# Chapter 105: The Hood Falls
The whistle hadn't finished screaming before the ground under Zerav's boots blew apart.
No mana. No spell. Just muscle.
He crossed the ring in a heartbeat. Sand tore up behind him and spattered the chalk border as his shoulders rolled forward and his whole frame committed to a single straight right, aimed at Silas's chest.
That kind of punch doesn't bruise. It caves ribs.
Silas didn't dodge. He stepped in and snapped his left forearm against the inside of Zerav's elbow, knocking the strike off line a half-second before it reached full speed.
*CRACK!*
Bone hit bone with a flat, ugly sound, and the front row flinched.
Silas wasn't reinforcing his body. No mana hardened his skin and none rooted his stance, so there was nothing to hold Zerav's weight back. It ran through his forearm, his spine, and down into his legs.
His boots gave way.
They carved two trenches through the sand as he slid back three full feet and stopped, dust hanging where he had stood.
One second of silence. Then Ring Seven exploded.
"No magic, and he moved Silas three feet!"
"He's physical strength is insane! ?"
At the chalk line, Edward didn't move. His arms stayed crossed, but his eyes narrowed. In all his years he had never seen someone choose to take a hit like that.
Zerav grinned, wide and feral.
"That's it," he growled. "Don't you dare give me a soft target."
He didn't give Silas a chance to reset.
A wide left hook swung in, aimed at the liver. Silas dropped his weight an inch and the fist hissed past, close enough to stir the fabric of his tunic. The right came over the top before the miss had registered, a heavy overhand cross aimed at the point of his jaw.
Silas threw both forearms up in a tight cross-guard.
*BOOM!*
This one landed like a falling anvil. His knees dipped a finger's width and he skidded two feet, sand spraying against the border. Chalk clouded around his ankles.
But his back stayed straight. His breathing never changed.
And in the shadow of his hood, two points of light came on.
Deep crimson, cold and steady, they tracked every twitch of Zerav's shoulders and every flex of his calves before the next strike could form.
"He's sliding with the hits," Lyra murmured at the ropes, eyes wide. "Is he turning Zerav's raw power into distance."
Zerav felt it too. He was landing heavy blows and driving Silas around the ring like a ragdoll, and still it felt like punching an iron weight wrapped in silk. Every hit seemed to teach his opponent something.
So he stopped playing at range.
"Fight back!" he roared. It wasn't excitement now. It was an order.
He dropped low and drove in, arms spearing under Silas's, shoulder jamming into his ribs, hips sliding beneath his center of gravity.
He heaved.
Silas left the ground. Zerav lifted him clean over his head, boots dangling above the sand, and the crowd screamed. Everyone saw what came next: Silas driven spine-first into the packed earth, a slam that would end the bout and be talked about for a week.
Hanging upside down, Silas stayed calm.
He didn't fight the lift. He used it.
As Zerav pulled him down, Silas drove his left knee hard into Zerav's chest. The shock broke the other boy's grip, and Zerav's arms jerked wide.
Silas planted his right hand on Zerav's shoulder and pushed off, vaulting over him in a tight arc.
Zerav's fingers snatched at the air and caught a fistful of cloth.
The hood on Silas came down from his head, letting his hair go free.
Silas landed lightly behind him, a few paces off, without a roll or a stumble, bare boots settling on the sand. Zerav's hands slammed into empty ground where a spine should have been, and the impact boomed across the court.
Silence fell over the grounds, so complete that the banners could be heard snapping in the wind.
Silver-white hair stirred in the breeze. His pale face looked cut from glass and carried no expression at all. And in it burned two crimson eyes, blazing and steady. They didn't look like they wanted to win a duel. They looked like they wanted to burn the whole ring down.
Zerav pushed himself up and wiped sand from his chin with the back of one hand. He turned slowly, chest heaving.
When his eyes met that unmasked stare, the frustration drained out of him.
A low, shuddering laugh broke from his chest. It wasn't mocking. It was hunger.
He dropped into a tighter stance, hands up and chin tucked.
"Now," Zerav whispered, and his own eyes lit with the same wild light, "we're actually fighting."