Harry dodged it. Then hit him with his fist.Newton'us nose shifted.
Harry fought with his natural strength. The tactics Master Kangfu had taught him were helpful. He allowed some strikes to land, small ones, just enough to sell the story. Knuckles brushed his ribs. A knee clipped his thigh. Each hit burned, but he let his body sway, letting the crowd think it was costing him more than it was.
Newton came in hard, over and over. His fists cut through the air like blades. His boots dug deep into the sand. He fought with anger, the kind that doesn't care if it bleeds as long as it draws blood too.
Harry kept stepping aside by inches. Not clean dodges. Never clean. He slipped just late enough to make it look like luck. He raised his arms a breath too slow so the blows thudded into muscle instead of bone. Pain flared. He welcomed it. The pain was loud. Pain was convincing.
The seven masters watched. Harry could almost feel their eyes like hands on his back. Newton rushed him again, roaring as he threw a wide hook. Harry ducked and let the fist graze his cheek. Skin split. Warm blood slid down his jaw. The crowd gasped. Someone shouted.
Newton grinned.
"There you are," he said, breath heavy. "You bleed like every bastard out there." Harry wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and tasted iron. He didn't answer. He stepped in and drove his shoulder into Newton's chest. Not with divine force. Just weight, timing, leverage. Newton stumbled back two steps, surprised.
They traded blows. Fists cracked against ribs. Elbows slammed into arms. Newton was strong. Stronger than most in level one. But his movements were wide. Predictable. Every strike came with a breath. Every breath came with a rhythm.
Harry listened to it. He slipped left when Newton inhaled. He struck when Newton exhaled. A jab to the throat. A knee to the stomach. A twist of the wrist that made Newton hiss through clenched teeth.
Still, Harry let himself fall once. Newton caught him with a lucky swing. Harry went down on one knee, sand biting into his skin. The arena roared. From the corner of his eye, he saw Master Kangfu's hand tighten inside his sleeve.
Harry stayed there for half a second longer than he needed to. Then he rose. Newton charged, thinking the moment had come. Harry pivoted and swept his leg. Newton crashed onto his back, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. Harry was on him in a blink, pinning his arm, twisting until Newton cried out.
"Yield," Harry said softly. Newton spat sand. "Never." Harry struck him once. Just once. Hard enough to end it. Newton went still.
The gong sounded. "Harry Jones wins," Master Kangfu announced, his voice steady. "
The crowd erupted. Some cheered. Some whispered. Some stared like they had seen something they could not name.
The monks dragged Newton away, his head lolling, his chest still rising and falling. Harry stepped back to the edge of the ring, wiping sweat from his brow. His rubber-covered left hand throbbed under the disguise. He kept it still.
Up above, the seven supreme masters leaned toward one another. "He didn't fight with that unnatural strength like last time," Master Caldwell murmured, his eyes sharp.
"Maybe he required a tougher opponent," Master Ferdinand replied, fingers tapping against his armrest. Master Frederick said nothing. He was watching Harry like a hawk watches a mouse.
Harry climbed out of the ring. As he walked back toward the student section, the Astania boys shifted out of his way. No one met his eyes. Even the ones who once mocked him now looked as if they weren't sure whether to bow or run.
He found Master Kangfu waiting by the pillar near the arena wall. "You did well," Kangfu said quietly, not looking at him.
Harry exhaled. His ribs ached. His cheek throbbed. "They were watching."
"They always are," Kangfu replied. "You gave them just enough."
"Did I?" Harry asked. Kangfu's eyes flicked toward the masters. "We will know soon."
The next day, other names were called. Fights followed. Blood stained the sand. Cries echoed off stone. Some students left the arena walking. Others were carried.
Harry stayed where he was, hands clenched at his sides. Every time a blow landed somewhere in the ring, his body reacted like it was his own. When the last fight of the tag ended, Master Kangfu raised his hand.
"Fight two," he announced. "Kelvin Rood of Iron Hill, against Peter Vane of Silver Coast." Another roar. Another clash. Harry barely heard it.
He could feel it again. That low hum in his left arm. A whisper under his skin. The God Hand was restless, like it had tasted blood and wanted more. He pressed his fingers into his palm, slow, deliberate. Calm. That was what Kangfu had taught him. Breathe. Let it pass.
But the arena was loud. Energy pulsed through the air, raw and wild. Fighters were pushing themselves past limits. Every scream, every impact, fed the thing inside him. Master Kangfu saw him and gestured calm.
Harry nodded, though his jaw was tight. Kelvin slammed Peter into the ground. The sound was sickening. The crowd went silent for a heartbeat.
The fight ended with a dull crack of knuckles against ribs and the soft grunt of a boy being thrown to the mat.
Harry got in once again. He went the same way as the last. Harry stepped back, chest rising and falling, sweat sliding down his temples. The crowd's roar came in waves, but he barely heard it. His eyes stayed on the fallen fighter until Master Kangfu declared him winner.
Another win. Four in a row.
He left the ring without looking at the body on the floor. That was part of it too. Never linger. Never let them see anything more than what you chose to show.
Around the arena, the seven Masters sat high above the fighters, robed figures behind a low stone railing. Their eyes followed every movement, every breath, every misstep. Harry could feel their gaze on his back even when he wasn't looking.
They had noticed him six months ago, when he had crushed Andy with a single strike that shouldn't have been possible.
They were still waiting to see it again. So far, he had not given it to them. Each fight followed the same quiet rhythm. He let the other fighter come first. He took a few hits, just enough to make it look even. Then, when their breathing changed, when their shoulders dropped by the tiniest fraction, he moved.
Fast. Precise. And then, the match is over. It was like walking on a thin wire. Win too easily and you draw eyes. Struggle too much and you risk losing for real. He stayed in the narrow space between.
After the fourth fight, Harry slipped into the training yard behind the arena. The noise of the crowd faded, replaced by the dry sound of fists striking wood and the soft scuff of feet on sand.
He moved through forms, slow and deliberate, muscles burning in that familiar, steady way. Sweat darkened the collar of his tunic. His breath stayed even.
A shadow fell across him. "You are still training?" Harry turned. Master Kangfu stood at the edge of the yard, hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes sharp as ever.
Harry nodded. "My next fight is tomorrow."
"You have already done enough," Kangfu said. Harry went back to his stance. "Enough is not what I need."