The bell rang, and Elara exploded forward with blinding speed. His movement was so sharp that Pragyan's eyes widened in shock.
"What? No way… he's coming so fast—"
Before the thought finished, Elara was already in front of him. A crushing punch slammed into Pragyan's stomach.
"Wahhhh… this punch… it's more painful than I ever imagined!" Pragyan gasped, his body folding under the force.
Elara didn't relent. Another fist cracked against Pragyan's face, sending him staggering. The rookie reeled, unable to recover, his arms instinctively crossing to shield himself. He managed a cross-arm defense, but Elara's fists hammered relentlessly, each strike carrying brute force.
Pragyan gritted his teeth, his body trembling under the barrage. "I can't hold much longer… every punch feels like 700 psi of force. No wonder he's the champion."
Elara's relentless assault drove Pragyan backward, step by step, until his back touched the ropes. The crowd roared as Elara pushed him toward the edge, his dominance absolute.
But then the referee stepped in, raising his voice. "Stop it! Stop it! The time for the first round is over. Go to your corners now!"
The fighters separated. Elara turned, his eyes locked on Pragyan, his expression twisted with arrogance and anger. His stare pierced like a blade, as if mocking the rookie's resistance.
Pragyan, panting, wiped blood from his lip. His thoughts burned with defiance. "Why is he looking at me like that? Is he saying I can't stop him? How dare you, Elara…"
The crowd buzzed with excitement. The champion had shown his power, but the rookie had not fallen. The battle lines were drawn — arrogance against defiance, dominance against resilience.
The bell rang for the second round. Pragyan surged forward, determination burning in his eyes. He unleashed a flurry of punches, his fists cutting through the air in rapid succession.
But Elara moved like water — slipping, weaving, dodging each strike with effortless grace.
Pragyan's frustration grew. "I can't touch him… ahh, it's so annoying! I want to win this match no matter what. I have to move my fists faster!"
His speed increased, his punches sharper than before. For the first time, Elara's eyes widened slightly, impressed. "Hey kid, you've improved your speed before I even attacked. I'm amazed… but remember, you'll never land a single punch on me."
With a sudden motion, Elara's hand chopped down onto Pragyan's trapezius muscle.
"Wahhhh…!" Pragyan cried out, collapsing to the canvas, pain shooting through his body.
Elara stepped back, smirking, his arrogance unshaken. "As usual… I won the match after all."
Pragyan lay on the ground, his vision fading, his body refusing to rise. The referee's voice echoed through the stadium. "1… 2…"
Pragyan's thoughts swirled in despair. "I never thought I would lose like this. He's amazing… every move he makes is a class of its own. Now I understand why he's the champion. He deserves to win… I think I'm done."
The crowd roared, sensing the end. Elara stood tall, basking in the glory, while Pragyan's spirit teetered on the edge of surrender.
Pragyan lay sprawled on the canvas, his body trembling, his breath shallow. The referee's countdown echoed in the stadium, but his mind was louder than the crowd.
"I worked hard for this tournament. I endured pain for this tournament. I paid the price — I lost my job, I lost everything. But I made a commitment to martial arts. Everyone thought I was a fool for choosing this path over cricket, football, the games of fame. They only chase popularity, girls, money. But I rejected all of that… because I love this passion. And now… everything is slipping away from me."
His eyes blurred with tears, his fists weak against the mat.
From the other side of the stage, Veera's voice cut through the noise, sharp and desperate. "Come on, bro! Wake up! Don't embarrass me in front of everyone. Show me what you've got!"
Pragyan's lips trembled, his voice breaking. "You're the only one encouraging me… but I can't lift my body. I think… I lost."
His cry was raw, filled with despair. The crowd roared for Elara, but in that moment, the stadium felt silent to Pragyan. His dream, his sacrifice, his passion — all seemed to crumble beneath him.
Yet Veera's words lingered, echoing like a spark in the darkness.
Pragyan lay broken on the canvas, his tears mixing with sweat, the referee's countdown echoing in his ears. His spirit wavered, his dream slipping away.
Then, suddenly, a strange voice pierced through the noise.
"Hey! What's up, kid? Wake up. Stop crying while lying on the ground. You feel pain, right? Then fight back against him. Show a little bite of dog. You're the only one who can knock him out. Wake up! Show your willpower to this world. Control your anger — convert it into energy. Do it for yourself. No one will cry for you."
Pragyan's eyes widened, his heart stirred. "Did someone… say that I will knock Elara?"
He turned his head toward the opposite side of the ring. His breath caught.
"He's back…"
Standing tall, watching with piercing eyes, was none other than Karikalan — the warrior who had trained through pain and burden, who had climbed the temple steps with buckets of water, who had endured beyond human limits. Beside him stood Richard, his loyal companion.
The crowd gasped, whispers spreading like wildfire. Karikalan's presence was undeniable, his aura radiating strength and defiance.
Pragyan's trembling fists clenched. His despair began to fade, replaced by a spark of fire. The voice of his mentor echoed in his mind, louder than the boos, stronger than the pain.
The countdown continued. "6… 7…"
Pragyan's body stirred. His eyes burned with new resolve
The referee's voice thundered through the stadium. "8… 9…"
Pragyan lay broken, his body trembling, his spirit fading. Then Karikalan's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and merciless.
"I have confidence in you, kid. Find the way. Do your best and knock him down. You've put in the hard work — why are you refraining now? Are you afraid of losing? Did you accept defeat so fast? Defeat is only an option. People will mock you for three or four days, then forget. Think of them as illusions trying to stop you. Focus on the match now… or are you just a whiny little punk?"
Pragyan's eyes snapped open, fury igniting in his chest. "Did he just call me a punk? No… I am not a punk. I'll show them. I have the power to defeat him!"
His fists clenched, his body shook. "Ahhhh… ahhhh!" he roared, forcing his trembling frame upward.
Across the ring, Elara's smirk faltered. His eyes narrowed in disbelief. "What? He's trying to get up from my attack? No way! Don't get up, you scumbag. Lie down!"
But Karikalan's voice rose again, fierce and unyielding. "Trespass the domain of pain. Use that power to conquer Elara. No matter what happens — whether you win or lose — think only of the match, not the future. You will be the best… or you will be nothing. Do it, Pragyan!"
The referee's hand hovered, ready to call the match. "10—"
Suddenly, Pragyan screamed, his voice echoing through the stadium. "I will win this match! I am not done yet!"
With trembling legs and blood dripping from his wounds, Pragyan rose, staggering back into the ring. The crowd gasped, the atmosphere electrified. The rookie had defied defeat.