The school bell echoed through the hallways of Lincoln High, but today, no one was rushing to class.
Instead, a crowd had gathered in the abandoned gym, their whispers bouncing off the cracked walls and faded bleachers.
Rumors had spread fast — two underdogs, Date and Herlen, were finally settling their grudge.
Under the flickering fluorescent lights, the air buzzed with tension.
In one corner stood Date — 5'5", 62 kilos of coiled muscle and sharp focus.
He was compact, calm, and battle-ready, a product of brutal discipline: hundreds of push-ups, squats, and crunches every morning,
plus hours of jump rope and shadowboxing. His movements were tight, precise, dangerous.
His flash steps blurred the line between speed and invisibility; his ghost jabs struck faster than thought;
his liver blows could drop anyone foolish enough to underestimate him.
Across from him, Herlen rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck with a smirk.
At 5'7" and 55 kilos, he looked leaner — wiry and rough-edged.
He didn't have a fighter's sculpted body, but every muscle came from survival.
Street brawls, soccer fields, long runs — that was his gym. His grip was legendary,
his kicks heavy enough to rattle bones. He'd fought not for pride, but for life.
The crowd parted, phones out, screens glowing. The air felt electric.
"Ready to eat floor, Date?" Herlen sneered, tightening his fists until his knuckles popped.
Date smirked, rolling his neck. "Talk less. Fight more."
"Cocky as ever." Herlen spat on the mat. "Let's see that pretty speed of yours hold up."
The tension broke with Herlen's charge — a wild haymaker slicing through the air.
Date ducked and rolled, smooth as silk. His counter came like lightning — a ghost jab snapping into Herlen's jaw.
The crack echoed through the gym. Herlen staggered, eyes flashing with both pain and fury.
"You're fast," he grunted, grabbing Date's arm mid-retreat. His grip clamped tight, iron strong.
Date winced as pain shot up his arm — Herlen yanked him forward and drove a brutal knee into his gut.
"Urgh—!" Date gasped, twisting free with a roll. His core tightened, breath steadying as he reset his stance.
Herlen grinned. "Not bad, gym boy."
Date's eyes narrowed. "You hit hard. But not smart." He snapped a low kick into Herlen's thigh, the sound a sharp thud.
Herlen stumbled, but fired back a roundhouse that crashed into Date's guard, the impact reverberating through his bones.
He skidded back, boots squealing against the floor.
The crowd erupted. "Let's go, Date!" "Hit him again, Herlen!"
Herlen pressed forward, throwing heavy hooks, each one whistling with force.
Date bobbed and weaved, his head movement fluid, almost mocking. One swing passed close enough to ruffle his hair.
He ducked under another and drove a fist deep into Herlen's side — a perfect liver shot.
Herlen's face contorted, air exploding from his lungs.
"Gah—!" He stumbled but refused to fall. His pride burned brighter than the pain.
With a roar, he lashed out, his punch clipping Date's shoulder and spinning him halfway around.
Date regained balance instantly, countering with a sharp front kick that thudded into Herlen's thigh.
Herlen grimaced, grabbed the leg, and squeezed — bruises blooming under his grip.
"Gotcha," he growled.
But Date twisted, snapping a side kick into Herlen's chest, forcing him to let go.
The taller boy crashed back into the crowd, who pushed him forward with wild cheers.
Herlen's breath came in ragged bursts. "You're good," he admitted, voice low but defiant. "But I'm not done."
"Neither am I."
Herlen feinted high and went low — his shin slamming toward Date's knee.
Date rolled away just in time, coming up with a spinning roundhouse that grazed Herlen's ear.
The crowd roared as the fight devolved into chaos — speed versus raw power.
Date found his rhythm again, every move flowing like a dance.
He slipped Herlen's right cross and unleashed a brutal counter — a cross that cracked against Herlen's guard, snapping a rib audibly.
Herlen's roar turned into a pained groan. Still, he lunged, grabbing Date in a clinch, his arms crushing like steel cables.
Date struggled, feeling his strength drain under the pressure.
"Too tight for you?" Herlen grinned through gritted teeth.
Date's eyes flared. "Not tight enough." He drove an elbow into Herlen's ribs and broke free with a sharp twist.
Then, with a flash step forward, he went for the finish — feinting a jab before delivering a perfect liver blow combo,
followed by a Muay Thai roundhouse to the head.
The sound echoed — a dull, devastating thud.
Herlen's eyes rolled back, his knees buckled.
He tried to swing one last punch, but Date blocked it effortlessly and ended it with one final ghost jab.
Herlen hit the mat hard, the gym going silent for half a heartbeat before exploding in cheers.
"Holy crap! He's out!" someone shouted.
Date stood tall, chest heaving, sweat dripping from his jaw.
He wiped blood from his lip, his expression calm — almost disappointed.
"That's how it's done," he muttered.
Herlen stirred, groaning, the fight beaten out of him but his pride still flickering.
Date glanced down, eyes softening. "You've got heart, man. But next time—"
He offered a hand. "Train smarter."
Herlen hesitated, then took it. "Next time, I'll win."
Date smirked. "I'll be waiting."
The crowd cheered louder than ever — not for the fight, but for the respect that followed.
Lincoln High had just witnessed a new kind of glory.