The author narrates.
The crowd roared.
The stands vibrated with every shout, every clap, every chanted name.
Intense lights bathed the ring, where two sweaty bodies clashed with fury and technique.
It was more than a fight.
It was a spectacle.
It was a battle of wills.
And then…
RING!
The bell rang.
The blows ceased.
The bodies separated.
It was time to breathe.
Steve collapsed onto the bench in his corner, panting, his arms taut as ropes.
His opponent watched him from the other side, his gaze fixed, as if the pause were merely a provocation.
A figure approached through the chaos.
Swift.
Precise.
It was Arlette, his trainer.
The woman who had trained him for three years.
Steadfast.
Relentless.
And now… worried.
Arlette: Can you keep this up, Steve? —she asked, offering him water and checking a cut on his eyebrow.
Steve stretched his arms, feeling his muscles tense, as if his body were begging for a break.
But hearing the concern in Arlette's voice…
He couldn't help himself.
He laughed.
A half-hearted, dry laugh, but laced with irony.
His opponent's companions looked at him, confused.
What was wrong with him?
Had he gone mad?
Steve leaned toward Arlette, a crooked smile on his face.
Steve: Who do you think you're dealing with? —he said mockingly— Do you know what you're saying, Master Arlette?
Arlette frowned.
Not out of annoyance.
Out of pride.
Because this was the Steve she had molded: The one who laughed in the face of pain. The one who turned worry into fuel.
Arlette: Don't make me regret training you, brat, she replied, adjusting the bandage on his arm.
Steve stood up from the bench.
The crowd roared louder.
His opponent was getting ready.
And he…
He was only thinking about one thing:
"This isn't just a fight. It's the beginning of something bigger."
Until now, Steve had never seen this side of Arlette.
A warm side.
A human side.
A flicker of concern that broke through her usual toughness.
Arlette: Yes, I am concerned… she said, adjusting the bandage on his arm, "because I'm proud. You've come so far."
Her voice didn't tremble.
But her heart did.
Just a little.
Enough for Steve to notice.
He smiled, tilting his head.
Steve: I like this new side of you… you should let it out more often.
Arlette let out a short, dry laugh.
She glanced back at the ring.
His opponent's teammates were beginning to leave.
The fight was about to start again.
Arlette: Keep dreaming, Steve,' she replied sarcastically, giving him a friendly punch on the arm.
Steve laughed.
Not out of mockery.
Out of complicity.
Arlette: Go all out,' she added, before turning and leaving the ring.
The light changed.
The ring was empty.
Steve and his opponent.
Nothing else.
The crowd, once noisy, fell into an expectant silence.
As if the air itself held its breath.
Their eyes met.
And the tension…
The tension was so thick it seemed to radiate heat.
As if both their bodies were furnaces ignited by willpower.
The opponent began walking to the right, his eyes never leaving Steve's.
Steve followed, in a defensive stance.
He wasn't thinking.
He was feeling.
His instincts were his compass.
And if he didn't let himself be guided… his strategies would be useless.
The rival was imposing.
208 cm tall. 45 years old.
A professional wrestler from the Crepefrack, the most brutal league in his country.
He had been sent in secret.
His mission: to defeat Steve.
Steve, for his part, was 185 cm tall. 25 years old.
The strongest student Arlette had ever trained.
Three years of discipline.
Three years of pain.
Three years for this moment.
And now…
It all came down to a single fight.
The opponent began running toward Steve.
Each step was an earthquake.
The ground trembled beneath his weight, and the crowd roared as if the colossus were unstoppable.
A barrage of punches rained down on Steve.
Fists like hammers.
But Steve, agile as a fox, dodged, rolling to the left.
The crowd screamed.
Some rose to their feet.
Others held their breath.
Steve knew that this guy's body was heavy.
Big.
Strong.
But slow.
And that… was his advantage.
He launched himself to the ground.
He grabbed the giant's feet tightly. And with a precise twist, he brought him down face down.
The impact was brutal.
The ring shook.
The strategy had worked.
Steve wasted no time.
He positioned himself on top of him, securing the position.
The referee approached, raising his hand to begin the count.
One…
But before the second blow…
The opponent moved.
He regained consciousness.
And with his dominant hand, he grabbed Steve like a rag doll.
Steve froze.
Not from fear.
From the look.
A look that wasn't one of fury… It was one of calculation.
The crowd roared at the top of their lungs.
Some for Steve.
Others for the giant.
The air was thick with tension.
The opponent leaned close to Steve's ear. And whispered.
Opponent: Don't worry if you don't win… I can offer you the money you need.
Steve frowned.
Steve: Huh?
Opponent: Of course—said the giant, in a deep voice—I'll only ask one thing…
The ring became a field of pure tension.
The crowd screamed, the air vibrated, and sweat fell like invisible rain on expectant faces.
But in the center…
Only two figures mattered.
The Dark Thief, that colossus of muscle and brutal weight, grabbed Steve by the neck with his other hand.
He lifted him as if he were a simple punching bag.
Steve's feet left the ground.
His body hung.
His gaze met the giant's.
And then…
The whisper.
The announcer, from his position, leaned forward, his eyes wide.
Announcer: "What's going on with Steve and the Dark Thief?!" he shouted into the microphone. "It sounds like the Dark Thief is whispering things to his rival… What could he be saying?!"
The crowd stirred.
Some stood up.
Others covered their mouths.
The tension was unbearable.
And suddenly…
BAM!
A sharp blow to Steve's stomach.
Then another.
And another.
The announcer put his hands to his head.
Announcer: What's going on?! One minute the Dark Thief is punching Steve in the stomach… What a well-executed technique! I didn't think Steve would fall for his words… Although, of course, I don't know exactly what he said!
He sat back down in his chair, grabbed his coffee mug, and took a small sip.
Steve wasn't reacting.
He wasn't blocking.
He wasn't dodging.
He was just taking the hits.
The crowd was divided.
Some were shouting for the Dark Thief.
Others for Steve.
And some… they just couldn't watch.
From her seat, Arlette clenched her fists.
Her face, usually composed, now showed real concern.
Arlette: Steve, what's wrong with you? Fight! —she shouted, her voice cracking.
But Steve didn't move.
Not a limb.
Not a gesture. He just let himself be hit.
The announcer, in a mocking tone, continued narrating.
Announcer: Well, Steve, if you don't get out of those blows, you might end up with some serious fractures…
He wasn't worried.
He was just doing his job.
Narrating.
Announcing.
Although what was happening in front of him was more than a spectacle… it was a real-time tragedy.
Arlette stood up.
She wanted to run to the ring.
She wanted to stop the fight.
But she knew that if she did, Steve would be disqualified.
And everything they had worked for… would be lost.
Her face hardened.
Her eyes filled with suppressed rage.
Arlette: Steve… please… don't give up yet. Hang on a little longer—she whispered, as if her words could travel through the air and reach him.
The Dark Thief kept hitting.
But something changed.
His rhythm.
His strength. His breathing.
He began to tire.
The blows became slow.
Less precise.
Less lethal.
And then…
He let go of Steve.
The young man's body fell to the ground like a puppet without strings.
The impact was dull.
But his eyes…
His eyes remained open.
Steve saw him.
He saw the giant gasping for breath. He saw the opportunity.
He saw the moment.
And in that instant…
Everything changed.
The Dark Thief, panting, took a moment to catch his breath.
His chest rose and fell like an overheated machine.
So many blows.
So much force.
And yet…
That human sack called Steve kept resisting.
He prepared to pounce on the lifeless body.
But when he looked down…
The body wasn't there.
He turned quickly.
And he saw him.
Steve was standing.
In front of him.
Bleeding.
But resolute.
Dark Thief: Don't you know when to give up?! "Your ribs are shattered!" roared the Dark Thief.
The announcer jumped up from his seat, his eyes wide.
Announcer: Wow! That's impressive! Steve managed to withstand the Dark Thief's blows… Let's just say he's not as weak as one might have thought.
Steve licked his lips.
The blood tasted bitter.
Not sweet.
Not salty.
Just… familiar.
It was the taste of a fight.
The taste of endurance.
He looked up.
And met his opponent's eyes.
Nervous.
Tired.
Weared out.
Steve: I don't know when to give up," he said, his voice firm. "I don't know what it means. Even if my bones are broken… I'll find a way to defeat my opponent."
And then…
He ran!
A light movement.
An impossible burst of speed.
Steve launched himself toward the Dark Thief with a speed he couldn't comprehend.
The giant tried to follow him with his eyes…
But it was as if the world had gone blurry.
Steve jumped.
High.
Very high.
The spotlights obscured him.
The Dark Thief couldn't see him.
And when he did…
It was too late.
Steve descended like a comet.
Fist aimed at the enemy.
Speed.
Precision.
Fury.
The Dark Thief raised his arm to block.
But the impact was brutal.
CRACK!
His right hand fractured upon impact.
Both fell to the ground.
But Steve didn't lose his composure.
He positioned himself over the giant.
He squeezed.
He resisted.
He didn't let go.
The referee ran toward them.
He raised his hand.
One…
Two…
Three…
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He ended it.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The ring, still vibrating from the intensity of the fight, became the stage for final judgment.
Steve, the referee, and the Dark Thief stood in the center, under the watchful eyes of the three judges who had observed every movement, every blow, every whisper from the beginning.
Steve was in pain.
His body was a map of wounds.
But his posture…
Firm.
As if the broken bones were insignificant compared to the dignity of having endured.
The Dark Thief, for his part, seemed less affected.
His skin didn't show as much damage.
But the judges weren't fooled by appearances.
They evaluated resilience, skill, willpower.
After a few minutes of silent deliberation, one of the judges—a woman with a serious face and a clear voice—stood up.
The crowd held its breath.
Judge: And the winner of this fight is… Steve!
BOOM!
The crowd erupted. Shouts.
Applause.
Celebrations.
Arlette jumped up, her heart pounding like a war drum.
She wanted to run.
She wanted to hug him.
But as she approached, she saw that others were already surrounding him.
Local celebrities.
People who had once bet on the Dark Thief… were now congratulating him.
Steve, drained of energy and with broken ribs, smiled.
A weak smile.
But genuine.
The smile of someone who had given it his all… and won.
Arlette waited her turn.
And when it finally came, she approached him with a mixture of pride and tenderness.
"Congratulations, Steve!" she said, giving him a few affectionate pats on the arm. "You've taken enough hits for today."
Steve laughed.
A soft laugh.
Almost painful.
But full of satisfaction.
They stayed like that for a few minutes.
Sharing the moment.
Until reality hit again.
The wounds.
The pain.
The ribs.
They decided to go straight to the nearest hospital.
Because even though their souls were at peace…
Their bodies cried out for help.
And so ended the first great battle. Not just for the title… But for Steve's heart. For his story.
For his resilience.
≪━─━─━─━─◈─━─━─━─━≫
Hello reader.
I hope you enjoyed this first chapter.
Don't forget to leave your vote or a positive or negative comment.
By doing so, you'll help many other people discover this story.
And don't worry, Herobrine will appear. Just be patient 👋😏.