The morning sun hung mercilessly over the Saint Academy training field, blistering the backs of sweating recruits scrambling through the Gauntlet Drill—a brutal, pride-killing test of endurance.
Damien Gray's arms screamed as he dragged Lyle, his sprained-ankle teammate, across the finish line. Dirt caked his knees, his chest rose and fell in labored gulps, but he didn't stop. He never left his own behind.
Across the field, Zeke stood tall with his team—already finished, barely sweating, arms folded like a war god carved from stone. He was built like a fortress and knew it. Watching Damien carry the injured through sheer will made something in Zeke twitch—whether disgust or curiosity, even he wasn't sure.
"You're fast, Gray," Zeke called, loud enough for everyone to hear. "But dragging dead weight won't make you stronger."
Damien lifted his head, chest heaving. "At least I don't abandon my team."
Zeke's jaw tightened. "Sometimes dead weight needs to be cut loose. You wanna survive? Stop babysitting."
Damien stood tall, eyes dark and defiant. "You think stomping through the drill makes you strong? All that muscle and still no spine."
The air turned razor-sharp.
Gasps.
Instructor Rayne turned his head, smirked, and said nothing. This was about to become something deeper than rivalry—something Saint Academy didn't teach in lectures.
Zeke's grin was slow and dangerous. "After training. Courtyard behind Dorm C. You and me."
Damien didn't flinch. "No Divinity. Just strength."
Zeke nodded. "Then come prove yourself."
---
That Afternoon – The Courtyard Behind Dorm C
The sun had barely begun to set when a ring of cadets formed silently around the back courtyard. No one cheered. No one spoke. They knew better.
Damien stood shirtless, arms wrapped in cloth tape, scars and bruises telling his story. Across from him stood Zeke, flexing his fingers, veins like cords snaking down his arms.
They stared at each other.
Neither blinked.
Then a single clap from the upperclassman referee split the silence.
"Begin."
Zeke lunged like a bull, swinging a hammer-fist right hook. Damien ducked low, slid past the impact, and landed two fast jabs to Zeke's ribs. The hits thudded, but Zeke barely moved.
"You hit like a breeze," Zeke smirked, stepping forward again.
Damien pivoted, rolled, and tried to stay mobile. But Zeke cut angles like a predator, then surged forward, wrapping thick arms around Damien's waist and slamming him into the dirt.
A heavy thud. Dust burst upward. Some cadets winced.
But Damien rolled out, spitting blood, eyes still sharp. "Nice throw. Let's see you do it again."
This time Damien attacked. Fast. Sharp. He darted in, struck twice—chest, then cheek—and spun into a vicious sidekick to the ribs. Zeke grunted, stumbled, then laughed.
"That all you got, dancer?"
Zeke responded with brute fury—punches like bricks, a body blow that folded Damien, followed by a knee that sent him sprawling.
Damien crawled to his feet, one hand on his ribs. He exhaled slow. Then burst forward, headbutting Zeke in the nose and following with a leaping elbow to the jaw. Zeke reeled backward, stunned.
Blood trickled down his nostril.
They both staggered. Breathless. Broken. Unyielding.
Their fists moved slower now, but each hit carried years of frustration and fire. They brawled in the dust, fists cracking jaws, knees slamming ribs, sweat and blood spraying with every strike.
Zeke landed a devastating right hook.
Damien countered with a knee to the chest.
Then suddenly—they broke apart, panting.
"Why do you push so damn hard?" Zeke growled, eyes narrowing.
Damien spat blood to the side. "Because I'm not here just to survive."
Zeke paused. "Then what?"
Damien met his gaze, teeth clenched. "I'm going to surpass the one who brought me here… High Saint John Davis."
Zeke froze.
Then, with a bitter laugh, wiped blood from his brow. "You too, huh?"
Damien blinked.
Zeke nodded, fire in his voice now. "That man's a god to the world. I want to prove that even gods can be outrun."
They stared at each other—bruised, battered, and bonded by a shared ambition neither had expected.
The silence snapped as they charged again.
They grappled, rolled, fought like wolves in the dirt—until neither could lift an arm.
Flat on their backs, chests rising and falling like drums, they stared at the clouds in silence.
Then Zeke turned his head slightly. "You're stubborn."
Damien, breathless, smiled faintly. "You're heavy."
A pause. Then, together, they laughed—bruised, exhausted, but smiling like they'd just won something deeper than victory.
The crowd stayed silent. The referee stepped forward and nodded. "Draw."
Zeke sat up, groaning. "You're insane."
Damien chuckled, wiping blood from his mouth. "You started it."
Zeke reached out a bloodied fist. "Truce?"
Damien bumped it with his own. "Brotherhood."
They limped off the field shoulder-to-shoulder.
From that day forward, Damien Gray and Zeke Alastair were no longer enemies but friends. They were bonded—not by power or position—but by pain, sweat, and the fire of a shared destiny:
To surpass the greatest Saint who ever lived.
And that was enough.