The All Powerful Mutt Tamer

Chapter 9

The grouping arena was a sea of noise, but it was a one-sided sound. 

Thousands of students were shouting Chris’s name, their voices merging into a low, rhythmic chant that vibrated through the stone floor.

 To them, this wasn't a duel; it was a public execution. 

They wanted to see the "scavenger" put back in his place. They wanted to see the dirt stay in the dirt.

"You really should have just taken the apology and run," Liora said, her voice cutting through the noise as she stood near Alex in the preparation area. She looked at him with that same complicated expression—disgust mixed with a flickering, unwanted curiosity. "By accepting this, you’ve given him a legal reason to break you. Don't look at me for help when you’re being carried out on a stretcher."

Alex didn't look at her. He was busy adjusting the straps of his basic-issue battle suit. It was a worn, gray thing made of reinforced leather and cheap fiber, meant to dampen blows during training. Compared to the shimmering, gold-trimmed dragon-silk suit Chris was stepping into, Alex looked like he was wearing rags.

"I’m not looking for help," Alex said, his voice sounding hollow inside his training helmet. 

"I’m just finishing what he started. Besides, you were the one talking about dignity, weren't you? Consider this a donation to the cause."

Liora scoffed, turning her back on him. 

"Dignity is for those who can afford it. You just bought a very expensive funeral."

As Alex stepped out onto the sands of the central pit, the roar of the crowd intensified. 

Julian was in the front row, his bandaged face twisted into a grotesque grin. Kael was beside him, screaming insults at the top of his lungs.

"Kill him, Chris! Show the beggar what a real tamer looks like!"

"Break his legs! Let's see him crawl back to the slums!"

Chris stood at the opposite end of the pit, flexing his shoulders. His battle suit hummed with a faint magical resonance, designed to amplify his natural strength. He looked at Alex with a gaze that was pure, unfiltered malice.

"I'm going to take my time with you," Chris said, his voice carrying easily across the sand. "I'm not just going to beat you. I'm going to make sure that every time you close your eyes for the rest of your life, you see my fist. I'm going to erase the memory of that lucky shot you got earlier."

Alex took a deep breath. He felt the Shadow Stalker sitting silently in the corner of his mind, its power coiled like a spring, waiting for the command to strike. But Alex didn't call on it. This wasn't about the system. This was about the years of being pushed into the mud behind the dorms. This was about his father’s calloused hands and his mother’s tired eyes.

The referee, a stern-faced man with a scarred neck, raised his hand. "This is a sanctioned match. First to yield or first to lose consciousness. Begin!"

Chris didn't wait. He moved like a bolt of lightning, his boots kicking up plumes of sand as he closed the distance. He threw a massive right hook, the air whistling as it passed Alex’s ear. Alex dipped low, his heart hammering against his ribs. He wanted to keep this "friendly." He wanted to just do enough to win and get out.

‘Don't show too much’Alex told himself. Keep it simple. Just a counter. 

‘Don't reveal the system's full boost.’

But Chris wasn't playing. He followed up with a brutal knee to the ribs that Alex barely blocked. The force of the impact sent a jolt of pain up Alex’s arms.

"What's the matter, scavenger?" Chris taunted, his fist raining down a flurry of blows. 

"Where's that big mouth now? Is it hard to talk when you're busy running?"

Alex retreated, his boots sliding in the sand.

 He looked at the faces in the crowd. He saw Julian laughing. He saw the noble students pointing and jeering. Suddenly, a memory flashed in his mind—the day Julian had ground the Bone-Ash weeds into the mud with his boot. He remembered the feeling of the cold, wet earth under his fingernails as he scavenged for what others called trash.

The humiliation didn't just feel like a memory; it felt like a physical weight in his chest. Every insult, every kick, every moment he had been told he was nothing because of his bloodline came rushing back at once.

Chris lunged again, his face twisted in a sneer of absolute superiority. "Die, you piece of filth!"

The "limit" Alex had placed on himself snapped. 

As Chris’s fist flew toward his face, Alex didn't dodge. He stepped forward, meeting the attack head-on. His own fist shot out—not a calculated, restrained jab, but a strike fueled by a decade of repressed rage and the raw, unbridled energy of the system.

CRACK.

The sound wasn't that of a normal punch. it sounded like a heavy timber snapping in half.

The impact sent a shockwave through the air that everyone in the front row could feel. 

Chris’s golden-trimmed helmet shattered instantly, pieces of the reinforced visor flying like shrapnel.

Chris shot a few yards in the arena as every eyes in the hall followed thus remarkable fall.

His body left the ground, soaring through the air like he had been hit by a runaway carriage.

 He flew twenty feet across the pit, his limbs flailing, before slamming into the heavy stone pillars that supported the spectator's balcony. 

Chris slumped to the ground in a heap of broken silk and leather, his eyes rolled back, a thin trail of blood leaking from his mouth. He didn't move. He didn't even groan.

The arena went stiff and the chanting stopped almost instantly.

The cheering died in a thousand throats. The air itself seemed to turn to ice. 

And Liora stood at the edge of the pit, her hands trembling as she clutched the railing. She looked at the crater in the stone pillar, then back at the boy in the gray leather suit, the two pictures impossible to connect.

“How's… how did this happen?” she whispered, though no one could hear her over the silence.