Chapter 15 – Bruises Speak Louder
The silence after the fight was heavier than any blow Zack had taken.
He lay there on the cold stone mat, ribs screaming and vision pulsing at the edges with muted stars. Blood gathered at the corner of his mouth, thick and metallic. But even as his lungs burned for air and the ache in his limbs throbbed like a dull drumbeat, Zack Tennyson couldn't look away from the system screen lingering quietly in his vision.
[Optional Challenge Failed.]
[No Reward Granted.]
[Combat Data Recorded.]
That was it.
No fanfare. No sympathy. Just the system's cold acknowledgment of his failure, etched in digital fire. A dull notification for a broken boy.
He blinked it away, swallowing the sour taste rising in his throat.
Somewhere behind him, someone whispered, "He actually tried that hard and still got wiped?"
Another snort. "All that dancing around like a cheap stage act. Looked more like a puppet having a seizure than a fighter."
A third voice — familiar, sharp, laced with contempt — cut through the fog in his skull.
"Guy thought he was clever. Forgot clever doesn't stop pain."
The laughter came like a rising tide, low and cruel.
Zack pushed himself up, elbows trembling. He couldn't look at Miss Aimee. He already knew what he'd see — nothing. Not disgust. Not concern. Just silence. Her eyes were the kind that didn't flinch at bleeding wounds or broken pride. They measured worth by survival, not sympathy.
He hated how right that felt.
He stood.
Barely.
Then stepped off the mat.
And just when he thought it was over, the storm found him again.
"Hey, Tennyson," a voice called out, slow and deliberate. Loud enough to silence the whispers. "You forgot your dignity back there."
Zack froze.
Of course it was him.
Moses Rad.
If cruelty had a voice, it wore Moses's tongue like a throne.
Zack turned, jaw tight. He met those smug eyes — eyes that had stared down at him over bruises and stolen lunches, over laughter in locker rooms and cold mornings without gloves.
Moses smiled. "What was that style? Gutter Scuttle Technique? Beggar's Blade? You move like you learned to fight from a spirit beast with brain rot."
The class laughed again. Zack didn't answer.
He never did.
But Moses wasn't done. He never was.
"I say we find out if all those fancy footwork tricks work on someone who actually wants to break your face."
He took a step forward.
Zack didn't move.
"You scared, fat boy?"
Miss Aimee still hadn't spoken. She stood at the edge of the arena, her hands behind her back. Watching. Always watching. As still as a statue — one that judged without speaking.
Zack's fingers twitched.
He didn't want to fight again.
Not today. Not against Moses. Not with this bruised body, this cracked pride, this trembling inside his chest that wouldn't stop.
But then he remembered his sister's voice. That coin. That whisper in the dark.
"Make it worth it."
He stepped forward.
And nodded.
The class hushed.
Moses grinned like a wolf shown a newborn calf.
Miss Aimee tilted her head slightly. Not approval. Not refusal. Just acknowledgment.
Zack took the dagger again.
His palms were sweaty. His breath uneven.
As he stepped onto the platform, a deep cold began to pool behind his heart.
The kind of cold that came not from fear — but from knowing exactly what was about to happen… and stepping into it anyway.
The air in the arena shifted the moment Zack stepped onto the platform again.
It wasn't excitement. It wasn't tension.
It was dread. Silent, thick, and choking — clinging to his skin like sweat.
He could feel it in the way the students held their breath. In the way some leaned forward with hungry eyes, and others turned away, unable to watch. Everyone knew what was coming.
Everyone except Moses Rad.
Or maybe he just didn't care.
The boy rolled his shoulders, cracking his knuckles like a butcher testing the weight of his knives. The smirk never left his face.
"You sure you wanna do this, Tennyson?" he asked, casual, almost bored. "You already look half-dead. Don't blame me if you end up fully there."
Zack gripped the hilt of the training dagger until his knuckles turned white.
He didn't reply.
Words didn't help when you were already beneath someone's heel.
Miss Aimee raised a single finger. "Begin."
The moment it dropped, Moses moved.
No hesitation. No warmup. Just a blur of motion and the cold certainty of someone used to hurting others.
Zack barely reacted in time — instinct kicking in, muscle memory screaming.
He twisted away, ducking under a sweeping blow meant to take his head off, then staggered sideways with uneven footing. His shoulder scraped the platform wall, skin tearing beneath his uniform.
Moses didn't wait. He was already there, a hammer of limbs and precision.
A fist sank into Zack's gut.
The wind left him in a choking gasp. His knees buckled.
Another strike cracked across his cheek. Then another. Then another.
Zack didn't see the next hit — only the color of pain. The sound of his bones protesting. The dull thump of the floor as it rose to meet him.
[HP Critically Low.]
He blinked blood from his eye. Tried to lift his hand. Tried to stand.
Another boot slammed into his ribs.
The world tilted. The walls bled into the floor. Everything became noise — the gasps, the footsteps, the mockery, the system pinging like a dying echo.
And through it all, Moses's voice.
"This is what happens when trash forgets where it belongs."
Zack wanted to fight back.
But he couldn't move.
He wanted to scream.
But even that had been beaten out of him.
He wasn't Zack Tennyson anymore. He was every broken bone, every bruise, every cruel word from the past few years condensed into a shaking, useless body lying on the cold mat.
A pair of boots stepped into view.
Miss Aimee knelt beside him, brushing two fingers across his neck. Checking. Not comforting.
She stood up. "Enough."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it cut sharper than any blade.
Even Moses flinched.
"Rad. Off the mat."
The boy wiped the sweat from his brow. "Didn't even go full force."
"Now."
Zack didn't hear the rest.
Darkness tugged at his eyes. The weight of pain became too heavy to carry.
The last thing he felt was arms lifting him. Someone speaking his name — not with hate, not with scorn. Just someone calling for help.
Then everything faded to black.
Zack woke to the scent of antiseptic and the soft hum of fluorescent lights.
The pain hit a second later — not like a blow, but a flood. Every nerve screaming, every joint stiff and bruised. His ribs ached with every breath, and one eye refused to open all the way.
He was lying on a narrow bed, the stiff sheet stuck to his sweat-drenched skin. His head throbbed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
[Injury Detected. Recovery Boost Applied: +5% HP Regen per hour.]
[Status: Concussed. Fractured Rib. Bruised Lung. Minor Internal Bleeding.]
[Movement Not Recommended.]
The system's words hovered in his vision like an unwanted visitor.
Zack blinked. He turned his head slowly, every motion laced with warning.
He was alone.
Or… not quite.
In the corner of the infirmary, half-lit by a humming light panel, sat Miss Aimee. Her back leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes shut — but she wasn't asleep. Not really.
She was listening. Always listening.
He shifted, letting out a quiet, ragged cough.
Her eyes opened.
Zack tried to speak. His throat was dry, but the words still clawed their way out.
"I… lost."
Miss Aimee didn't move.
For a long time, she just stared at him, unreadable.
Then finally, "Yes. You did."
He looked away. The ceiling tiles blurred.
"Wasn't even close…"
"No," she agreed softly. "It wasn't."
Silence pressed in.
Zack swallowed hard. "Why didn't you stop him sooner?"
Her answer came after a beat too long.
"Because pain teaches faster than pity."
His hands clenched beneath the blanket. That wasn't what he wanted to hear. It wasn't what he needed. But maybe… maybe it was what was true.
Miss Aimee pushed off the wall and walked over, stopping at the edge of the bed. Her gaze was sharp — the kind that cut into your soul.
"You're not ready," she said. "Not for real combat. Not even for Moses Rad."
Zack flinched.
"But… the way you moved," she continued, quieter now. "The timing. The desperation. That's something you can't teach."
He blinked up at her.
"You mean… I did okay?"
She leaned down slightly. "I mean you were weak. Scared. Untrained. And still made it last longer than anyone expected."
Zack didn't know if that made him feel better or worse.
"Train harder," she said. "Smarter. Use that system of yours. Learn from the pain. Otherwise, the next time someone like Moses decides to end it…"
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't have to.
She turned and walked to the door, pausing before she left.
"And Tennyson…"
He looked at her.
"The real fight doesn't happen on the stage."
Then she was gone.
Zack stared at the ceiling until the hum of the lights faded into the background.
The pain still burned.
But beneath it… something stirred.
A flicker of something buried under all the bruises and shame.
Not hope.
But hunger.