The fight stopped being an isolated event.
It became routine.
Every three days, Osborn returned to the same improvised space — packed dirt, worn ropes, men speaking too quietly for something that was clearly illegal. Always early. Always before the sun reached its highest point. And always with the same posture: loose shoulders, attentive gaze, controlled breathing.
Six fights in two weeks.
Six victories.
They were not pretty fights. There was no spectacle. No real applause. But there was something people began to notice — control.
He was young. Too thin for someone who fought. Too small to inspire fear at first glance. The first time, many laughed. The second, they watched. By the third, they were already silent.
Osborn didn't brawl.
He ended things.
He stepped in, tested the other's timing, measured distance, assessed strength, posture, fear. Always fear. Fear came quickly. All it took was the first well-placed strike. A dry straight punch. A front kick that stole the air. A lateral step that left the opponent swinging at emptiness.
When he realized the other no longer had an answer, Osborn closed it out.
A simple takedown. A clean sweep. Body on the ground.
"Don't get up."
And they didn't.
He never had to repeat it.
At the end of each fight, the payment was the same. Twenty bronze coins, placed in his hand without ceremony. No more, no less. Osborn stored them one by one, always checking the weight, the sound, the wear. Old bronze, but honest.
Bill and Kerr watched every fight.
At first, Bill stayed tense. Fists clenched, body rigid, as if he were the one standing in the center. Kerr watched differently — sharp eyes, absorbing movements, trying to understand the how.
Over time, both realized the same thing.
Osborn was never excited.
He never smiled afterward.
He never celebrated.
It was just work.
By the end of the second week, some people already recognized his face. Not as a name. Not as fame. But as a reference.
"That kid fights right.""He doesn't seem like a child.""He thinks too much for his age."
That was enough.
That night, Osborn counted the coins again. All of them lined up on the floor of the improvised hut. The result was simple, but meaningful. For the first time since arriving there, he didn't need to spend everything just to survive the next day.
He waited until morning.
The market was still waking up when he arrived. The smell of old fish, overripe fruit, damp fabric hanging from improvised lines. Osborn walked slowly, analyzing prices, materials, usefulness.
He didn't buy food.
He bought structure.
A simple iron stand for a fire. Heavy, sturdy, already stained with old rust. Two pots. One smaller, shallow, with a thick bottom. The other larger, deeper, meant for something they didn't have yet.
The vendor tried to push more items. Osborn refused. Paid the fair price. Kept the change.
Back at the hut, the use was immediate.
The smaller pot was set aside. Water inside. Low fire. Enough time to boil, to kill what couldn't be seen. Osborn watched the bubbles rise as if invisible enemies were being driven out.
Less coconut water.
More clean water.
Not because he liked coconut less — but because excess kills too.
The other pot stayed clean, stored away. Waiting for meat. Waiting for fat. Waiting for the day when protein would stop being an exception.
It still wasn't time.
They still didn't have enough money.
But having the pot already changed everything.
That same afternoon, Osborn trained again. Strikes in the air. Controlled kicks. Movements repeated until the body responded without thought. Bill watched in silence, sitting with his hands resting on his knees.
He didn't understand everything.
But he understood the essential.
Osborn wasn't fighting to earn coins.
He was building something.
And each day, each fight, each small choice pushed it a little further forward.
Without haste.
Without announcement.
Like everything that truly lasts.
Advance chapters: https://www.patreon.com/cw/pararaio