I keep my arms raised toward the crowd for longer than my body wants to allow. I already feel cringey and sore.
Every wave pulls at the freshly-closed abdomen, and my ribs argue with Zhang Xi's healing every time I draw a deeper breath. Even so, I keep smiling as if all of this had been planned. As if I hadn't been a few seconds from dying on the floor. As if Rahul Sharma weren't close enough to turn my victory into a footnote in a funeral broadcast—the kind I used to watch with my mother.
The crowd needs to see a winner.
More importantly: Rahul needs to be seen seeing a winner.
"Azure Prime Oathring!" I shout, forcing the voice to come out clean. "You witnessed Lord Sharma's champion fight with honor!"
His name crosses the arena, and the crowd reacts the way crowds react when they don't know whether to cheer or stay quiet. Some voices shout. Others hesitate. Most turn to look at Rahul.
'Perfect.'
