The instant our fists rebounded from that simultaneous clash, he stepped through my guard and drove his palm into my chest. The impact was not a strike. It was displacement.

  The air around us compressed and burst outward as his strength transferred into me. My ribs buckled under the pressure and I was blasted backward, feet leaving the ground as if I weighed nothing. I tore through loose stone and shattered bodies. Splinters rained down around me from the carriages.

  For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.

  My chest refused to expand.

  He’s not even using Praying Wind. He's just that strong.

  I rolled to my side just as a slab of broken masonry slammed into the space where my head had been. Kaiguro had kicked it—not even looking strained. He advanced through the settling dust with one hand still loosely flexing, the other hanging at his side.

  He was certain of victory.

  I forced air into my lungs and pushed myself upright. My ribs protested sharply. Something was at least cracked.

  He was already in range.

  I snapped a jab toward his throat—fast, direct.

  He slipped inside it. I followed with a cross to his jaw.

  He leaned back just enough for my knuckles to brush skin instead of bone. His footwork was infuriatingly inefficient. He wasted energy, but he could afford too. His battle sense was no slouch either, as he read the tension in my shoulders before I committed to each strike.

  His left hook came.

  It crashed into my jaw and spun my head sideways. He stepped forward to finish the sequence. That was his mistake.

  Instead of resisting the recoil, I let my body turn with it. My back faced him for a fraction of a second—an opening most fighters would never give.

  But I was never most fighters.

  As his weight shifted forward to capitalize, I pivoted sharply and drove a spinning backward elbow into his face.

  The point of my elbow struck high on his cheekbone with a crack that echoed.

  He stumbled half a step.

  Surprise flashed across his features.

  I saw it clearly.

  That had always been my way.

  The Counter Style.

  Our tribe’s doctrine of restraint forged into combat philosophy. We do not initiate violence. We endure it. We answer it. Peace, enforced only when broken.

  But the doctrine never promised invulnerability.

  My jaw throbbed. My ribs screamed. My vision still swam from his hook.

  He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and looked at it briefly before refocusing on me.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Then he attacked in earnest.

  We closed into the pocket, chest to chest, forearms colliding, shoulders grinding for position. The exchange abandoned formality.

  Hooks, uppercuts, body shots.

  His right hand buried itself into my ribs again. Something shifted painfully under the strike. I retaliated with a short hook to his liver. He grunted but answered with a brutal straight that snapped my head back.

  We traded without retreat.

  Each of my counters landed because he insisted on pressing forward. Each of his blows landed because he was faster and stronger.

  Gradually, the difference began to show.

  His punches retained weight.

  Mine began to dull.

  He slipped two of my attempts entirely and hammered a right into my temple. Before I could reset, his knee drove into my thigh, nearly dropping me.

  He was walking me down now. Every exchange ended with me yielding ground. A left to my ribs. A right to my cheek. I didn't know what to do. Another hook splitting skin above my brow. Blood dripped into my eye.

  My counters still connected—but they no longer staggered him. They only annoyed him. He was winning.

  My limbs felt heavier by the second.

  I made a decision.

  Instead of throwing another strike, I turned away from him.

  I dropped into a crouch, back exposed, chin tucked tightly to my chest. My forearms rose and crossed over the back of my head. Elbows locked in. Spine curved.

  A shell.

  A posture of surrender.

  To anyone watching, it would have looked pathetic.

  Kaiguro’s footsteps stopped behind me.

  “So this is what you choose?” he said, voice thick with disdain. “Cowering?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I am doing what’s right.” he continued. “Strength preserves us. Weakness killed the Elder. Weakness killed our people.”

  His presence loomed over me.

  “You want to protect peace?” he snarled. “Then survive this. Show your resolve!”

  I felt his weight shift.

  The ground cracked under his planted foot.

  The punch descended toward the back of my skull like a falling pillar.

  My forearms caught it—but only partially.

  The impact drove through my guard and slammed my head forward. I was inches away from death now.

  Pain overwhelmed everything.

  Now.

  Coward’s Plea.

  The Hatchahuk tribe’s hidden technique, passed on only to me.

  At the instant of decisive impact, do not resist.

  Yield completely.

  Let the force travel through you.

  Let it gather.

  My body folded further under the strike instead of fighting it. Every muscle loosened. Every joint softened. I absorbed the blow like earth receiving rain.

  Then I moved.

  Using the recoil, I rotated sharply and rose from the crouch.

  Kaiguro’s fist was still retracting when my jaw met it.

  I felt bone shatter.

  My lower jaw fractured fully this time. My mouth filled with blood.

  I had already committed.

  I stepped in, closing the final inch of distance between us.

  From the depths of the crouch, from torn muscle and broken bone, I drove my fist into his chest.

  Not with mere vengeance on the mind.

  With everything the tribe had entrusted to us.

  It took a second.

  Then the force erupted.

  It was accumulated impact released all at once.

  The ground beneath Kaiguro’s feet detonated outward. His ribs compressed under my fist as the stored force discharged into him. His body lifted from the earth and hurtled backward like a projectile, smashing through debris and stone before crashing violently into the remnants of the city wall.

  The wall collapsed around him.

  Dust consumed the space between us.

  I stood there, swaying.

  My arms trembled uncontrollably. My legs threatened to give out. My jaw hung misaligned.

  Through the settling haze, I saw him.

  On his knees. Breathing unevenly.

  Behind him... the Elder? Standing upright, hands folded behind his back. Disappointed yet hopeful.

  An illusion born of exhaustion—or perhaps something deeper.

  Kaiguro’s eyes unfocused slightly as he stared past me.

  “We need strength...” he murmured weakly, “That's all that matters.”

  His body tipped forward, collapsing into unconsciousness.

  I took a step toward him and nearly fell myself. Still, I knelt beside him.

  He was alive. His chest rose shallowly but steadily.

  “Idiot...” I muttered, the word mangled by my broken jaw.

  I'm sorry Vellin, I won't be able to join you in the fight against Leo. I have to worry about my own now, and if you really think about it, taking down Kaiguro must be enough. I wish you luck.

  Carefully, painfully, I lifted him and draped his arm over my shoulders. He was heavier than I remembered.

  Or maybe I was simply weaker.

  Each step toward the nearest town felt like dragging the weight of the entire tribe behind me. But I carried him. Because we never strike first.

  And we never leave our own behind.