Blood streamed down from his brow, sealing his left eye shut. Lan Chuwen didn't wipe it away—he didn't have a free hand. The opponent's fist came crashing again; he ducked his head to dodge, but a hook slammed into his ribs. The pain made him double over for a second, then he straightened back up.
The crowd was shouting, but he couldn't make out the words. His ears were ringing, like a swarm of bees trapped in his skull. The referee's shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. Lan Chuwen fixed his gaze on the opponent's eyes—the guy was half a head taller, broader, with a smirk on his lips, as if he were just playing. Lan Chuwen didn't smile. He had nothing to smile about.
Round three. In the first round, he'd been knocked down against the ropes. The referee had counted, and he'd gotten up at "three." The second round, he'd taken a dozen punches and landed maybe four—not a loss. Now, in the third round, a cut above his left eye had split open, blood smearing the entire eye shut. He could only see with his right. The world was halved; punches came from the other half, and he dodged by instinct.
The opponent charged again. A looping hook—Lan Chuwen dropped low, the fist grazing his hair. He used the opening to drive forward, slamming his shoulder into the other man's chest, then hammered an uppercut into his jaw. The opponent's head snapped sideways, and he stumbled back two steps. Lan Chuwen pursued—left hook, right straight, another left hook. The man retreated to the ropes, slid down, and sat on the canvas. The referee stepped between them and began the count. Lan Chuwen backed to the neutral corner, leaning against the ropes, gasping.
Somewhere in the crowd, people yelled "Get up!" and others shouted "Stay down!" Lan Chuwen didn't look at them. He looked at his own hands. The gloves were soaked in blood—his or his opponent's, he couldn't tell. His fingers burned, knuckles swollen, the webbing between thumb and forefinger split. It didn't hurt. Not that it didn't hurt—he just didn't have the space to feel it.
The referee reached ten and waved his arm. Fight over. Lan Chuwen had won.
His coach climbed into the ring to remove his gloves, mouth moving, but Lan Chuwen couldn't hear a thing. The ringing in his ears was too loud, like someone striking a bell beside his head. He hung his head and watched drops of blood hit the canvas, splattering into tiny crimson flowers.
Someone was crying in the stands. Not just anyone—Lan Linhui. His little brother stood in the first row, tears streaming down his face, mouth forming a word that must have been "Brother." Lan Chuwen nodded at him, trying to say: I see you, stop crying. Lan Linhui didn't see. He kept sobbing.
Lan Chuwen climbed over the ropes and jumped down. His legs were shaky, knees aching, thighs hurting—he didn't remember when he'd gotten those injuries. He walked to Lan Linhui and wiped the tears off his face. "Don't cry. I won." Lan Linhui grabbed his hand, voice trembling: "You're bleeding." Lan Chuwen said, "Yeah. I'll wash it off at home." Lan Linhui said, "Your eye…" Lan Chuwen touched his left eye—his hand came away covered in blood. "It's nothing. Just a scratch." He didn't say that eye couldn't see anything now. Not that he didn't want to; he just knew Lan Linhui would cry even harder.
The coach brought an ice pack and pressed it to his brow. Lan Chuwen hissed—it hurt. The coach said, "Want me to take you to the hospital?" Lan Chuwen said, "No. I'll bandage it myself at home." The coach looked at him and sighed. "You're only fourteen. Why fight so hard?" Lan Chuwen didn't answer. He knew why, but he didn't want to say it.
Lan Linhui was still crying beside him. Lan Chuwen glanced at him. "Did you finish your homework?" Lan Linhui blinked. "Yes." Lan Chuwen said, "Then go home and sleep." Lan Linhui said, "You come home with me." Lan Chuwen said, "Okay."
They walked out of the gym. The night wind was cool, prickling his face. Lan Chuwen looked up at the sky—few stars, a thin moon. He remembered when his older brother was still alive. They were poor, but he didn't have to fight. His brother would cook, would tuck them into bed, would gently pat his back when he woke from a nightmare. The day his brother died, he stood by the hospital bed, holding his brother's cooling hand. He didn't cry. Lan Linhui had sobbed behind him, breathless. He turned and said, "Stop crying. I'll take care of you from now on."
He was fourteen then. He was still fourteen now. At fourteen, kids his age were in school, playing video games, worrying about what to wear tomorrow. He was boxing, covered in blood, winning one fight after another. Not because he liked it—because fighting was the only way to get money. Money so Lan Linhui could go to school, could eat his fill, could avoid ending up like him.
He looked down at his hands. Knuckles coarser, calluses between his fingers, dried blood caked under his nails. These hands used to turn pages. Now they turned fate. He didn't know how much longer this would go on. He only knew he couldn't stop. If he stopped, his little brother would have no one.
Lan Linhui walked beside him, still sniffling. Lan Chuwen didn't look at him, but he reached over and took hold of his brother's sleeve. Lan Linhui glanced down, said nothing, and slipped his hand into Lan Chuwen's palm. Lan Chuwen closed his fingers around it. A fourteen-year-old's hand—small, not warm, but gripping tight.