His arms, thick as tree trunks and
locked in a death grip, suddenly went
completely slack. His entire body
convulsed once, and then he collapsed
backward, tumbling off Leo like a felled
oak tree.
He hit the canvas with a heavy thud,
gasping for air, his limbs twitching
involuntarily, entirely paralyzed from
the neck down.
absolute powerlessness he had just
experienced. The aura of invincibility,
the terrifying persona he had built over
years of brutality, had been shattered in
an instant by an old man’s finger.
As Elias and Leo stepped out of the
cage, the promoter—a slick man in a
cheap suit—rushed forward, his face
pale. "Wait, wait!" he stammered,
holding out a wad of cash. "The boy... he
technically survived the round. He gets
the purse. And you... who the hell are
you?"
The promoter’s eyes were fixed on
Elias with a mixture of greed and terror.
He saw an opportunity. A new myth to
sell.
Elias did not even look at the
money. He looked at the promoter with
eyes so ancient and cold that the man
physically recoiled. "Keep your coins,"
Elias said, his voice surprisingly deep,
carrying a quiet resonance that silenced
the immediate area. "You run a
slaughterhouse. We are not cattle."
He turned and continued walking,
supporting Leo, guiding him through
the parted sea of spectators who shrank
back as they passed.
Outside, the cool night air was a
shock to the system. The city was quiet,
a stark contrast to the hell they had just
left. Leo leaned against a brick wall in
the alleyway, sliding down to a sitting
position.
He coughed again, touching his
bruised throat. He looked up at Elias,
who stood silently, his hands back in his
pockets, gazing out at the streetlights.
"I lost," Leo croaked, his voice
barely a whisper.
"You survived," Elias corrected
gently, without looking down. "Winning
and losing are constructs for the ego.
Today, you faced the ultimate shadow.
You stared into the abyss, and you did