He stepped closer, invading Harry's space, his chest rising and falling with confidence. Harry didn't move. Didn't blink. "Come on," Kelly said, spreading his arms slightly. "Let me see what you got."
Harry shook his head once. "You would want to try first." The words were calm. Almost polite. Kelly's face darkened. The insult sank in.
Muscles bunched beneath his robe. Veins stood out on his neck as he gathered his strength, feet digging into the stone floor. He twisted his waist and drove forward, his fist cutting through the air with a sharp whistle.
Harry didn't dodge. He didn't step back. He raised his fist and blocked the blow. The impact cracked through the room. Kelly's fingers bent at angles fingers were never meant to bend. The sound was dry and brittle, like snapping twigs.
"Ahhh!"
Kelly screamed, staggering back, clutching his hand. Pain exploded across his face, wiping away every trace of arrogance. Harry moved. Before the scream could fully leave Kelly's throat, Harry stepped in and punched him.
There was no flourish. No wasted motion. The blow landed. Kelly flew.
His body smashed into the nearby wall, stone shuddering under the force. His back hit first, then his head. The sound echoed, deep and sickening. He slid down slowly, bones cracking as he collapsed onto the floor.
Silence swallowed the room.
The new boys drew backward, their feet scraping against the ground. Some stumbled over each other. Eyes wide. Mouths open. Fear spread faster than words ever could. Kelly's boys stared in disbelief. Harry turned to them.
His eyes glowed. Not bright. Not blinding. Just enough. Enough to make the air feel wrong. Enough to make their knees weaken. They didn't wait.
They bolted. The beds were abandoned where they stood, half-dragged, legs scraping loudly as the boys fled the room. Their footsteps faded down the corridor, panic trailing behind them like smoke.
"Whoa!" The new boys stared at Harry as if seeing him for the first time. "He got him down in one move." Whispers rippled through the room, shaky and awed.
Kelly lay on the floor, chest barely rising. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. His eyes fluttered open and shut, struggling to focus.
Harry stepped closer. Each footstep sounded heavier than the last. Kelly's gaze locked onto him. His lips trembled.
"Who." he coughed, pain twisting his face. "Who are you? Your punch. Your eyes. You are a monster."
Harry stopped in front of him. The hum beneath the plastic glove faded, retreating into a low, steady pulse. His eyes dimmed, returning to normal.
"I am Harry Jones," he said quietly. Kelly swallowed, fear replacing defiance.
Harry looked around the room, at the scattered beds, the shaken faces, the boys clutching themselves where they had been struck earlier. He bent down, picked up one of the beds, and set it back in place. "Take your beds," he said.
No one argued. No one hesitated. They moved quickly, silently, as if afraid the moment would break if they spoke.
Harry turned back to Kelly. "Do not come near us again," he said. "If you do." He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Kelly's eyes closed. The room remained silent long after.
Kelly crawled away.
His palms scraped against the stone floor as he dragged himself backward, ribs screaming with every shallow breath. His eyes never left Harry. Not even for a blink. He moved like an injured animal, desperate to put distance between himself and whatever stood before him.
Harry's eyes stopped glowing. The light faded, but the room did not return to normal.
But the fear stayed.
It clung to the air, thick and sour, settling into the bones of everyone watching. No one spoke. No one laughed. Even the bravest among them avoided Harry's gaze, pretending to busy themselves with their bedding, their robes, the wall. Anything but him.
From that day on, the students knew. Harry was not just another martial artist. He was special and above them all.
Kelly was taken away that night. Two older students supported him under the arms, his feet barely touching the ground. He groaned with each step, his face drained of color, sweat slick on his brow. His boys followed behind, silent, heads lowered.
After that, they stayed away. When Kelly walked into a hall and spotted Harry nearby, he turned around. When his boys started roughing up a weaker student and saw Harry approaching, they stopped mid-action and stepped aside. Words died on their tongues. Hands unclenched.
"Why does it seem like Kelly is afraid of this new boy?" a student whispered one afternoon, watching Kelly retreat down a corridor.
No one answered. The question lingered, unanswered and heavy.
Soon, the level two training began. The bell rang early that morning, deeper and longer than the ones from level one. The students gathered in the open training ground, rows forming instinctively. The yellow robes clung stiffly to their bodies, still new, still bright. Some adjusted their sleeves nervously.
Others rolled their shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. Harry stood among them, calm on the surface. His hands rested at his sides. Beneath the plastic covering, the God Hand remained quiet.
Master Fen stepped forward. Silence fell. "I welcome the newest students once again," he said.
His voice carried easily, steady and cold. His eyes scanned the lines slowly, deliberately, as if counting them. The new students stood straighter under his gaze. Their yellow robes caught the light, shining almost too brightly against the stone walls.
"Here," Master Fen continued, "you need ten badges to progress forward. Until you get all ten, you would remain here." A few students swallowed.
"Each task will get you one badge." He paused. The air tightened. "I need not remind you," he said calmly, "to take your lessons seriously. As always. Because here, death is part of the deal."
A ripple went through the line. Throats bobbed. Hands tightened into fists. Master Fen turned toward a large board set beside him. Thick cloths covered it, layered one over another. He reached out and pulled the first cloth away.
A drawing was revealed. A massive lion stood there, its body thick and muscular. Seven heads sprouted from its neck, each snarling, teeth bared.
"This," Master Fen said, "is the seven-headed lion." A murmur broke out before anyone could stop it. "It may have seven heads," he continued, unbothered, "but it only sees with one pair of eyes."
The students leaned forward unconsciously. "To defeat it," Master Fen said, "you must blind it first." Whispers rippled through the crowd.
A student raised his hand cautiously. "How do we blind it?" Master Fen smiled faintly. "It is simple. Cut off the seeing head, and the eyes will be off."
The student slowly lowered his hand, his face tight with uncertainty. "But," Master Fen added. The word landed like a stone.
"If you cut the wrong head, the beast becomes seven times stronger." The murmurs turned sharp. "And in that state," he went on, "no one in your level would be able to defeat it."
Fear crept openly now. Some students glanced at the exits. Others stared at the drawing, imagining claws, teeth, and blood. Harry stepped forward. "How do we know the right head?" he asked.