Harry dodged it. Then hit him with his fist.Newton'us nose shifted.

  Harry fought with his natural strength. The tactics Master Kangfu had taught him were helpful. He allowed some strikes to land, small ones, just enough to sell the story. Knuckles brushed his ribs. A knee clipped his thigh. Each hit burned, but he let his body sway, letting the crowd think it was costing him more than it was.

  Newton came in hard, over and over. His fists cut through the air like blades. His boots dug deep into the sand. He fought with anger, the kind that doesn’t care if it bleeds as long as it draws blood too.

  Harry kept stepping aside by inches. Not clean dodges. Never clean. He slipped just late enough to make it look like luck. He raised his arms a breath too slow so the blows thudded into muscle instead of bone. Pain flared. He welcomed it. The pain was loud. Pain was convincing.

  The seven masters watched. Harry could almost feel their eyes like hands on his back. Newton rushed him again, roaring as he threw a wide hook. Harry ducked and let the fist graze his cheek. Skin split. Warm blood slid down his jaw. The crowd gasped. Someone shouted.

  Newton grinned.

  “There you are,” he said, breath heavy. “You bleed like every bastard out there.” Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and tasted iron. He didn’t answer. He stepped in and drove his shoulder into Newton’s chest. Not with divine force. Just weight, timing, leverage. Newton stumbled back two steps, surprised.

  They traded blows. Fists cracked against ribs. Elbows slammed into arms. Newton was strong. Stronger than most in level one. But his movements were wide. Predictable. Every strike came with a breath. Every breath came with a rhythm.

  Harry listened to it. He slipped left when Newton inhaled. He struck when Newton exhaled. A jab to the throat. A knee to the stomach. A twist of the wrist that made Newton hiss through clenched teeth.

  Still, Harry let himself fall once. Newton caught him with a lucky swing. Harry went down on one knee, sand biting into his skin. The arena roared. From the corner of his eye, he saw Master Kangfu’s hand tighten inside his sleeve.

  Harry stayed there for half a second longer than he needed to. Then he rose. Newton charged, thinking the moment had come. Harry pivoted and swept his leg. Newton crashed onto his back, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Harry was on him in a blink, pinning his arm, twisting until Newton cried out.

  “Yield,” Harry said softly. Newton spat sand. “Never.” Harry struck him once. Just once. Hard enough to end it. Newton went still.

  The gong sounded. “Harry Jones wins,” Master Kangfu announced, his voice steady. “

  The crowd erupted. Some cheered. Some whispered. Some stared like they had seen something they could not name.

  The monks dragged Newton away, his head lolling, his chest still rising and falling. Harry stepped back to the edge of the ring, wiping sweat from his brow. His rubber-covered left hand throbbed under the disguise. He kept it still.

  Up above, the seven supreme masters leaned toward one another. “He didn’t fight with that unnatural strength like last time,” Master Caldwell murmured, his eyes sharp.

  “Maybe he required a tougher opponent,” Master Ferdinand replied, fingers tapping against his armrest. Master Frederick said nothing. He was watching Harry like a hawk watches a mouse.

  Harry climbed out of the ring. As he walked back toward the student section, the Astania boys shifted out of his way. No one met his eyes. Even the ones who once mocked him now looked as if they weren’t sure whether to bow or run.

  He found Master Kangfu waiting by the pillar near the arena wall. “You did well,” Kangfu said quietly, not looking at him.

  Harry exhaled. His ribs ached. His cheek throbbed. “They were watching.”

  “They always are,” Kangfu replied. “You gave them just enough.”

  “Did I?” Harry asked. Kangfu’s eyes flicked toward the masters. “We will know soon.”

  The next day, other names were called. Fights followed. Blood stained the sand. Cries echoed off stone. Some students left the arena walking. Others were carried.

  Harry stayed where he was, hands clenched at his sides. Every time a blow landed somewhere in the ring, his body reacted like it was his own. When the last fight of the tag ended, Master Kangfu raised his hand.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  “Fight two,” he announced. “Kelvin Rood of Iron Hill, against Peter Vane of Silver Coast.” Another roar. Another clash. Harry barely heard it.

  He could feel it again. That low hum in his left arm. A whisper under his skin. The God Hand was restless, like it had tasted blood and wanted more. He pressed his fingers into his palm, slow, deliberate. Calm. That was what Kangfu had taught him. Breathe. Let it pass.

  But the arena was loud. Energy pulsed through the air, raw and wild. Fighters were pushing themselves past limits. Every scream, every impact, fed the thing inside him. Master Kangfu saw him and gestured calm.

  Harry nodded, though his jaw was tight. Kelvin slammed Peter into the ground. The sound was sickening. The crowd went silent for a heartbeat.

  The fight ended with a dull crack of knuckles against ribs and the soft grunt of a boy being thrown to the mat.

  Harry got in once again. He went the same way as the last. Harry stepped back, chest rising and falling, sweat sliding down his temples. The crowd’s roar came in waves, but he barely heard it. His eyes stayed on the fallen fighter until Master Kangfu declared him winner.

  Another win. Four in a row.

  He left the ring without looking at the body on the floor. That was part of it too. Never linger. Never let them see anything more than what you chose to show.

  Around the arena, the seven Masters sat high above the fighters, robed figures behind a low stone railing. Their eyes followed every movement, every breath, every misstep. Harry could feel their gaze on his back even when he wasn’t looking.

  They had noticed him six months ago, when he had crushed Andy with a single strike that shouldn’t have been possible.

  They were still waiting to see it again. So far, he had not given it to them. Each fight followed the same quiet rhythm. He let the other fighter come first. He took a few hits, just enough to make it look even. Then, when their breathing changed, when their shoulders dropped by the tiniest fraction, he moved.

  Fast. Precise. And then, the match is over. It was like walking on a thin wire. Win too easily and you draw eyes. Struggle too much and you risk losing for real. He stayed in the narrow space between.

  After the fourth fight, Harry slipped into the training yard behind the arena. The noise of the crowd faded, replaced by the dry sound of fists striking wood and the soft scuff of feet on sand.

  He moved through forms, slow and deliberate, muscles burning in that familiar, steady way. Sweat darkened the collar of his tunic. His breath stayed even.

  A shadow fell across him. “You are still training?” Harry turned. Master Kangfu stood at the edge of the yard, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes sharp as ever.

  Harry nodded. “My next fight is tomorrow.”

  “You have already done enough,” Kangfu said. Harry went back to his stance. “Enough is not what I need.”

  Kangfu walked closer. The sand barely shifted beneath his steps. “You have to lose your last fight.”

  Harry froze.

  The words hung there, wrong and heavy. “Why is that?” Harry asked. His voice came out flat.

  Kangfu studied him for a moment, as if measuring something invisible. Then a thin smile touched his lips. “You already have enough points to proceed to the next level.”

  “I need all five combats to proceed unconditionally,” Harry said. His fists tightened. “That was the deal.”

  Kangfu moved closer still, until Harry could smell the faint herbs on his robes. “Conditionally or not, you will proceed. But I need them to believe you only got through by luck. Not talent. Not power.”

  Harry looked past him, toward the arena where the Masters waited. “You want me to look weak.”

  “I want you to look ordinary,” Kangfu replied. “Those are two different things.” Harry’s jaw worked. “And if I lose on purpose and it goes wrong?”

  Kangfu’s eyes flickered. “It will not.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Finally, Harry nodded. “Alright. I am only doing this because of you.” Kangfu gave a small, approving dip of his head and turned away.

  The next day, When the fifth fight was announced, the air inside the arena shifted. People leaned forward, eager. Harry had become a quiet favorite. Four wins had a way of doing that.

  His opponent stepped onto the sand.

  Ella. She was smaller than most of the fighters he had faced. Lighter on her feet, hair pulled back tight, eyes bright and alert. The crowd murmured, already deciding how it would go.

  Harry felt it too. The assumption. The ease. They bowed to each other. The gong sounded. Ella moved first. She was fast. Faster than the last three he had faced. Her fist snapped toward his face and he leaned just enough to let it brush his cheek. The sting flared, sharp and real.

  Good, he thought. That helps. He countered with a lazy jab that she slipped under, her footwork carrying her to his side. Her elbow drove into his ribs.

  Pain bloomed. The crowd made a pleased sound. Harry staggered back a step, letting his shoulders dip, letting his balance look off. Ella did not hesitate. She came in again, a flurry of short, sharp strikes.

  Harry blocked some. Let others through. Her knuckles cracked against his jaw. His head snapped to the side. For a moment, the world rang.

  Easy, he told himself. Not too much. He swung at her, wide and slow on purpose. She ducked it, eyes narrowing as if something didn’t quite fit.

  Their bodies collided. He felt the strength in her, coiled and ready. For half a heartbeat, instinct screamed at him to release, to end it.

  He didn’t. He pushed her back, not hard enough to throw her, just enough to look clumsy.

  Ella’s foot lashed out, catching his thigh. His leg buckled and he dropped to one knee. The crowd gasped. He forced himself to stay there a fraction longer than necessary before rising. He could feel the Masters watching. He could almost feel their judgment shifting.

  Ella’s breathing was quick now, her eyes sharp. She came at him again, but this time Harry moved, really moved. Just for a moment. He slipped inside her guard and tapped her shoulder with his knuckles, a strike that could have shattered bone if he’d let it.

  She froze, eyes wide. He stepped back and let his guard drop. Confusion flickered across her face, then anger.

  She charged. Her fist slammed into his chest. He let it push him back. Another strike caught his shoulder. Another his side. He stumbled, sand spraying beneath his feet.

  People were shouting now. Some in excitement. Some in disbelief. Ella drove forward, relentless. Harry saw an opening. A clean one. A straight path to end it. But he turned away from it.

  Her palm struck his sternum and he fell hard onto his back. The impact knocked the air from his lungs. For a second, all he could see was the sky above the arena, pale and empty.

  “Get up!” someone shouted. Harry lay still. He could feel the ground beneath him, the grit in his hair, the dull ache spreading through his body. It would be so easy to roll, to rise, to take control.

  But be didn’t. The master's count echoed, each number like a slow hammer. Ella stood a few steps away, chest heaving, eyes locked on him as if she didn’t quite believe it either.

  The count reached ten. “Ella wins,” Master Kangfu’s voice boomed across the arena. The sound of it was final. Heavy.

  Harry stayed down for a moment longer before sitting up. The sand clung to his clothes. His head rang. Somewhere high above, he knew the Masters were looking at him differently now.

  He did not look at them. Ella walked past him, her face flushed, her expression a mix of triumph and something like doubt. Harry rose and left the ring.

  Up in the stands, the seven Masters leaned toward each other. “The boy is not special,” Master Cardwell said at last. “Just a lucky strike six months ago,” Master Frederick added, his mouth tight.

  Their attention drifted, already moving on. Below, Harry stood among the other fighters as the names were called. “Harry Jones of Astania,” a voice rang out. “Proceeds to level two with a condition.”

  A small smile touched Harry’s lips. From the shadows near the edge of the arena, Master Kangfu watched him, unease flickering across his face

  He knew what was coming. Out there, without his eyes on him, the game would become much more dangerous. Harry risk being exposed.