JAY'S POV :
Now we're at the center.
He's right in front of me—the man I thought would save me, protect me. Instead, he's smirking with that infuriating 'I'm-already-winning' face, ready to fight.
God, what is this?
I love him, yet here I am, squaring up against him. But it's necessary. Otherwise, he'll turn into a total jerk.
He thinks he can win against me. Thinks he's stronger, untouchable. Thinks I'm weak just because I'm a girl—some fragile thing to brush aside.
Ha. I'm no less than him. In a fight? I'm his super senior.
Years of grinding in the shadows: solo sessions at dawn, perfecting strikes until my knuckles bled, outlasting every sparring partner who underestimated the "quiet girl." He doesn't know the beast I've forged—no equipment, just willpower, precision, and pain turned to power. Today, he learns.
The crowd around us falls silent, eyes locked on me like this is Mission Impossible. Some smirk, others narrow their eyes in curiosity. Ci-N looks tense—they've never seen a girl challenge their king.
Now they'll see a girl stronger than their king. They'll witness the impossible they think.
"The rules are the same," Rory bellowed.
"Last man—or woman—standing wins… uh, whatever this is."
Kiefer chuckled.
"Let it be, man. It's always a man who stands last."
I laughed dryly.
"We'll see about that, Watson."
"Good luck surviving five minutes."
"Good luck to you too, Kiefer. You're gonna need it to survive after this."
"You're too full of yourself."
"I just know myself."
"Ready…" Rory started.
"Set… GO!"
Kiefer lunged first, underestimating me with a lazy jab—testing, not committing.
Big mistake. I'd spent years honing this: dawn patrols of shadowboxing in the yard, no-gym circuits until my muscles screamed, self-defense drills against heavier bags I'd hung from trees. Precision was my weapon—every strike calculated, every dodge a product of endless reps.
I sidestepped fluidly, my footwork from karate katas kicking in, and countered with a sharp palm-heel to his ribs.
Thud. He grunted, surprised, but swung harder—a hook aimed at my jaw. The crowd erupted, not for me.
"Get her, Kiefer!"
"King's got this!"
I ducked, feeling the whoosh of air, and drove my knee into his thigh—hard-earned power from thigh-burners and squats on uneven dirt. He staggered but roared back, power ramping up now that he saw I wasn't prey.
"Damn! You're strong!"
"You thought less of me," I shot back, circling.
His punches came faster, fists blurring. One clipped my lip—blood welled, metallic on my tongue—but I absorbed it, channeling the sting into focus.
I swept low, my gymnast flexibility letting me hook his ankle while snapping an elbow into his shoulder. Crack—like overtwisting a rope. He yelped, arm drooping.
No one cheered for me. And I didn't care.
"Finish her!" they yelled.
"She's done!"
We collided in a fierce clinch—bodies pressed, breaths hot and ragged, his good arm pinning my waist for a split second while I twisted against him, feeling his heartbeat thunder. Eyes locked, fury and something electric sparking.
Then I broke free, using my hips for leverage—years of practice paying off.
"You're tougher than I thought," he growled, swinging wild now, shoulder slowing him.
Years of meditation sharpened my calm; I read his tells—the hitch in his breath, the lag in his guard.
I feinted high, then dropped low for a leg takedown, my grip iron from endless pull-ups on doorframes. He crashed down, but rolled, dragging me with him.
Fists flew—his split my lip worse, mine bloodied his. Small cuts stung my cheek, but his shoulder was wrecked, barely moving.
For a few seconds, we ended up exactly like that—locked tight, chest to chest, legs braced wide, neither of us giving an inch. My hand caught his wrist, his fingers straining against mine, both of us frozen in the brutal balance of the fight before the next move shattered it. His knee was planted hard between my stance, mine angled against his, both of us held in that tense, almost dance-like stillness, each breathing the other's air. It felt like the whole room stopped moving with us, as if even the crowd had forgotten how to breathe.
Final surge: I mounted, pinned his defending arm with my knee, wrenched the other behind his back. He bucked, face slamming prone to the floor, cheek pinned sideways. Done.
"10… 9… 1. Jay wins!"
I stood, releasing him. He rolled, furious, trying to rise—but his shoulder buckled.
Shit, Jay! What have you done?
I extended a hand. He glared—at it, at me, at it again—then slapped it away.
The audacity!
He tried standing; pain hit like lightning.
"Aaaah!"
I offered again. Please, Kiefer. Accept it.
"I don't need your fucking help."
"Tss. Stop being stubborn."
He stared, calculating, then grabbed it. I hauled him up, easing him into a nearby chair.
Our classmates were frozen, shocked—like Elsa had iced them mid-breath. I clapped loudly. They jerked awake, blinking at Kiefer now seated.
"Hello! Stop sleeping on your feet! Some people are injured. Get the first-aid kit from my locker."
"Where's yours?"
"Right side of Kiefer's."
"Oooh! Someone wants her locker by her crush!" Teasing erupted.
"Tss. Want me to cut out your tongues?" I snapped, hiding my blush.
One guy—Eren, I think—bolted. Good. Scared now.
I sat beside Kiefer. He seethed, brows knitted, shooting daggers. If glares killed, I'd be a 30-year ghost.
Ci-N bombarded me with questions.
"Stoooop!"
He froze mid-sentence. Next time, tape.
"I'm tired… and injured. Can't you see?"
"Sorry, just curious," he grinned.
Eren returned with the kit. I set it down, eyeing Kiefer.
"Someone remove his undershirt."
Teasing exploded. Kiefer narrowed his eyes.
"Tss. Want his arm fractured?" Silence.
Yuri stepped up, peeling it off.
"Aah!" Kiefer yelped.
"Careful!" I warned.
Shoulder exposed—swollen, dislocated vibes. Only massage would save it from fracturing fully.
Good thing I'd studied physiotherapy: professional guide, practicing on volunteers, memorizing tendons and pressure points. Precision was key—thumbs circling the deltoid, fingers kneading the rotator cuff with rhythmic, feather-light digs, easing inflammation without grinding bone. Years of anatomy from injury recoveries made my hands surgical.
Section E teased again.
"Damn! Want Kiefer's arm snapped? This prevents fracture."
They shut up. Kiefer grunted.
"How do you know this?"
"Learned it for arrogant fighters like you who end up wrecked."
He yanked forward—pain flared.
"Aah!"
"Stupid! Listen to me." I pulled him back.
Classmates gawked like we were a soap opera.
"Help David meantime," I said without looking.
Some nodded, tending him; others stared. I ignored.
Done. He looked relaxed, ache fading. I grabbed the kit, treating his cuts—but his eyes bored into mine. I ignored it.
"Why the first-aid kit?" he asked, gaze unwavering.
"Emergencies."
"Emergencies?" Confused.
Of course he didn't know me.
"Knowing myself, I'd need it someday."
He chuckled.
Treating his face, I stared too long—sharp jaw shadowed with stubble, black eyes stormy yet magnetic, blood-streaked lips full and defiant. Heat rushed; I looked away, dabbing antiseptic.
Done! No more close-up staring.
I slumped into my chair. Classmates fussed over David.
Kiefer gestured at my mouth.
"What? Something on mine?" Fingers hovered near my lips.
He snatched the kit, swabbing my split side of lips.
Shit, I forgot the blood.
I averted my eyes—no blushing caught.
He leaned back. Everyone regrouped; David sat patched up. Common sense, finally.
"So, announce," I said smugly.
"Announce what?"
"Oh boy, our deal."
Realization hit—anger—anger, which went on a trip till now—surged back.
"Tss. You're staying. Unofficial president of Section E," he muttered, low and annoyed.
"Can't hear you."
"You're staying and you're the unofficial president of Section E." Normal volume.
"Still can't."
Last thread snapped.
"ARE YOU DEAF?! YOU'RE STAYING AND YOU'RE THE UNOFFICIAL PRESIDENT OF SECTION E. HAPPY?!"
I smirked.
Fun annoying Section E's king. At least his arrogance dipped. Win.
"You guys hear that? I'm unofficial president now. Follow me. Doubts?"
Ci-N raised a hesitant hand.
"If you want power, why unofficial? Go official."
I laughed dryly.
"No. I don't care about power. You'll learn why. Sooner or later."
I fished two lollipops from my bag on the floor, unwrapped, one for my mouth, shoved the other in his.
He rolled his eyes.
I leaned close—his warm breath ghosted my skin.
"Next time, never judge without knowing, Kiefer."
Leaned back, slung my bag over my shoulder, walked away.
KEIFERS POV :
I watched her leave—steps focused, controlled.
Damn this girl. She wormed into my head effortlessly.
That smirk, that laugh.
Might not be bad giving her my earring.
"What now, bro?" Rory asked.
"If she wants to stay, let her. Wants power unnamed? Fine. I'll show her real power."
She thinks we'll follow because she beat me. Thinks power lets her join us.
She doesn't know: power alone doesn't get you in. She can't be part of us.
Never will.
I'll make sure.
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Guys, next chapter might be a bit late because of exams. But I'll make sure to write as fast as I can.
And please comment. It motivates me to write.
~Cris