Round Five — the final showdown.
The air was thick with tension as Aiden stepped into the ring, his entrance met with thunderous cheers and roaring chants of his name. The crowd erupted like a wave crashing down, unified in excitement. Every eye in the arena was on him.
Jason, in contrast, entered without a sound. No applause. No chants. Just silence. Like a shadow cutting through the noise.
The announcer's voice boomed through the speakers, sharp and hyped.
"This is it — the moment you've all been waiting for! Sir Aiden vs the famous... Vortex!"
The crowd went wild again.
Jason narrowed his eyes. "Do they ever listen? I'm not Vortex..."
Aiden's voice broke through the noise, calm but laced with challenge. "Don't waste time correcting the ignorant. They came for a show — and we're going to give them one." He smirked. "I've been looking forward to this. It's a shame you're already half-dead from your last match. I'll try not to kill you too quickly."
Jason rolled his neck, blood crusted on his temple, his stance low and ready. "Don't hold back. You'll regret it."
The ring went still.
A single breath passed.
Then—
"On your mark... Get set... GO!"
The clash began instantly — a blur of movement, power, and raw fury.
Aiden moved first — a flash of precision and speed. His footwork was sharp, deliberate, like a trained blade cutting through the wind. He launched forward with a clean strike aimed at Jason's ribs.
But Jason slipped to the side effortlessly, catching Aiden's wrist mid-swing and slamming his elbow into his shoulder. The crowd gasped. Aiden staggered, surprised by Jason's speed despite his condition.
Jason didn't wait. He spun low, sweeping Aiden off his feet, then rose and delivered a harsh kick to his side before Aiden could fully hit the ground.
Aiden grunted, rolling away fast, but Jason was already on him — his expression cold, calculated. Blow after blow came down, not wild, but surgical. Jason struck where it hurt. A nerve. A weak muscle. Aiden was fast, but Jason was reading him.
The crowd started to shift, murmurs rising. Is Vortex actually going to win?
Aiden smirked through a bruised lip. "Not bad…"
Jason didn't reply — he just advanced again. A straight punch aimed at Aiden's throat — but this time, Aiden caught his fist.
Something shifted.
Aiden's expression hardened. His other hand drove into Jason's stomach with a brutal uppercut, knocking the wind out of him. Jason staggered — the first real blow he'd taken.
"Now…" Aiden's tone dropped, deadly. "My turn."
And then he unleashed hell.
He struck faster now — more vicious. Jason tried to block, but the force behind Aiden's fists were heavier than before. Each blow landed harder, targeting the bruises from Jason's earlier fight. His ribs. His side. His already-injured shoulder.
Jason was pushed back, his breath ragged. The momentum was shifting fast — too fast.
Aiden's foot cracked against his temple, sending him crashing to the floor.
"Come on." Aiden said, stepping closer. "I know you're not done yet."
Jason slowly pushed himself up, blood dripping down his face, chest heaving. His fingers curled into a fist.
"Neither are you."
Jason surged forward like a bullet—no warning, no hesitation. Aiden barely raised his guard in time before a flurry of punches slammed into him. Left, right, elbow—Jason's strikes were sharp and brutal, each one landing with sickening speed.
Aiden blocked the first few, but Jason was relentless.
He ducked low and swept his leg toward Aiden's knees—Aiden jumped, but Jason was already mid-air, twisting behind him, slamming his knee into Aiden's spine as he landed.
The crowd exploded.
Jason didn't stop. He moved like a machine—eyes sharp, breathing steady despite the blood smeared across his face. His fists were a blur—targeting the gaps in Aiden's guard with surgical precision.
Aiden backpedaled, gritting his teeth, arms up to shield his face and chest as Jason rained down blow after blow. A punch to the ribs. A palm to the throat. A spinning backhand that split the skin near Aiden's brow.
Aiden staggered—his eyes wide.
Jason stepped in, grabbed his collar, and drove his knee into his stomach.
Again.
And again.
Aiden gasped, the air leaving his lungs.
Then Jason pushed him back with a solid kick to the chest—Aiden skidded across the ring, barely keeping his footing.
The crowd was screaming now.
Jason, breathing hard but steady, lowered into a stance again—his eyes locked on Aiden like a predator giving no room to breathe.
"This isn't over," he said coldly. "Get up."
Aiden rose slowly, cracking his neck as blood trickled from the corner of his lip. "For someone your age… you fight like a man who's seen war."
Jason wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes cold. "I learned from the best. Let's finish this."
They circled.
Then—without warning—both launched forward at once.
Their fists collided mid-air.
Elbows met elbows. Knees clashed. Parry for parry. Blow for blow. They moved in perfect sync—two storms colliding with mirrored fury. Their footwork, timing, and precision were identical—too identical.
The crowd went quiet, murmurs rippling through the arena.
Even the announcer sounded rattled: "What in the world… it's like one's copying the other move for move!"
But Jason wasn't copying.
Aiden's eyes narrowed. "That stance… that pivot… no. No way." His heartbeat spiked. "Those are my techniques."
Jason said nothing. Unfazed. He held his stance again—dead calm.
Aiden snapped, "Where the hell did you learn that?!"
Jason responded without blinking. "My mentor."
Aiden's voice dropped to a growl. "Name."
Jason gave a cold smirk. "You're not important enough to know."
The two lunged again—Jason's attack came fast, nearly catching Aiden off guard. Fist to ribs. Elbow to temple. A spin-kick that Aiden barely ducked.
But mid-kick, Jason grimaced—his shoulder locking up with a sharp jolt of pain. He landed hard, gripping it.
Still… his eyes never left Aiden.
"You're hurting," Aiden noted, stepping forward.
Jason steadied his breathing. "Doesn't matter."
Aiden smirked. "Tell you what. Beat me… and I'll let you and your friend walk free."
Jason raised a brow. "You don't call the shots. What would your boss say?"
"That's my problem, not yours." Aiden's tone dropped, deadly calm. "But if I win—you give me your mentor's name."
Jason didn't hesitate. "Deal."
But he wasn't waiting for permission.
The word "Deal" was still on his lips when Jason exploded forward, driving his fist toward Aiden's face—shoulder pain be damned. His eyes burned—not with anger, but focus.
This was more than a fight now. It was personal.
A legacy clash.
Aiden intercepted Jason mid-air with a brutal grip, slamming him down halfway through his strike. The ground cracked beneath Jason's back as dust shot up around them.
Aiden leaned down, eyes sharp. "Looks like your mentor forgot to teach you the final technique for those moves let me show you."
As Jason struggled to push himself up, Aiden exhaled slowly, his stance shifting—calculated, lethal. The crowd fell into a hush as Aiden's foot slid back and his fingers curled into a stance no one had seen before.
"Final Form: I call it Veil Breaker."
In a blur, he vanished from sight—reappearing behind Jason mid-turn. With a sharp twist, Aiden delivered a devastating spin-kick to Jason's ribs, launching him into the air. Before Jason could hit the ground, Aiden flashed forward again, driving a knee into his back and slamming him down hard, cracking the arena floor.
Dust and silence.
Aiden raised his hand for the final blow—a precise strike to the neck—but stopped just inches away. Jason, bloodied and barely conscious, stared up at him, defiant.
Aiden's eyes narrowed. "…You're still standing in spirit so tell me what is the name of your mentor."
Jason looked away, his voice low but firm.
"…Simon."
Aiden froze. His confident expression wavered—cracks forming in the calm mask he wore.
"Simon…?" he echoed, almost in disbelief. Then, softer—choked—"…My Simon?"
His eyes widened, and for the first time, real emotion surfaced. His breath hitched, and tears began to well up.
Jason noticed, stunned. He hadn't expected a reaction—let alone this.
Aiden staggered back a step, whispering as if trying to make sense of it all.
"If Simon trained you… then… you're Jason. His Jason."
The arena felt heavier than ever—no cheers, no sounds—just two men caught in the shadows of a shared past.
Aiden's voice cut through the silence of the cell:
"I forfeit."
The announcer blinked. "Wait… what?"
"I said I forfeit," Aiden repeated, his tone sharp and final. He didn't even glance back as he stepped out of the ring.
The arena was stunned. No one spoke—no cheers, no gasps—just silence broken by the announcer's reluctant voice.
"And… the winner is… Vortex team."
A hesitant wave of claps echoed, forced and confused.
Later, back in the cold concrete cell, Jason sat in the shadows beside an unconscious Brandon, lost in thought—mind replaying every second of the match. The silence was thick… until the cell door creaked open.
Jason stood instantly, body tense and ready. But when he saw who entered, he didn't lower his guard.
"…What do you want?"
Aiden stepped forward, calm but unreadable. "You have questions. That's fine. But answers—start with this."
He tossed something to Jason. Jason caught it—instinctively—and opened the small pendant. His breath caught in his throat.
Inside was a faded photo: Aiden, a younger Simon… and a woman.
Jason stared at it. "That's…"
"Yes," Aiden said quietly. "Simon's mother."
Jason's hands tightened around the pendant. "But… she's…"
"She's not from here. But Simon was born here." Aiden's voice dropped, eyes dark with memory. "Simon… was Mr. Hugh's first son. Illegitimate. Hidden. Just like Liam."
Jason's eyes widened. "Simon… was his son?"
Aiden nodded. "Born from the boss's first affair. She came here during the war—seeking refuge. They hid in the capital. When Mr. Hugh learned of Simon, he refused to claim him. Said the boy would only weaken his bloodline."
But they didn't stop. Day after day, relentless, until one stormy afternoon changed everything...
Flashback:
Mr. Hugh stormed outside, dragging Simon's mother with a cold fury.
"I told you—never show your face here again! Take yourself and that child out of my sight, or I'll call the cops."
Simon's mother stood her ground, voice trembling but defiant.
"And what will you tell them? That your wife and son came seeking refuge, and you threw them out like dirt?"
Inside, unaware of the chaos, Mr. Hugh's wife called softly, "Honey, come inside. It's pouring out here. Hannah wants to see you."
"I'm finishing this first," Mr. Hugh snapped back. Then, turning to Simon's mother, his voice hardened like steel:
"You were never my wife, and that boy isn't my son. Take them both and get out."
He yanked her arm harshly, forcing her to the ground. Pain shot through her eyes as she screamed, clutching her face. Simon rushed to her side, panic in his voice,
"Manman, ou byen?"
She gritted her teeth, bloodied but steady, "Mwen byen."
Mr. Hugh sneered, disgust twisting his face.
"Get away from my house, and never come back, you parasites."
He threw money at them, careless of the rain soaking the bills. Simon reached out to grab it, but his mother stopped him,
"Lévé sa, lévé sa, pa bizwen ou kouté sa."
Simon protested, but she stood firm and nodded,
"Ann alè."
From that day forward, she never returned to the mansion. But Simon... he kept coming back, in secret.
He made allies within those walls—Sir Aiden, the butler—who understood who he really was. When Mr. Hugh wasn't around, the butler snuck him in and cooked meals worthy of kings. And when the butler was away, he taught Simon to prepare his favorite dish—bouyon fig—through a song, the only way Simon could learn without knowing much English.
The song went like this:
An la kwizin, kòmansé show,
Péyé fig, pran'y dousman.
Koup'y prop, jété dwat,
Kuit'y mol, pa twò fè.
Bouyon fig, sèl é steam,
Manjé senp, mé santi kon rèv.
Sir Aiden often took time to teach Simon how to fight. "This world's a dangerous place," he'd say. "You gotta learn how to protect yourself—and your mother." Simon caught on fast, his moves sharp and quick.
One day, on his 18th birthday, Simon invited Sir Aiden and the butler to celebrate at his house. The butler was tied up with work, but Aiden had the time and followed him inside.
Simon's mother was busy setting up when she caught sight of Aiden entering. Instantly, her hand went to a knife. "What're you doing here?" she snapped, eyes sharp.
Simon rushed forward, calming her. "Mamman, it's okay. He's a friend."
Her surprise was clear. "Simon? Since when can you speak English?"
Simon just shrugged, grinning. "Wanted to surprise you. It's my birthday, after all."
Before he could react, he got a sharp smack on the back of the head.
"You idiot! I'm not the one who's supposed to be surprised."
Simon laughed it off, then proudly showed off a few moves Aiden had taught him. But when he accidentally kicked the table, his mother smacked him again with a sharp warning, "Ou idiot gason! Alé get onwè dlo pou onwè lót moun."
Simon dashed off, and once he was gone, his mother lowered the knife and smiled softly at Aiden. "Thanks for spending time teaching him."
Aiden smiled back. "It was nothing. I figured he'd need it one day."
That night, the three of them celebrated Simon's birthday with laughter, claps, and songs. Simon danced like he owned the world. When it was time for pictures, Simon set the camera, positioning his mother on one side, Aiden on the other, and himself in the middle—capturing a rare moment of family and hope.
Aiden had become a regular at Simon's apartment. He helped where he could—fixing broken things, lifting heavy buckets, even trying to cook, though he always ended up burning something. They'd laugh it off every time. It felt like peace.
But one night, his phone buzzed.
It was Simon's mother.
Her voice was soft but firm. "I called because... I wanted to thank you. For everything. For being there for Simon, and for me. I meant to say this in person, but I'm not good with words when it matters. So... here I am."
Aiden said nothing, just listened.
"We were supposed to leave next week, but... I'm taking Simon and we're leaving tomorrow. For good. No goodbye. No coming back."
He sat up straighter. "Does Simon know?"
"He does," she said after a pause. "He didn't like it. Said we were abandoning you. That you'd be left here, all alone." Her laugh was weak. "But I told him it was for the best, and... he agreed."
Aiden's heart sank.
"I was hoping you'd come to the airport tomorrow. You're the only person Simon ever called family besides me. Will you see him off?"
He swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. "Of course I will... Is Simon there?"
She glanced around. "No... he said he was stepping out, but didn't say where—"
As if on cue, Aiden looked through the window and saw Simon in the distance, standing in the Hugh compound.
"I think I know," Aiden said. "I'll call you back."
He ended the call and rushed down the steps toward Simon.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Aiden hissed. "Mr. Hugh is inside! If he sees you—"
"I know," Simon said, voice steady. "That's why I came. I want to see him. One last time."
Aiden's eyes narrowed. "You know that's suicide."
Simon met his gaze without flinching. "Please. Just once. A quiet room. Just him and me. I'll be gone tomorrow. I won't get another chance."
Aiden hesitated. He looked at the boy—no, the young man standing before him. Calm. Resolute. Like someone ready to face a storm without flinching.
"…His private quarters. No one goes there. I can sneak you in," Aiden said at last. "But once you're inside, it's all on you."
Simon nodded. "That's all I need."
And with that, they disappeared into the mansion shadows.