The pond was silent.
Dust hovered in the air, catching the sunlight in thin golden rays. Blood stained the sandy floor, forming erratic trails where boots had dragged and fists had fallen. And at the center of it all—Mikey stood.
Or at least, what was left of him.
His legs trembled like a building about to collapse. His breath came in short, rapid pants. One eye swollen shut. His mouth bloodied and cracked. Red soaked into his shirt, his pants—his skin. His fists were still up, trembling, half-raised, as if his body couldn't decide whether to fight or fall.
Son stood before him, tall and unscathed. His mouth parted slightly as if to speak, but his expression was frozen—caught between disbelief and admiration.
"You really don't give up easy, do you?" he muttered, voice low, almost reverent.
Everyone was watching. The Iron Vipers. Aurora. Spectators who were all left agaped, stood frozen.
Any normal man would've stayed down. Any sane man would've tapped out.
But Mikey—
