That laugh... echoed inside my skull. This wasn't going to be a fight. It was a hunt, and I was the prey. Fear settled in my throat like a block of ice. I wanted to run, yet my legs wouldn't move. In that instant I knew: either I would freeze here, or at least die screaming. The primal terror inside me flipped into blind fury.
"Come on, then," he said, the laughter melting into a grin. "First move is yours."
I let that blind fury drive me. I attacked—the only thing my mind could form. No stance, no technique—just a forward charge and the hardest punch I could throw.
Kireal barely moved. He shifted his torso a fraction, letting my fist slice past on a gust of air. As it met nothing, he chopped the nerve bundle just below my shoulder with the edge of his hand. My arm went numb, dangling uselessly. Pain cracked through my brain like lightning.
"Zero control," he said, his voice still tinged with pleasant amusement. "Just raw force."
This wasn't a fight; it was the methodical dismantling of prey. Kireal consumed me piece by piece. First he targeted my legs—low kicks to unbalance me, strikes behind the knees to drop me. Each time I fell he waited for me to rise, then resumed the same merciless rhythm.
From the doorway I noticed soldiers filtering in, drawn by the sounds. The crowd thickened. I was no longer just Lynx's concern; I was a plaything in front of dozens of strangers, at the mercy of a battle-mad predator.
"Breathe, kid!" he barked once. "Even dying takes oxygen."
When my legs gave out, he moved to my torso. Each blow hammered my abdomen and ribs like a mallet, driving air from my lungs, leaving me desperate for the next breath. I collapsed, face pressed to the cold, smooth mat, the metallic taste of blood mixed with sweat in my mouth.
Finally, once he sensed I was spent, he made a last move. While I tried to rise in a brief opening, he seized my arm, twisted, drove me down—the wet, wrenching CRACK of my shoulder filled the arena.
A scream tore free. My shoulder dislocated. The pain was so intense my vision dimmed. Finished. Really finished. I couldn't feel the arm. I'd reach that medical table like a broken toy.
"No mortal danger," Yaren murmured in my mind. "Shoulder capsule torn. Moving it will only worsen the damage."
Kireal stepped back with the ease of a craftsman satisfied with his work. "So much for unbreakable will," he taunted. "All I see is a brat writhing in pain."
That contempt—that silent crowd staring—sparked something inside me. My body was broken, yes, but my mind was still here. I would not quit. Even if I died, I wouldn't lie on the floor before this woman-killer.
Grinding my teeth, I pushed with my good arm and legs, groaning through waves of agony that exploded from the dislocated joint. My body trembled, muscles rebelled.
A murmur of shock rippled through the watchers. Lynx stood frozen in horror, seeing a shattered man attempt the impossible.
I made it to my knees. Sweat streamed from my head, eyes blurred with pain—yet I stood, swaying, cradling the useless arm with the good one. Broken, bleeding—unbeaten.
The smug grin drained from Kireal's face. His brows drew tight. Breaking the body was easy—breaking the will was not.
And then a new expression dawned. His eyes gleamed with something I'd never seen before. Not a hunter's curiosity—more the manic delight of a master who discovers priceless ore in an unlikely rock.
He walked toward me, steps no longer dismissive but measuring—one warrior weighing another.
"There you are," he whispered, no hint of mockery left, only awe. "So this is the will Lynx talked about."
He straightened and turned to Lynx, who still watched in shock. For the first time his voice carried approval—pride even.
"I understand, Lynx," he said. "Now I see." Then his gaze shifted back to me. "You were right—though in a way you never imagined."
He started toward the door. The crowd parted as soldiers move aside for a commander. Yet before leaving he paused to give final orders—addressed to Lynx, though his eyes stayed on me.
"Get him out of here. Take him to medical. Have that shoulder set," he said, his voice clear, decisive. He hesitated, as if choosing words with care; in his eyes glinted the dangerous pride of a blacksmith surveying precious metal he intends to forge.
"And make sure it's repaired properly, Lynx. After the Serynox are finished..."
His voice dropped—each word half-promise, half-threat.
"...if there's still iron left to beat, I'll be the one to hammer it."
And he left.
Behind him he left a muttering crowd that barely grasped what they'd witnessed—an exhibition of ruthless power and the unbelievable stubbornness of a battered body still standing. A "kid," bruised and exhausted, yet upright through sheer will.
And—beside me—a comrade.
When I looked at Lynx, I caught the dangerous flash of vindication on her face: her commander had publicly validated her. Yet at the same time the tip of her tail twitched against the floor in anxious tremors, betraying the cold realization that her friend was now part of a larger, crueller game. From her stance, her expression, that uncontrolled flick of her tail, I understood it all: she was proud of me—and she was afraid for me.
YOU ARE READING
GATE: First Encounter
FantasyA stranger in his own body... An intruder in his own mind... Okan had no idea he was living the last ordinary day of his life. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in his own bed but a captive on Aetherion-a distant world beyond the stars. How...
