… you do breathe," Fredric managed, his voice tighter than he wanted.
This time, Lyric moved. It wasn't a big motion. His hand shot out, fingers stiff, and dug right into the spot above Fredric's collarbone. Fire exploded down his arm. His whole right side went numb and tingly.
"Fuck," he gasped, stumbling back. The grin finally wiped off his face.
"Problem?" Lyric's voice was quiet, almost bored.
Fredric shook out his arm, the feeling coming back in painful pins and needles. "Just getting started."
He came in again, feinting low. This time, Lyric bit. As the boy's guard dropped, Fredric changed it into a stomp forward, his boot screeching on the alloy. He got inside, close enough to smell Lyric's clean, impersonal soap, and drove a fist into his ribs.
It connected. He felt the satisfying thump.
Lyric grunted, a real sound of pain, and for a second, Fredric felt a surge of triumph. But then Lyric was spinning with the blow, his elbow whipping around like a scythe.
Fredric got his arm up just in time. The impact was so hard it vibrated his teeth. His whole forearm went dead.
They broke apart, both breathing heavy now. The perfect composure was gone. Lyric's hair was messed up. Fredric's arm felt like it was full of sand.
"Not… so… fucking… calm now," Fredric panted, his chest burning.
Lyric's eyes were different. Darker. "You talk too much."
"You don't talk enough." Fredric spat on the floor, his mouth dry. "Let's see what you've got when someone actually hits back."
Lyric's lips peeled back from his teeth. It wasn't a smile. It was a snarl. "Gladly."
The air in the arena got thick. The crowd was a distant ocean roar. Fredric's body ached, his arm was half-useless, but his blood was up. This was it. The real thing.
***
[Rafael's POV]
---------------
'So this… this is what real combat tastes like.'
It was fast. Fluid. Unforgiving. And fuck, it was exhilarating. He had to remember it. Every single detail. Every twitch. It was all data, all something he could use.
'Two months. That's all I get. Gotta make every second count.'
Rafael's eyes were wide, glued to the fight. The way Fredric circled. The way Lyric shifted his weight. It was so damn fast, but it wasn't just wild. It was precise. He could feel the tension, the quiet calculation behind every step, every feint.
'How do they even move like that?'
He was frozen, just watching. Each motion—a shift in weight, a slight turn of a shoulder—it all told a story. It was like they were reading each other's minds, predicting the next move a half-second before it happened. His own fists itched, twitching with the urge to move, to try it himself. He forced them still. Just watch. Just learn.
'I have to remember this. All of it. Every little hint. It's all a lesson.'
He swallowed, his heart thumping a ragged rhythm against his ribs. The arena didn't feel like cold metal anymore. It felt alive, a beast, and he was standing right on the edge of its jaw.
The fight kept going. Each blow echoed. Each dodge was a whisper of skill he couldn't fathom. His mind raced, trying to catch up, to understand how someone could be so… untouchable, and yet so human when you landed a hit.
'I have to think like them. See what they see. One mistake and it's over… but if I learn… maybe I could survive.'
And then he knew. He felt it in the air, a shift in pressure. This was it. The next clash. The moment the fight truly went from a dance to a demolition. His chest rose and fell fast, his eyes locked on the two figures. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't look away.
'This… this is the level I'm aiming for.' The thought was terrifying. The gap was a canyon.
The crowd's noise faded into a low, steady hum. The whole arena was holding its breath. Rafael's heart thumped in his ears, a frantic drumbeat as he tried to burn every detail into his brain—every motion, every spark flying from their boots scraping the metal.
In that suspended moment, everything narrowed, sharpened, down to one single, screaming thought: he had to survive what was coming.
The next clash was right there, hanging in the air. And Rafael knew, with a cold certainty—Fredric was ready to meet it head-on.