Hat didn't stay down. He rolled to the side, sprang to his feet, and — seizing the brief opening — swept Tuhaⱪ off his feet with a swift low kick. The movement was precise and clean. Tuhaⱪ's balance vanished in an instant as he crashed onto his back, caught completely off guard.
Hat didn't hesitate. He lunged forward and drove his left fist straight into Tuhaⱪ's right shoulder, knocking him off balance. Tuhaⱪ stumbled back a step, shook his head sharply, and his eyes locked onto Hat with renewed fire.
Without warning, Tuhaⱪ surged forward. His body dipped low, sliding in close — and with a sudden twist, he struck Hat's thigh with a punishing kick, the impact landing deep in the muscle.
I leaned forward sharply when Hat blocked the shoulder strike and nearly sent Tuhaⱪ crashing to the ground. My heart was pounding like a drum — this was the best fight I'd ever seen. And for some reason, I just wanted to cheer Hat on, help him break through, show what he was really capable of.
"Your father's watching! Show him what you've got!" I shouted, without thinking.
Hat heard me.
And in that moment… something changed.
It was like a switch flipped inside him. His face, sharp and focused just a second ago, dimmed. His eyes widened. His eyebrows twitched upward. His mouth moved slightly, like he wanted to say something — but no words came. His body tensed — frozen, almost. And then I saw it:
Fear.
Not of Tuhaⱪ.
Not of losing.
But fear… of his father's gaze.
A chill ran through me. I hadn't meant it like that. I hadn't known.
But now I felt it — where I would've felt pride at hearing my dad's name, Hat felt pressure. Threat. Pain.
And I felt… ashamed.
Hat let out a sharp breath, the pain blooming across his leg. His knee buckled, but he didn't fall.
Pain flared through Hat's leg, but something deeper ignited inside him. His fists trembled—not from fear, but from fury. The weight of his father's voice, the cold stare of his mother, all fused into one burning pulse in his chest.
"Enough…" he breathed through clenched teeth.
Beneath his feet, his Nexus flared to life—thick, grey energy surging like stone bursting from the ground. With a sharp thrust of his arm, Hat summoned a rising wall of force, a vertical slab of power that launched him high into the air.
Wind lashed at his face, but he didn't flinch.
Then—he jumped.
From the peak of his platform, Hat plummeted down like a meteor, his body tight, his eyes locked on Tuhaⱪ below. Arms tucked, knees bent—he became a living weapon, pouring everything he had into one final strike.
Tuhaⱪ barely had time to react. His Nexus flickered, and a thin, translucent barrier formed around him—fragile, cracked, humming with strain. Hat crashed into it with explosive force. The air shook, dust flew, and in the shockwave that followed, everything fell silent.
Both fighters collapsed.
Hat landed hard, sprawled out with his limbs limp, eyes glazed and fixed on the sky. Tuhaⱪ tried to stay up, one knee on the ground—but his muscles refused. His head dropped, and he fell into the silence, eyes closing as the last of his energy vanished.
The judge stepped forward.
"Both fighters are down. It's a tie."
A minute passed. Maybe two. The arena was slowly settling — the excited murmurs faded into uneasy silence, the crowd dispersing as if afraid to disturb the stillness left in the wake of the storm.
And then — Tuhaⱪ stirred.
His eyes opened slowly. Sweat clung to his forehead, and his breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. He tried to stand, but his limbs were stone — heavy, unresponsive. With effort, he pushed himself upright, leaning on one arm, gaze scanning the battlefield.
"Where is he…" he murmured, voice hoarse.
At that moment, a stretcher passed him — carried swiftly by two medics. On it lay Hat, unconscious, face pale, skin marked with bruises and shallow cuts. One medic checked his pulse, the other held a vial of stabilizing serum, ready to inject.
Standing at the edge of the arena was his father.
Tall. Impeccably dressed. Hands behind his back, posture rigid. His eyes weren't on his son — they were looking through him, as if Hat were a broken device, no longer useful.
No fear. No concern. Only quiet disgust.
His lips moved — silent, deliberate — but anyone watching could read them:
"Not first. Again."
Tuhaⱪ saw it. He watched Hat's father the way one watches poison — with neither hatred nor pity, only understanding.
In that moment, he realized something: there are many ways to lose. And some wounds run deeper than blows.
Tuhaⱪ lowered his gaze. His hands were trembling — but not from pain.
As the medics carried Hat away, the atmosphere around the arena grew heavy, tense. His classmates — those who had trained with him, laughed with him, competed beside him — began to move.
hesitant steps, glancing at each other, then at Hat's still body on the stretcher. They wanted to follow him — to be near, to offer something, anything. A word. A hand. A presence.
But they didn't get far.
the elders stepped forward — robed in muted colors, faces carved with age and judgment. Without raising their voices, without even lifting their hands, they made it clear:
"Do not follow."
Their gazes were enough. Cold. Final. Commanding silence and submission.
The children froze. Some dropped their eyes. Others clenched their fists. A few whispered Hat's name under their breath — as if trying to resist something invisible but absolute.
Only Tuhaⱪ kept watching.
Still seated on the ground, his breath finally steady, he looked not at the elders… but at the path where Hat had been taken. His expression unreadable — caught between exhaustion and something deeper.
I'm watching all this and I don't understand how to react to this situation. The referee announces the new participants of the fight.
"The next fight will be between Nurichu vs Shamil"