At Round 2 began.
Sathya ducked low beneath Mohit's wide, brutal swing. He pivoted on instinct, his blood-forged blade slicing upward in a flash of crimson steel. Sparks burst as the blade scraped against Mohit's golden-hardened forearm—a screech of metal on magic, of will against flesh.
Mohit barely flinched. He grunted, then surged forward with brute force, shoulder slamming into Sathya's chest like a battering ram.
The air left Sathya's lungs in an instant.
His body flew.
Chairs toppled, tables cracked, and café furniture shattered around him as he crashed through it all like a thrown doll.
Mohit: "Give up already. You should've stayed in your place."
Sathya pushed himself up with trembling arms, blood slipping from his split lip. He coughed, spat red to the side, and slid one foot back to brace himself.
Sathya: "Nope. You're wrong. I won't stay down."
He stood there, panting, chest heaving. His ribs burned with every breath, but he kept his eyes locked on Mohit.
The man looked like a wall of moving gold. Unyielding. Imposing. Nearly impossible to touch.
Sathya had tried—again and again—to cut through that shimmering defense, but Mohit's golden ability hardened his skin like armor. Every strike just glanced off.
Sathya glanced down at his own hand.
It was trembling, and in it, he held a knife.
A knife.
Something he'd never imagined holding.
Not like this.
Not in violence.
And for a moment, he faltered. Just a heartbeat.
Why am I doing this?
This rage.
This defiance.
This violence.
This isn't who I was supposed to be.
I was raised to be quiet. To stay in line. To follow. To bend.
I heard my father's voice echo in my head—soft, tired, always cautious.
"Don't fight back, Sathya. Just walk away."
He remembered the day someone crashed into their car. A rough-looking man—probably some local goon—stepped out, eyes filled with arrogant menace. His father hadn't argued. He just… handed over the money.
Sathya had watched it in silence, confusion boiling in his young chest.
Later, he'd asked, "Why did you give him money? It was his fault."
His father smiled weakly and said, "It's not worth making a scene. We don't escalate things."
Outwardly, Sathya nodded.
But inside… inside something cracked.
A quiet, bitter voice whispered, We did nothing wrong. Why should we bow?
He'd buried that voice for years. Told himself it was shameful. That he was wrong to feel that way. He tried—truly tried—to become what his father wanted.
He smiled. He obeyed. He followed rules. He became the good boy, the model student, the one who never talked back, never got angry.
He spent his whole life being what others wanted—waiting for his father to finally look at him and say, "I'm proud of you."
But it never came.
And the day he betrayed Rohit—that was the day everything shattered.
Shame burned through him like acid. But not just shame for what he had done.
Shame for what he had allowed.
That was the moment he swore to himself: Never again.
Never again would he let others steer the wheel of his life. He would make his own decisions, walk his own path, and if it destroyed him, so be it. At least it would be his choice.
And right now, this was his choice.
Mohit surged forward again, golden light rippling across his arms as he struck. His fist carved through the air like a comet.
Sathya moved, ducking—too slow this time.
His blade sliced across Mohit's ribs, drawing blood—but Mohit didn't care. He took the hit.
He wanted the hit.
Then Mohit's arms wrapped around him mid-motion—tight, crushing. His muscles coiled like iron bands.
Mohit roared. And charged.
He dragged Sathya through what remained of the café—chairs exploding beneath them, a table snapping like brittle wood. Then—shards of glass, a deafening crash.
They burst through the café's glass doors and out into the mall's main corridor.
Glass rained down in glittering chaos.
They hit the floor hard, sliding across polished tile. Sathya crumpled in a heap of blood and broken pride. His arm—his blade arm—twitched limply.
Groaning, Sathya pushed against the ground. His palms smeared blood across the tile. Every part of him ached.
But he rose.
First to his knees.
Then slowly, shakily—to his feet.
His legs trembled. His vision blurred. He tasted metal and dust. But he stood.
A line of red snaked down his arm, pooling in his palm.
His magic pulsed.
A fresh stream of blood coiled down Sathya's arm, pooling into his palm—congealing, twisting—until another crimson dagger was born.
Mohit: "STAY DOWN! Or I'll kill you!"
Sathya coughed, wiped blood from his lips, and smiled through bruised lips.
Sathya (defiant): "I refuse to listen to others."
His back straightened. His shoulders squared. His legs trembled—but didn't buckle.
Sathya (with a grin): "I'll do what I want. Let's start… Round 3."
Mohit's fists clenched, golden light flickering across his forearms like living metal.
Mohit: "You'll lose round after round. And then… you'll die."
Sathya (low, resolute): "That's something we'll have to find out."
They stood there, in the shattered remains of the mall entrance—surrounded by broken glass, flickering lights, and loud voices as the crowd watched from the from afar.
One bleeding, but burning with defiance.
The other—stronger, faster, but suddenly unsure.
And so began Round 3.