Fists of the Forgotten

The crowd roared as the air crackled with tension. The academy's open-air arena was bathed in the orange hues of the setting sun, casting long shadows over the worn stone floor. Hundreds of students lined the tiers, eager to witness yet another trial by combat—a daily ritual at Ironclad Academy, where strength was law and failure meant exile.

Kade stood at the edge of the fighting ring, fists clenched and heart pounding in his chest. He had never asked to be here. He wasn't one of the elites, the chosen few destined for greatness. No, he was just another face in the crowd, a nameless student scraping by on grit and luck. Yet here he was, facing down one of the academy's best.

"Come on, Kade. Don't embarrass yourself too much," sneered Jarek, his opponent. Jarek was everything Kade wasn't: tall, confident, and already hailed as a prodigy. His stance was relaxed, his smirk infuriating. He twirled a wooden practice staff in his hand like it was a toy.

"I didn't ask for this," Kade muttered under his breath. He glanced briefly at the instructors seated in the high balcony. They watched with dispassionate eyes, their judgment inevitable and absolute.

"You can forfeit," Jarek taunted, taking a casual step forward. "No one will blame you for running away. Well, except everyone here."

Laughter rippled through the crowd. Kade ignored it. He had grown used to being underestimated, overlooked, and ridiculed. But something about this fight felt different. He couldn't place it, but a nagging sensation gnawed at the back of his mind, as if unseen eyes were watching from beyond the arena.

"Begin!" the instructor's voice rang out, signaling the start of the match.

Jarek moved first, lunging with blinding speed. Kade barely had time to react, raising his arms to block the strike. The wooden staff cracked against his forearm guard, sending a jolt of pain up his arm. He stumbled back, gritting his teeth.

"Too slow," Jarek jeered, following up with a sweeping strike aimed at Kade's legs.

This time, Kade jumped back, narrowly avoiding the blow. He knew he couldn't win a direct confrontation. Jarek had the reach, the skill, and the confidence. Kade only had his instincts and his stubborn refusal to give up.

"Stay calm. Find an opening," he told himself.

Jarek pressed the attack, each strike faster and more precise than the last. Kade dodged and parried as best he could, but it was clear he was on the defensive. The crowd's cheers blurred into a dull roar in his ears. Time seemed to slow as he focused entirely on surviving the onslaught.

Then he saw it—a brief hesitation in Jarek's movement, a slight overextension of his left arm. Without thinking, Kade seized the moment. He stepped in, inside Jarek's reach, and drove his shoulder into his opponent's chest.

Jarek stumbled, caught off guard. The crowd gasped, and for a fleeting moment, Kade felt a surge of hope.

But it didn't last.

Jarek recovered quickly, his expression darkening. With a furious snarl, he swung his staff in a wide arc. Kade tried to block, but the force of the blow sent him sprawling to the ground. The impact knocked the wind out of him, and his vision blurred.

"Pathetic," Jarek spat, standing over him. "You should have stayed down."

Kade struggled to rise, his body screaming in protest. He knew he couldn't win. But something deep inside him refused to yield. He clenched his fists, ignoring the pain, and prepared to stand once more.

"Enough!" The instructor's voice cut through the noise like a blade. "The match is over."

Jarek lowered his staff with a satisfied smirk. "Looks like you get to live another day, Kade. Try not to get in my way again."

The crowd began to disperse, their excitement fading as quickly as it had come. Kade remained on the ground, catching his breath. He didn't feel defeated. He felt something else—a strange, cold sensation crawling up his spine, as if the shadows themselves were reaching out to him.

"You're lucky he didn't break your ribs," a familiar voice said.

Kade looked up to see his friend Mira standing over him, offering a hand. He took it, letting her pull him to his feet.

"I don't feel lucky," Kade muttered.

Mira gave him a lopsided grin. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up. You're bleeding."

As they walked away from the arena, Kade couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. He didn't know what it was, but he knew one thing for certain—this wasn't the end. It was only the beginning.

In the shadows of the arena, unseen by all, a pair of eyes watched Kade intently. A whisper drifted through the air, carried by a breeze that no one felt.

"Fists of the forgotten…"