Now that the fight was finally starting, the atmosphere on the ship shifted. The ocean breeze cooled, the lighting narrowed upon the black-and-white tiles, and every spectator seemed to lean forward at the same exact moment.
Darius and Jett had already taken their seats, raised above everyone else on a slightly elevated platform. It wasn’t a throne, but it certainly felt like one. A handful of higher-ranking VIP guests sat near them, people whose attire and jewelry screamed wealth and influence.
It was the sort of position Chad would have rushed toward without hesitation, believing every scrap of preferential treatment was proof of his own importance. Max could imagine him sitting right up there, drinking expensive wine, completely unaware of the trap.
Sitting in two large, white leather chairs that looked like miniature couches, Darius and Jett relaxed back with open smiles. They seemed perfectly at ease, more excited than concerned about the fight unfolding below.
"Did you set it up so he has an easy opponent?" Jett asked casually.
"So he starts feeling confident?"
Darius chuckled. "No, quite the opposite. I chose someone skilled . If we take him out immediately, everyone here will understand exactly where they stand. And..." He tapped the armrest with his finger. "If we crush him fast enough, his guard might step in instead. He’s the one who might actually be worth something."
Jett smiled faintly, though inwardly he was thinking about something else entirely.
He had reviewed Stephen earlier. Although he had assured Darius that Stephen wasn’t worth worrying about, that didn’t mean the man was weak. Stephen’s punches carried real weight, his technique was nearly flawless, and even at a glance, anyone experienced could see the traces of a trained fighter.
’But there was one serious issue with him,’ Jett thought, eyes narrowing slightly.
’He’s old. He knows how to fight, perfect technique. But his body isn’t what it used to be. He’s already past his prime, maybe well into his forties. That’s a wall no skill can break.’
Jett didn’t know what Stephen had been like in his youth. When Max first met Stephen, the man was rusty, lacking practice, and had abandoned much of his former life. He had no students left. No school to run. No real fights to keep him sharp.
But since joining Max, Stephen had found purpose again.
He trained.
He improved.
He awakened his Vow.
Still, Jett wasn’t wrong. Improvement or not, Stephen was not the man he had once been.
The crowd quieted as Stephen stepped onto the platform. He exhaled deeply, studying the opponent in front of him.
The man, known simply as Keke , had tanned skin and wore sunglasses even though it was night. His knuckles bore several cuts, old and fresh, signs of someone who fought hard and often. His body was ripped, sculpted, almost too perfect, the kind of physique that would appear on magazine covers.
"All right, all right, old man!" Keke said as he bounced on his toes, light and twitchy. "Let’s get this going!"
Keke slipped into a fighting stance immediately. His body never stopped moving, shifting, fidgeting, vibrating with energy like someone who drank five espressos beforehand.
Stephen answered simply, "Alright. Let’s do this."
He raised his fists into a clean boxing stance.
And the fight began.
Both men stepped forward at nearly the same moment, but Keke struck first. His leg snapped upward like a whip. Stephen ducked instinctively, but before he could fully straighten, a sharp knee shot up toward his face.
He raised his arms, blocking the knee with both forearms. Even through the guard, the impact stung, rattling bone and muscle.
Keke followed with rapid-fire punches, but Stephen weaved out of the way, shifting angles, forcing Keke to constantly reposition.
The younger fighter grinned.
Then Keke leapt forward with a fast front kick. Stephen pivoted just in time; the heel sliced through the air inches from his ribs.
Darius leaned toward Jett. "Do you remember him?" he asked. "Past champion. He even gave you trouble."
Jett scoffed. "Trouble? Not exactly. He was annoying. Too slippery, too flexible. Hard to get a grip on. But losing? No chance."
Darius let out a hearty laugh. Even he knew Jett wasn’t lying.
"But that means he still gave you trouble. And from the look of things... it’s happening again."
The match had a strange rhythm. Keke threw kick after punch after kick, but Stephen avoided most of them with clean footwork or close, subtle head movement. The few he blocked still carried enough force to sting.
Keke grew more aggressive, bouncing around Stephen in quick arcs.
"Come on, old man!" Keke taunted breathlessly. "You waiting for me to tire out? Let me tell you, that’s not happening. You can’t win if you never attack!"
Stephen kept moving. Kept observing, and although he had been hit a few times none of the hits were fatal or had hit him cleanly.
"He has this in the bag right?" Darno asked.
"Yeah, I think so." Max answered.
Keke spun after a missed roundhouse kick, landing with perfect balance.
"You’re right," Stephen replied calmly, though his tone carried something new, something sharper.
The lighting seemed to shift slightly as the ship tilted. Keke blinked as he realized the area felt... clearer? Brighter?
Stephen lifted his hand.
In it, Keke’s sunglasses.
"There was just something annoying me this entire time," Stephen said. His voice was steady, even casual. "Who wears sunglasses at night?"
Keke froze.
He hadn’t even seen Stephen take them.
Jett’s eyebrow twitched.
Darius leaned forward.
Max’s eyes widened, not in surprise, but recognition.
Stephen had just revealed a hint of what he truly was now.
Keke reached for his face in disbelief. "When, ?!"
*****
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