It stung. Not the kind of sting that fades
away after a while, but the kind that digs deep and sits heavy in your chest. I
sat there watching Henry and Zoë shuffle off the track with their heads down, while the Ashmoore squad celebrated like they'd won the whole damn tournament. My stomach twisted as I looked on in envy. We'd fought and clawed our way this far…and just like that, it was over. What made it worse was that I hadn't even done anything. I'd been preparing like a madman, sitting on the sidelines waiting for my turn. And now here I was, reduced to a spectator in what was supposed to be our story. My story. The rest
of the team had bled out there, but me? Nothing. Just another face in the crowd.
Ms. Flores got a message on her phone and stood up suddenly, walking across the track. At first, I thought maybe she was
storming off in frustration, but she was actually headed toward the Ashmoore squad. She walked right up to their chaperones and shook their hands, even
smiling faintly as she said something to the players. Really? We just lost the game of our lives and she was over there congratulating them like we were at some dinner party.
I crossed my arms, trying not to scowl too
hard. Maybe it was sportsmanship, maybe politics. Either way, I didn't care. All I felt was the hollow ache of being useless. None of us said anything, just sat in silence. The cheers of the crowd in the background only made the silence heavier.
That was when they showed up. Kingsreed, of course. Tyson, Zack and some girl I didn't recognize strolled over like they owned the place. Tyson had a smirk plastered on his face, the same one I'd seen
a few days ago. The one that made me want to break his jaw.
"Well, well, well," Tyson drawled, clapping slowly like we'd just performed a comedy act for him. "So this is the legendary Crescent squad that made it to the semis? Sad that. Honestly, I was expecting a bit more."
Zack laughed under his breath. "What was
all that talk in the John mate? Said you were gonna be in the finals, right? Looks to me like you never made it off the bench."
The girl next to him smirked but didn't say anything. She just stood there with her arms folded, like she was here for the show.
I clenched my fists so hard, my nails dug
into my palms. I was seething, but they weren't finished.
"Yeah, a bit funny don't you think Darmian?" Tyson said, tilting his head, eyes landing squarely on me. "You also said something about 'destroying' the tournament," he chuckled. "The only thing I see you destroying is that poor bench!"
That was it. I had enough. My anger spiked so hard it almost scared me. I shot up, every part of me ready to shut him up once and for all, but before I could reach him, Henry held me back firmly.
"Not now," he said, low and steady. His
grip was strong enough to ground me and calm me down. He glared at Tyson. "Leave."
Tyson's grin widened, but he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Relax hero. The bloke and I were just having some fun."
"Leave now," Henry repeated, his tone
sharp enough to cut stone.
The three of them exchanged glances, and Tyson gave me one last look, eyes glittering with mockery. Then he turned and
walked off, Zack and the girl trailing behind him.
I sat back down, my heart thrumming. I was still angry, but Henry's words echoed in my head, keeping me from exploding. I
wanted to say something to them as they left, but the words died on my tongue. As much as it hurt me to admit, they were right. I bragged so much about making it to the finals and couldn't back it up. It was all for nothing. All I could do was stare at the ground, jaw tight, wishing more than anything that I'd have the chance to prove myself out there.
Fifteen minutes later, Ms. Flores returned. She looked collected and calm. "Alright guys," she said, "let's head back."
We gathered our things silently and left the stadium, the roar of the crowd still
carrying on behind us, celebrating a victory that wasn't ours.
Inside, I felt the loss all over again.
***************
By the time we got back to the hotel, it was around three in the afternoon. We wasted no time going to Ms. Flores' room
for our final meeting. We dropped into our seats, still heavy from defeat.
Ms. Flores stood at the head of the room,
her hands on her hips, her expression relaxed. Not cheerful, not grim either. Just relaxed.
"I want you guys to listen up," she began.
Her voice was sharp enough to snap me out of my sulk. "Yes, we lost. Yes, we could have done more. But I want you to remember what you did do." She looked around at each of us. "Crescent has never in its history come this far in the competition. Never. And you guys changed that."
We sat straighter.
"You fought against schools with longer
pedigrees, deeper pockets, and in some cases, better training," she continued. "And yet, we matched them. We pushed them. And even though we're not walking into the finals, we've earned Crescent a new name out there. People know who we are now."
She didn't sugarcoat anything. She wasn't
pretending we hadn't lost, but the way she said it…it pulled something loose inside me, easing the weight on my chest just a little bit.
She let her words hang for a moment, then added more quietly, "I'm proud of you guys. All of you. You should be proud too."
The mood shifted. Subtle, but real. Some
shoulders that had been slumped straightened a little. Scott even let out a short breath that sounded close to a laugh.
Zoë though, barely moved. She sat with her face blank and her eyes distant. If she heard Ms. Flores, she didn't show it.
"Alright," Ms. Flores finally said, her voice brisk again. "Take the rest of the day off. You've earned it."
Chairs scraped as we got up to leave. No
one was cheering, but the air wasn't as suffocating as it had been when we walked in.
I dragged myself to my room afterward,
feeling the fatigue of the day catching up with me all at once. The anger had dulled and the ache was still there, but muted. Ms. Flores' words circled in my head. Maybe we hadn't won, but history. Our name was carved into it now.
I shut the door behind me, kicked off my
shoes and collapsed onto my bed. For the first time since the race, I let myself breathe without feeling like the air was mocking me. Still tired, stil sad, but lighter.
I didn't know how long I lay there staring
at the ceiling, half-dozing, half just sinking into the mattress, when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I tried to ignore it, but it kept vibrating until I rolled over and checked.
It was Marcus.
Yo, you should check up on Zoë.
I frowned and typed back, "Why me?"
A few seconds later: "I tried after the meeting. She wasn't responding. Didn't answer when I knocked on her door either.
I squinted at his text. "Then tell your sister or Scott."
He replied immediately, She's holed up somewhere, eating her sorrows away. Scott said he's speed-watching 'Bleach' with Henry until they both pass out.
I sighed. "You still haven't answered my question though. Why me?
This time, he took a while to reply. "Because she actually listens to you…sometimes. I'm just worried man. She's blaming herself for everything."
I tossed my phone onto my chest and stared at the ceiling again. Every part of me wanted to stay put, sink deeper and let the day just end. But Marcus was right. Zoë could be stubborn most of the time, but less so with me.
I groaned, rolling off my bed and shoving
my feet back into my sneakers. "This had better not turn into a breakdown I can't
handle," I muttered to myself, picking up the landline. I ordered a bucket of ice cream and two large spoons from room service. I figured if I was going to do this, I wasn't going in empty handed.
"Might need to see a therapist after this," I said, slipping my vial of bectar into my pocket.
The hallway carpet muffled my footsteps,
the corridor washed in that muted gold light from the wall lamps as I walked towards the elevator. When I got to her door, I knocked lightly. No answer.
"Zoë," I called, trying not to sound as
awkward as I felt. "It's Darmian. I'm not leaving until you open up."
Still nothing.
I knocked again, firmer this time. "Come on, Zoë. Don't make me stand out here like an idiot. There's a kid staring at me."
A few seconds passed, still nothing. Just
the muted hum of the hotel's air conditioning and the footsteps of a woman and her child echoing down the hallway. I gave her a friendly smile, but the kid kept looking back at me even after they'd walked past. Then, after what felt like forever, the door lock clicked, opened a crack and one green eye peered at me.
"Can I come in? " I said, grinning.
"Sure," she muttered, stepping back.
She looked bad. Not sick or injured, just
tired. Her eyes were red, her hair a mess, her whole face drawn in a way I'd never seen before. She looked plain unhappy.
Apart from how she looked, I immediately
noticed how spotless her room was which was funny because everyone's room got
cleaned in the morning, but hers looked like it was polished. Bed sheets tucked sharply, desk organized like a catalog picture. The only thing out of place was an empty bucket of ice cream on top of her neatly folded blanket.
I raised an eyebrow. "Looks like you were way ahead of me." I held up my own bucket. "Got room for more?"
She didn't smile, or even nod; she just sat
down heavily on the carpet by the foot of the bed. I joined her, handing her a spoon.
For a while, we just sat there digging into the ice cream. Cold vanilla against the lump of heaviness I'd been carrying all day.
"So, you gonna tell me what's going on?" I
asked after a spoonful.
"Nothing. I'm fine," she said, eyes locked
on the ice cream like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.
"No, you're not."
"If you say so," she said, shrugging.
"C'mon Zoë."
She didn't answer. Just another spoonful.
And another. Then finally, in a low voice, she said, "I wasn't good enough. I tried, but it wasn't enough. Everybody counted on me when it mattered most and I couldn't do it. Henry was good. He gave me a lead, but I blew it. It's my fault you didn't get to participate in the final. It's just so damn
frustrating…the team has every right to hate me for it. I wouldn't blame you guys."
She didn't cry, though it looked like she
was on the verge of it. Instead, she shoved in some more ice cream like she was trying to drown the words before they could slip out again.
I took a bite, and let the silence settle
down before replying. "I don't hate you. Neither does anyone else." I tapped my
spoon against the tub. "We all worked like crazy to get here. We knew what was at stake, and we knew that losing was a possibility from the start. We were always prepared for the worst-case scenario."
"I guess so," she said, sniffing.
"Sure it hurts like hell. I feel like running outside and screaming my heart out, but these things happen sometimes. We just have to live with it.
She nodded, scooping some more ice cream. "But that wouldn't be a good look for you though. Getting arrested for public disturbance. I'd pay to see how funny you'd look sleeping in a cell."
I nudged her with my shoulder, lowering my voice. "You're talking about good looks but have you seen yourself? I could probably hide all my secrets in those eye-bags."
"Yeah, I do kinda look terrible. Go grab
me a coffin," she muttered, shoving me lightly. The corners of her mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close.
I smirked. "You want me to grab you a
coffin? By this time? Not happening, unless you're fine with me stuffing you into the minibar."
She arched a brow. "So Darmian's scared of the night. What, afraid someone's gonna mistake you for a hobo?"
"Please," I said, pretending to be offended. "With a jawline like this? No chance."
Finally, she laughed. "You're ridiculous."
"Ridiculously right," I added, grinning.
After a few minutes, she set her spoon
down and let out a quiet sigh. "Thanks for talking to me. Honestly, I don't completely forgive myself, but I feel much better. Because of you."
I swallowed the last of my ice cream, trying not to blush. "Good. That's all I wanted."
When I finally stood to leave, she looked much better than when I'd come in. Not her
usual self yet, but she'd get there. I told her goodnight before heading back to my room. I was still hurting inside, disappointed about not being able to prove myself, but seeing her lift her head a little higher made it easier
for me to carry. And that was enough for now.
***************
When I opened my eyes, the sting felt sharper than yesterday as the realization set in. I thought the grief would dull overnight, but it didn't. Instead it matured, solidifying into something heavier. The thought gnawed at me even before I woke up: If we'd won yesterday, today would have been the biggest day of my life. All I wanted to do was to bury my head under the sheets and pretend I didn't exist, but Ms. Flores' voice echoed in my memory: "We leave early. I want good seats."
Dragging myself out of bed felt like a
punishment. I showered, dressed up and made my way to the lobby without ordering breakfast. I was in no mood to eat anything. When I got to the lobby, everybody had gathered apart from Henry and Ms. Flores. Nobody looked particularly excited. Marcus scrolled aimlessly on his phone, Scott tried to keep conversation going, but his jokes died halfway. Mackenzie was playing online chess but from the grunts and curses she whispered, she wasn't having a great time with it. Zoë looked cleaned up, even managing a faint smile but the light in her eyes wasn't fully back. This was going to be a long day.
Ms. Flores arrived shortly with Henry following behind her. Both of them didn't say
much, and we left quietly.
By 11:30AM, Frostville's stadium loomed before us one last time. It felt different this time though. I wasn't as excited as I had been on previous visits. This was the final. The climax of everything, and yet I felt like a ghost drifting through a celebration I didn't belong in. I honestly just wanted the day to be over with.
Inside, the stands were crammed. More delegates from other continental organisations were present, dignitaries sat in reserved rows and the number of cameras at each angle had increased after yesterday's events. The mood in the stadium was electric; an entire continent waiting to crown its champions.
We found seats near the front after some jostling, but shortly after, Ms. Flores wandered off again. Nobody bothered asking where.
At 11:45 sharp, the festivities began. The Frostville band marched out first, horns and
drums booming in perfect synchrony, followed by the cheerleaders whose stunts
defied gravity. The crowd cheered, flags waved and though I clapped along, I wasn't
really into it.
Then came some more goodwill messages from the various delegates, words of unity, celebration, the usual ceremonial fanfare. The principal also gave a short speech. Finally, silence fell as the Queen approached the podium for her own
message.
Roxanne Steffen.
I sat up straighter without meaning to. Even now, she still captivated me, her presence tugging at something deep and strange inside me. That sense of familiarity gnawed at me again; the same one I felt on opening day.
I've definitely met her before.
She began with grace, her voice resonant and commanding. "First, I'd like to congratulate our finalists, and indeed every competitor who participated in this tournament. Your bravery, your skills, your discipline, even your technique. These are what breathe life into our continent's legacy. The matches we've witnessed were simply fantastic, greater than those a decade ago."
The crowd applauded. I found myself clapping, though mechanically.
She went on, thanking the Frostville staff for their flawless hosting, praising the
energy of the crowd and the sponsors who funded the tournament right from the first stage. Then her tone shifted subtly, but enough to make the entire stadium lean in.
"I know," she teased lightly, "that you all are impatient. Well, that cannot be helped.
We all want the final match. But before we begin, there is… an important matter to address."
Her voice dropped a register. The air seemed to thin while some people muttered in the stadium.
She continued, "Before this competition began, the rules were circulated among all
participating schools. I also repeated these rules which concern sportsmanship. I made it very clear; cheating would not only dishonour the tournament, but bring heavy consequences on those who attempted it."
The stadium hushed. Not even a cough echoed as everybody wondered where this was going.
"As part of our routine efforts to crack down on dishonest practices," she said, "each round has been reviewed and scrutinized by the Sentinel Committee, our body tasked with upholding fairness among competitors. However, earlier editions of this tournament have been plagued with questions regarding the competency of the committee due to accusations and multiple complaints of underhanded behaviour among competitors. As a result, the continental board agreed to select new officials and double the efforts of the committee in ensuring fair play. To aid them, and as part of a new initiative, we equipped each competitor's identification badge with a micro-sensor. Harmless and undetectable, but capable of monitoring physiological data
including heart rate, stress spikes, oxygen uptake patterns and similar metrics. Nothing invasive, but enough to detect irregularities compared to the baseline of healthy and unenhanced competitors."
I froze. My fingers brushed against the ID which hung around my neck. A flash from days earlier hit me: the receptionist fiddling with my card, shielding it from view.
So that was it…
She pressed on.
"When comparing yesterday's race data across all semifinalist teams, something stood out. The Ashmoore College runners displayed a distinctly abnormal
cardiovascular pattern. Their baseline readings, taken when they suited up before the race, were already registering sustained levels far beyond normal limits. The committee considered factors such as pre-race excitement and adrenaline spikes, but even after adjusting for those variables, the values remained implausibly high. Once the racers had changed out of their uniforms
after the event, the post-race analysis confirmed the irregularities, matching the anomalies detected beforehand."
A low murmur buzzed through the crowd. I
could hardly believe what I was hearing.
"The Head of the Committee intercepted Ashmoore's delegation as they prepared to leave the grounds. She requested the competitors to undergo a blood test, which they complied with, albeit reluctantly."
Every word rang like a drum in my chest as I remembered Ms. Flores chatting with the Ashmoore team after the race.
"The results, though regrettable, were
conclusive. Both Ashmoore contestants had ingested an artificial stimulant. A high concentration of erythropoietin and large amounts of bectar were discovered in the blood samples taken. The mixture enhanced red blood cell reproduction, oxygen delivery, and muscular endurance by approximately thirty percent."
Gasps erupted in waves.
"Calculations were performed to model
their performance without the substance. Factoring their natural pace, fatigue
thresholds, race dynamics, and other
variables, the data indicates that Ashmoore would have finished at least nine seconds behind Crescent College."
Nine seconds. The number hit me as my
heart raced. The stadium broke into chaos. Some shouted, cheered, even cursed
while others like myself stared in disbelief. The Ashmoore squad stood like statues,
their faces pale.
She raised a hand and silence clawed its way back. "For the sake of transparency and to set a precedent for further competitions, the findings of the committee were agreed to be read out to the hearing of everyone present today. For their actions, Ashmoore College is hereby suspended from the Continental Vampire Competition for five decades. Further disciplinary action will follow."
A pause.
"And as such…" She swept her eyes across the stadium, her words deliberate. "…the rightful winner of yesterday's semi-final
is Crescent College."
The eruption was immediate. Cheers like
thunder, banners soaring, the entire stadium trembling with noise. I couldn't move.My brain refused to process what was happening.
"…thus," Roxanne said above the
madness, "the final match of this tournament shall be Kingsreed College Vs. Crescent College!"
Zoë clasped her mouth, eyes wide with realization. Scott and Marcus were yelling and hugging each other, tears shining. Henry and Laura were on their feet, fists raised. And even though I couldn't see her, I
knew Ms. Flores was somewhere clapping with a grin on her face.
But me? I just sat there frozen. A thought
burning into my skull. This meant…I was about to fight. We were about to fight.
"Crescent College squad, please proceed down to the arena and take your seats. Prepare your fighter."
The stadium roared. My heart pounded as I watched Roxanne gracefully bow and leave
the podium.
Holy shit.
***************
I was buzzing, and not in a calm way. My
stomach was knotted, my hands restless and my head was still spinning from the
curveball Ms. Roxanne had thrown at the entire stadium. One moment I was coming
to terms with my grief, the next I was pulled back into the storm. Shock, excitement and nervousness all slammed into me at once.
I sat in the locker room, wearing and
removing my arm guards, trying to breathe and keep my heartbeat under control. The
more I told myself to calm down, the louder it slammed in my chest. While I was having a semi-panic attack, I heard the door open. I didn't need to look up; I caught her scent first.
"Somehow," I muttered almost accusingly. "I get the feeling you're enjoying this. All this time and you've been part of the committee, you didn't think we should know at least? And you knew Ashmoore cheated yesterday. You couldn't have bothered to gimme a heads up?"
Ms. Flores stepped inside, closing the door behind her. Her expression was calm and unreadable. "It's a confidential committee, Darmian. I'm not allowed to give out unreleased information. Protocol."
"That didn't stop you from knowing," I snapped. "While we were beating ourselves up, while Zoë—"
"—was blaming herself. Yes, I know," she
cut in, sighing. She moved closer, kneeling
just enough to look me in the eye. "Listen, you can grill me all you want later. Hell, you all deserve it, but now is the moment you've been waiting for. The moment we've been waiting for. You're the final piece Darmian.
Everyone's counting on you."
Her words pressed against my chest. "That's a lot of pressure."
"It is," she admitted. "But you're good
enough to overcome it. Besides, you're not walking into this blind." Her gaze narrowed. "You're facing Tyson Kreek."
I scoffed. "Good. We've got unfinished
business."
She smirked. "Someone's fired up, that's good. And one more thing I should mention." She leaned in, her voice lowering. "I suspect Kingsreed's hands aren't exactly
clean in all this. There's no proof, but I've got a hunch about them. Be careful. Whatever tricks they might pull, don't hold anything back."
I clenched my fists, the blood in my veins
heating up. "Got it."
She gave a single nod and walked out. "Go out there and have some fun. Put on a show."
"No problem."
"Break a leg."
When the call finally came, I stood, every nerve in my body fired up. As I stepped out of the locker room, the roar of the arena washed over me. I walked forward, my breath steady, my heart anything but. I had to win this. For Scott, Henry, Marcus,
Mackenzie and Zoë. For everyone watching back at home. For Ms. Flores. For myself.
And across the arena, Tyson waited.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice boomed across the arena cutting through the noise. "It's the match we've all
been waiting for. We bring you a one-on-one duel between Crescent's Darmian, and Kingsreed's Tyson Kreek!"
The cheers surged again, drowning my
thoughts as I waved towards the crowd with a huge grin. I was finally here on the biggest stage of the tournament. I didn't get here by myself, but with the help of my team. There was no chance in hell I'd disappoint them. Not after everything we came through.
Tyson stood across from me, his face without his usual grin. In fact he looked irritated watching me from afar, his sharp frame tall and coiled with aggression.
"This duel will last fifteen minutes," the
announcer continued, "with only three ways to end; one fighter surrenders, one fighter is incapacitated for ten seconds, or the time expires, in which case the Queen herself will declare the winner based on landed and evaded strikes. Contestants are not allowed to use any weapons. All fighting styles are
allowed, and contestants are advised to forfeit if they are on the verge of death."
One-on-one duels were serious business. They basically embodied what vampires were programmed to do: fight. There really was no better way to settle which college was the undisputed winner than having a fistfight with no bullshit. It wasn't just bragging rights being fought for, it was pride. Because of that, most finalists would actually rather die than forfeit the final. This was no game. It was do or die.
The announcer raised his hand. "Contestants, enter the arena."
The arena was an elevated platform raised about ten feet off the ground. The floor was made from interlocked metal plates and was covered with a reinforced barrier of glass and steel framed at the edges, built to contain fighters much stronger than ordinary humans. It was cold and unforgiving. There was no room for retreat once you stepped inside.
Tyson's eyes burned into me as we stood
across from each other. His glare was pure venom, unblinking, like he was trying
to put a hole in my chest. I locked eyes with him, steeling my body for the next few moments. This wasn't going to be easy but fighting was my speciality. Unless he wanted this more than I did, I wasn't going to make this easy.
"Ready yourselves."
The crowd became quiet. Every whisper , every chatter and cheer slowly vanishing into silence. The tension was thick, and the
suspense suffocating. My fists curled, I lowered my stance, weight balanced perfectly on the balls of my feet as I got into position. I closed my eyes, focusing on my
breathing, imagining this was just another sparring session back at school.
This was it.
"Begin!"
The world exploded.
We shot forward with supernatural speed, the distance between us gone in an instant. Tyson threw the first punch, a snapping
right hook aimed at my jaw. I slipped under, countering with a sharp jab towards his ribs, but he twisted, deflecting it with his elbow. His knee came up high and fast, moving towards my stomach. I managed to pivot just in time, his knee only grazing my side.
I responded with a feint, a quick jab to
his face that drew his guard high, then snapped a low kick at his thigh. He caught it with a one-handed block, twisting my leg away and shoving me back half a step. He pressed forward, moving like a blur. Left jab, right cross, backhand slash. I caught one on my forearm, another on my shoulder, twisting with the blows to bleed off their impact. Then I slipped inside his guard and drove my elbow towards his chin. He ducked under, his counterpunch clipping my cheekbone just enough to sting.
The crowd cheered, their voices rising with every clash.
We circled, eyes locked, our breaths sharp. For every clean shot I threw, he had an answer. For every trap he set, I slipped
out just before it closed. We were locked. Equal. Neither giving ground, our fists
blurring faster than humanly possible.
I could hear the announcer's commentary
cut through faintly, almost drowned by the noise from the crowd. "Both fighters are
evenly matched in the opening minutes! Neither man is backing down!"
My knuckles ached, my lungs burned, but
adrenaline sharpened every moment. Tyson's sneer widened. This wasn't going as
well as he imagined it seemed. And we were just getting started.
Tyson came at me harder this time, his strikes whipping through the air with punishing force. His right fist cracked
against my guard, then I felt a sharp blow connect with my ribs, forcing the air from my lungs. I stepped back instinctively trying to catch my breath.
"You're just delaying my win and making it
more painful for yourself," he sneered, circling me.
I straightened, wiping the corner of my
mouth with my thumb. I smirked at him. "You're just upset Ashmoore didn't give
you an easy win."
Tyson's eyes flickered with something
darker, something more telling. His lips curled. "Ashmoore were bloody stupid. Couldn't even stick to the fucking plan."
I froze, my smile dropping. My heart
hammered once, hard against my chest. "What plan?" I demanded, but his only answer was a shrug.
We squared off again, the air between us
charged with the unspoken weight of his words. I lunged first, hitting him with a vicious barrage. My knuckles cracked against his arms as he blocked, slipping
sideways with uncanny precision. I threw a feint high, then tried to grab his legs but he checked it cleanly, countering with a fist that nearly clipped my nose.
He was fast. Experienced. But so was I.
Each time he pressed, I flowed like water, absorbing the momentum and hurling
it back at him. I threw my elbow forward with dangerous speed which he caught just
before it slammed into his temple. He tried twisting it aside, but I spun with the motion, my back fist catching him straight at the jaw. He backed up and the stadium thundered around us, the noise blurring into the background.
The distance gave me a breath of air,
though not much more. Tyson prowled opposite me, shoulders lose, planning his
next attack. We stared at each other waiting for who would blink first.
"You know what?" he said almost casually,like we were at a bar and not seconds from tearing each other apart. "Ashmoore didn't need to take such a large hit. Idiots. If they'd stuck to a smaller dosage, it would've been untraceable. Gone in minutes thanks to our metabolic rate. All
they needed was a little boost."
My eyes narrowed. "Dosage…you guys were behind that?"
He laughed. "Our agreement. A really good one I should add. But they got cold feet. Idiots."
The pieces snapped together in my mind
like broken glass reassembling. I felt my chest tighten. "The finals. You planned for it to be Kingsreed against Ashmoore."
"Bingo," he said, his grin stretching wider.
"Cowards," I spat with venom.
He only chuckled. "Both of us would've
benefitted. Ashmoore forfeits, still takes silver. We take gold. Everyone goes home
happy."
And then, he lunged. I barely twisted
aside, his fist grazing past my cheek, close enough to feel the rush of displaced air. He didn't slow down. One strike bled into another, each faster than the last.
Between blows, his voice dripped like poison. "What we didn't anticipate was that blasted committee ruining everything."
I shoved him back with a kick to his
chest, fangs bared. "You're not cautious Tyson. You're just scared of us."
"Not scared mate," he said smirking. "Just cautious."
I clenched my fists, watching him carefully. " Did you take it too? The drug?"
He didn't answer. He only laughed, wiping
off sweat on his forehead before he charged at me again. This time, everything felt blurry. A right hook smashed against my bicep, sending pain up my arm. Before I could recover, a knee slammed into my ribs, stealing the breath from my lungs. His elbow crashed into my shoulder, numbing my other arm. I tried to parry, tried to evade, but it
seemed like each defensive manoeuvre I attempted was half a step too slow. He was
suddenly much faster than I was and I was barely keeping up against his assault.
The noise pressed in on me from all sides.
I caught a glimpse of our bench. They were worried, their faces mirroring the fear sinking into my own gut.
I swung at him but he barely flinched. My fists might as well have been feathers. He wasn't even blocking anymore. He just absorbed each jab, kick and hook, looming over me like a wall of iron. I was falling fast.
"This is incredible!" the announcer
remarked excitedly. "Tyson Kreek has been overpowering Darmian in what has now turned suddenly into a one-sided match!"
I stumbled back gasping, my lips split with
blood dripping down my chin. "After this…" My voice cracked under the roar of the crowd. "…they'll investigate you. You'll lose everything."
Tyson's laugh was cruel and cold. He
stalked forward, shadowing me. "You still don't get it do you? I don't need a huge dosage. Unlike those sissies I'm not stupid. I've been on it for quite some time now. Small amounts. Just enough to blend in. My body's adapted, and now it feels natural."
"You bastard," I growled. "Why didn't you
just finish this from the start then?"
"C'mon chap," he said spreading his arms towards the crowd. "Wouldn't that be too
suspicious? Besides, it's the bloody final. Why not give the people what they want?"
He darted faster than I could react.
A blow to my stomach folded me in half.
Before I could breathe, his knee rocketed into my sternum and my vision went white. My back hit the floor, but he didn't care. His fist drove down like a hammer, snapping my head sideways. I clawed at the ground, trying to get up but another punch slammed into my jaw. Pain exploded across my face as my legs gave out, and I crashed down again.
The world spun around me.
Somewhere far away, the announcer shouted, the crowd screamed, and Tyson stood above me laughing.
He grabbed me by the torso, and with monstrous strength, lifted me clean off the ground. The air rushed from my chest as he
body-slammed me on the arena floor. I barely had time to wheeze before something smashed into the side of my head sending me sprawling.
And then…nothing. I didn't move. Couldn't.
"One!" the announcer's voice thundered,
but it sounded far away, muffled, like I was underwater.
"Two!"
The stadium roared, yet it blurred together into static.
Interesting this…is this where you lose?
The voice slid into my mind like smoke. I blinked in confusion.
Am I…talking to myself?
"Four!"
I tried to push up. My arms shook, and my chest refused to rise.
"Six!"
Images floated across my mind. Scott's grin fading into disbelief. Henry's jaw tightening with shame. Mackenzie's eyes narrowing. Marcus' arms folded in silence. Laura turning away. Faces filled with
disappointment. Every one of them believed in me and here I was stuck on the ground. Tears stung my eyes.
Well, we can't have this now, can we? Let's see what happens.
"Eight!"
And then, I felt it.
A roar filled my chest. My muscles coiled with sudden fury, the ache gone, replaced with a blaze that ignited my entire body. My senses sharpened, every heartbeat in the crowd pounding in my ears.
"Nine!"
My body moved before I thought. I shot up
from the ground like a spring, launching my fist square into Tyson's jaw with explosive force. The impact sounded like a gunshot. His head snapped back, his entire body launched off the ground before crashing down into a heap several feet from where I stood.
The stadium gasped in unison.
"What's this?! Darmian manages to save himself from the count in the nick of time and sends Tyson flying!!" the announcer shouted.
"What…what the hell," I muttered, staring
at my hands. I felt alive, more alive than I'd ever been. I also felt angry. Insanely angry. My heart hammered, but it wasn't fear. My vision sharpened, the lights much brighter as I felt the adrenaline course through my body relentlessly. It kept increasing, clawing at my veins, pulsing in my chest, begging to be released.
Tyson was still stumbling back, his jaw in
his hand while he stared at me in disbelief. I didn't wait.
I shot forward, slamming my shoulder into
his chest, knocking him off balance before I brought down my fist like a sledgehammer. He tried to shrug it off and brace himself, but I was already on top of him again. Another strike. And another. Each punch cracked through the air, the sound rattling the metal plates beneath us.
"Damn you!" Tyson growled with his teeth
clenched, but he couldn't stop me. Not anymore. He thought he could take it. Thought he could stand there and soak the hits like before, but it was different now. Every blow sent him skidding, the sheer force carving the ground beneath his heels.
The stadium shook with every impact.
People were on their feet, screaming and cheering but I barely heard them. All of my attention was fixed on Tyson alone.
His face twisted with fury, his veins
standing out as he screamed, "You can't stop me, you insect!" he threw himself at me, his massive frame barreling forward. But to me, it was slow. Painfully slow. I saw everything; the angle of his shoulders, the telegraph of his hips, the shift of his weight and the force behind his swing.
What is this feeling?
I didn't back down. I didn't even care about dodging anymore. I just needed to hit something. I roared back and met him head-on.
The impact was absurd. Our bodies slammed together, fists colliding, blood spraying everywhere, bones rattling under the intense force. Neither of us gave an inch. It was pure brutality. His fist ricocheted
against my cheek, mine drove into his ribs. He hammered my shoulder, I thrust my knees into his solar plexus. Back and forth we went, shaking the protective glass around us.
There was noise everywhere. It was
absolute madness. Screaming, roaring, grunting, heaving, but I could barely hear them over the pounding in my skull.
Are you not entertained?
Tyson swung again, his fist still predictably slow, but I didn't care. I took it straight on, teeth gritting through the pain and stepped in closer. I felt the rage, the energy inside me screaming to be unleashed one last time. My vision went red as every single muscle burned in anger, every vein alight with fire.
I drew my arm, drawing every ounce of
strength and every shred of fury into one single strike. With a scream that barely sounded like mine, I drove my right fist straight into Tyson's face, hearing the sounds of bones cracking under immense force.
The sound reverberated across the arena
and the stadium. Tyson's body lifted, then crumpled to the ground. He was out cold.
The crowd erupted.
The referee's count began somewhere in the chaos, and my body trembled, the rage inside me beginning to simmer. It was fading, bleeding out of me just as fast as it had come.
Six…
I raised my head slowly, my vision beginning to blur. I turned my head towards the crowd and my eyes locked with hers—the Queen. She was watching, her eyes unblinking, her expression unreadable. In her gaze, I saw the reflection of every step that had brought me here. From our first
match to the final. Every victory, every failure, every smile, every tear, every ounce of faith my friends had placed in me.
The adrenaline cut out, sharp and sudden, almost making me gasp for air. My body felt empty and my knees buckled, but I forced myself to stand, towering over Tyson's fallen frame. Seeing him unconscious felt strangely satisfying.
Please don't get up…or I'm cooked.
With the last of my strength, I lifted my fist weakly into the air.
Eight…Nine…Ten!
The announcer's voice rang across the
stadium in finality. "CRESCENT COLLEGE HAS WON THE C.V.C!!"
To say the crowd exploded would be an
understatement. People cried, others clapped. I heard my friends scream, spotting
them as they ran towards me. The sound washed over me as I let out a faint, tired laugh.
"Heh…how 'bout that…"
Then the world tilted, my body giving out
and everything went dark.