Chapter 12
1557 Words
Round One.
He charged like a bull—reckless, loud, hungry to intimidate. Trying to overwhelm me early.
But I’ve danced with monsters tougher than him.
A jab. A right cross. The second punch clipped my ribs—sharp, sudden pain. I winced inside, but didn’t show a flicker. I circled to the right, eyes locked on his shoulders, reading the twitch before each move.
I let him show off. Gave him space to feel powerful. I just kept dodging. Let him tire himself out.
But if he dares hit my face?
I swear I’ll crack his skull open.
“Tch. You’re even softer than I thought,” he sneered, flashing a cocky grin, already rehearsing his victory lap in his head.
A low kick slammed into my thigh—my muscle tightened from the impact.
He lunged again. I ducked, slipped under, and rammed an elbow into his ribs, followed by a clean knee to his inner thigh—just a whisper away from his femoral artery.
That shut him up.
His mouth twisted in pain, but he powered through with a combo—left hook, right hook. I blocked both, though the force vibrated all the way to my elbows.
“You hit like a drum,” I muttered. “Loud. Hollow. Useless.”
His smirk died.
He spun, went for a backfist—desperate. Wild. I ducked low, pivoted behind him, and drove my elbow straight into the base of his neck. He staggered.
Now I had him.
“My turn,” I said flatly—no emotion, just motion.
I stepped in, feinted left. He took the bait, shifted his guard.
Then—twist of the hips. A clean right hook to the temple.
CRACK.
His head snapped sideways. His knees gave out.
And then?
He dropped.
Cold. Out cold. Flat on the mat.
“Guess who’s kissing the floor?”
The crowd lost it.
I stood in the center of the ring, grinning like it was just a warm-up. I didn’t even wait for the ref to raise my hand—he looked stunned himself. The moment spoke louder than any gesture.
He wasn’t getting up.
“And still undefeated, with another clean knockout… THE FLAME, THE FURY—PYRA!”
The crowd erupted, half in awe, half in disbelief. Somewhere in the back, I heard someone scream, “DAMN, PYRA, YOU'RE ON FIRE!”
Well... the fight was fire—both literal and figurative.
Patina and Ridge pushed through the mob, grinning like they'd hit the jackpot.
“You were so fast, seriously!” Patina teased, giving me a playful shove on the shoulder.
“My bad. He talked too much.”
“Goddamn,” Ridge chimed in, “you really hate guys who don’t know when to shut up, huh?”
“I don’t hate them,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “I just know exactly where to hit so they do.”
The whole place was trembling. My name roared through the crowd like a battle cry.
“PY-RA! PY-RA! PY-RA!”
“ONE MORE! ONE MORE!”
People stood on chairs, voices crashing like thunder.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Ridge tossed me a towel—I caught it. I sat beside Patina and drank water. Rested my head on her shoulder. She let me, even if I reeked of sweat.
“I’m heading out for a bit—who knows what my guest might do,” Ridge excused himself. We answered with a simple nod.
Then the next challenger stepped in.
Bulkier. Inked in black-and-grey tattoos that looked like tribal curses and forbidden scripture. His arms were tree trunks, neck thick as a pillar. He cracked his knuckles slow, like a movie villain, then rolled his shoulders with the flair of a man too used to being feared.
“I didn’t know you were fighting a Yakuza,” Patina whispered, laughing.
“Looks more like a sumo fighter,” I added, and we both chuckled.
He glared at us like a pissed-off bull, which only made us laugh harder.
Patina whistled low. “Damn. He looks like he eats rookies for breakfast.”
He stared me down like I was prey. I stepped into the ring again to a roaring crowd.
Then he pointed at me. “You got lucky back there,” he growled, voice like a low drum. “But this time? You’re done. I’ll make sure your fans go silent.”
I tilted my head slowly, like I was letting his words sink in.
Then I smiled.
“You’re right about one thing,” I said. “This time’s different—because you’re not lasting two minutes.”
That was all it took to set the crowd ablaze.
The referee waved us in.
The announcer’s voice thundered:
“Coming up next—the beast of brute force, the tower of terror—versus the queen of knockouts, the undefeated PYRA!”
“One punch is all it takes to make you cry, baby girl,” he winked, blowing a kiss.
Cringe.
“Hope that punch lands,” I smirked. “Because if it doesn’t, you’re the one crying.”
The bell rang.
He swung.
Missed.
I ducked. Drove a liver shot so precise he coughed like I punched the air out of his lungs. He dropped to one knee.
The crowd gasped.
“One hit, right?” I whispered.
He got up out of pride—but his legs disagreed.
I spun and backfisted his temple.
Down.
Clean.
Again.
“And another one bites the dust!” the announcer howled.
Five minutes later, a new challenger stepped in.
“Do your best, Pyra. I’m not like those amateurs you beat,” he said, cracking his knuckles.
I grinned. “Perfect. I needed a good stretch.”
Bell rang. He launched a low kick—fast. I checked it. Painful but manageable.
Then he struck my ribs. This time, it landed. He was fast, I’ll give him that.
“OOOHHH!” the crowd reacted.
But he overreached.
Bad move.
I grabbed his leg, stepped in, elbowed his sternum, and swept him off his feet.
He dropped.
I slammed a hammer fist right into his solar plexus.
He tried to crawl away—I straddled him.
One sharp punch to the side of his neck.
Lights out.
From the crowd, Ridge screamed, “HOLY s**t, PYRA! WHAT ARE YOU, AN X-MEN?!”
The place went ballistic. Patina was counting bills with a smug grin. Another bet won.
The last one stepped in—flashy footwork, heavy gloves, heavier ego.
“You know, I don’t even need to fight you,” he winked. “We could just have dinner after this.”
“If you wanna eat the floor, sure,” I said, cracking my knuckles.
He was tougher. Landed a few jabs. Hit my side, and my left knee buckled a bit.
“PYRA, WIN THIS!” a fan yelled, fully invested.
But I smiled.
I baited him into an uppercut, ducked, then kneed him hard in the gut.
He stumbled.
I pivoted, hooked his kidney, then followed with a left elbow to his jaw.
He staggered.
“Eat well,” I whispered.
Then—spinning back kick to the neck.
His face met the floor.
Another clean knockout.
My knuckles throbbed. Sweat stung my eyes. My chest heaved from the adrenaline.
And still—I smiled.
I smiled like a beast unleashed. Like a queen who just claimed another piece of the underground.
With the crowd chanting my name, I raised both fists high, drinking in the sound.
“PY-RA! PY-RA! PY-RA!”
The warehouse shook like it was worshiping the fire I’d left behind.
Patina burst past the ref and tackled me into a hug. “YOU WERE AMAZING!” she screamed.
We jumped like kids after a street game win, laughing through sweat and blood.
This was joy Soreia could never afford. A kind of freedom she was never allowed.
But as Pyra, I lived for it.
“Did you see his face before he dropped?” Patina gasped, laughing. “It was like his ego got hit by a cement truck!”
“Exactly,” I grinned. “I heard his confidence shatter after the second roundhouse.”
We laughed—until my eyes drifted past the ropes.
There. In the haze of lights and smoke.
Him.
A pair of eyes—dark, steady, familiar. Watching. Measuring.
Lucerio De Chavel.
Crisp ivory shirt, top buttons loose. Charcoal slacks. That signature Patek Philippe glinting under a rolled sleeve.
And those glasses—cutting through the smoke like a blade.
His stare wasn’t of a rival anymore.
It was shock. Confusion. Disbelief.
Like I didn’t make sense.
He wasn’t cheering. He wasn’t even breathing.
Just... watching.
Frozen.
And for the first time tonight, I felt cold fear crawl down my spine.
Because Lucerio De Chavel was never unsure.
Never caught off guard.
But now?
He looked like he’d seen a ghost.
Or worse—like he’d finally connected the last piece of a puzzle he was never meant to solve.
Our eyes locked.
He didn’t look away.
And neither did I.
Not even when my chest tightened.
Not even when a voice inside whispered:
He knows.
- Writer
