A deep silence settled over the examination grounds. The sun had risen high, yet a strange weight filled the air as the announcer's voice echoed across the arena:
> "Next match: Sharif vs. Bron, the Grand Brawler!"
Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd.
— "Sharif? That quiet kid?"
— "Against Bron? That giant monster of a man?"
— "He won't last ten seconds."
Sharif heard none of it. His eyes were fixed, his thoughts steady. This fight wasn't just against an opponent. It was against the voice that whispered in his heart for years: You'll never be good enough to be a hero.
Sharif stood up slowly. He wore a black half-sleeve shirt, padded gloves, and light armor on his shoulders. His build wasn't particularly muscular, but there was something in the calmness of his stride, the steadiness of his gaze, that made him stand out.
Bron stepped into the arena from the opposite end. His entry felt like an earthquake. Towering over seven feet tall, his muscles bulged beneath chains that wrapped around his shoulders like decoration. His skin had the color and texture of rough iron, and his eyes glowed with a crimson hue.
The two stood still, facing each other.
Bron smirked.
Sharif said nothing.
> "Begin!" the announcer declared.
Bron didn't wait. He charged like a beast unleashed, each step shaking the ground. His first punch came from the side—a crushing blow aimed at Sharif's temple.
But Sharif was already moving.
Not quickly. Not like a blur. But smoothly—like flowing water.
He bent at the waist, dodging the punch by a hair's breadth. Then, with a swift movement of his right elbow, he struck Bron's ribs.
Thud!
Bron staggered slightly, more surprised than hurt.
— "How...?" Bron muttered.
— "That kid's punch... it actually hurt."
Sharif's power was simple, but terrifying when mastered. He could enhance his physical strength by focusing every fiber of his body. Muscles, bones, nerves—everything amplified together.
But more than that—Sharif had learned control.
There was a time, long ago, when he couldn't. He once got so angry as a child, he punched a wall and the five-story building shook. That memory haunted him.
Today, he fought to rewrite it.
Bron roared, charging again.
This time, he didn't hold back.
Fists rained down like falling boulders. Left, right, overhead swings, hammer-like slams.
But Sharif flowed through the storm.
Each step was calculated. He ducked, leaned, stepped back, deflected. And in between—he struck. Elbows to the stomach, fists to the knees, quick jabs to the shoulder joints.
Bron was losing rhythm.
> "Is... is this the same quiet kid?" someone whispered.
Angered, Bron lifted both fists above his head and slammed them down with all his might.
Sharif couldn't dodge in time.
BAM!
The blow hit his left shoulder and cheek, sending him flying across the arena. Dust rose. Silence fell.
Everyone held their breath.
— "Is it over?"
— "No... look!"
Sharif was getting up.
Blood dripped from his lip. His left cheek was red and swelling. But his eyes… they burned with calm fire.
He inhaled deeply.
His body began to shift—veins bulging, steam rising from his skin, eyes glowing slightly red. His power surged. But it wasn't rage. It was clarity.
He ran.
Three quick steps and he was in front of Bron.
One punch.
Straight to the gut.
Bron gasped.
Before he could react, Sharif grabbed his thigh and shoulder, lifted the giant man into the air—and slammed him into the ground.
CRASH!
A shockwave rippled out. The arena trembled.
Bron didn't get up.
Silence.
Even the announcer took a second before saying,
> "Winner: Sharif!"
No one cheered. Not yet. They were too stunned.
Sharif didn't raise his hands.
He didn't celebrate.
He walked toward the exit, calm, steady.
He looked down at his bloodied hand, clenched it into a fist, and whispered,
> "I didn't defeat Bron.
I defeated the fear that told me I'd never be a hero."