Zaire kept count as the fists struck him—one after another, dull impacts pressing into his body like routine motions. He had gone through this countless times. Countless.
Beaten up for amusement, to fulfill some random assholes ego. Because.. because he was weak, Zaire was weak. He swore he was weak, everything's fine. He's good, he's happy.
Hes normal.
He swears he is.
A fist cracked against his jaw, jolting him out of his spiral. Right—he had to get to class. Another tardy, and he'd fail by default. What was he thinking about again? Oh right.
The punch came from Brayden Voss, a well-known jackass around the academy.
One of those high-ranked loudmouths who made a sport out of picking on the weak. He always aimed for easy targets, and Zaire, the powerless "Blank," might as well have had a bullseye painted on his back.
"What's the matter, Blank? Still pretending you're something special?" he sneered, shaking out his hand. "You walk around like you're untouchable, like we don't see right through that act. But you're nothing. Just a powerless freak who got too comfortable breathing the same air as the rest of us."
Zaire wiped the blood from his chin, eyes narrowing. Another fist came flying—he caught it midair. "Tired of this," he muttered, his voice low and shaking with fury.
He twisted Braydens wrist hard enough to hear something pop. The next moment, his knee slammed into his gut.
Brayden staggered back, gasping. Then, he activated his abilities, balls of flames forming in his palms, but before he could fully form them— Zaire didn't wait.
Brayden was strong. Arrogant, loud, fast. Zaire had seen him fight before. Hes seen him burn through lower ranks just to show off and his ability was flashy, explosive, designed to scorch.
If he got hit by one of those fire balls, he'd definitely get second degree burns if not worse.
But it had a flaw.
The fireballs took time.
A second, maybe two—but in a fight, that was an eternity.
Zaire lunged forward, a punch to the jaw, and an elbow to the ribs. His shoulder slammed into his chest, and they both staggered.
The fire orb fizzled, unstable and useless. Brayden's eyes widened in both shock and pain. He stumbled, thrown off by the sudden impact. The half-formed fireball fizzled out, sparks licking his hand before dying.
Zaire didn't give him a chance to recover.
He drove his fist into Brayden's ribs—not clean, not trained, but focused like someone who'd spent his whole life imagining this moment. The hit landed with a solid thud, and Brayden grunted, air knocked from his lungs.
"What the hell—" Brayden wheezed.
Another blow—this time to the side of Brayden's neck. He gasped, scrambling for breath, eyes wide with disbelief.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go.
He was an A rank. A fire wielder.
Zaire? Zaire was a Blank. An easy target. A punching bag. The name everyone forgot the second he left a room.
And yet here he was—taking him apart without even using an ability! Brayden snarled, dragging himself up, flames flickering to life again around his fists.
"You already lost," Zaire said quietly. He stood up unsteadily, legs trembling from overexertion. "But sure. Try again."
Braydens fire engulfed his fists, crackling and flickering. Then, he lunged forward, Brayden's face twisted—humiliation curdling into rage. The flames around his fists roared to life, brighter and hotter than before, licking up his arms like they were trying to consume him too.
"You think this is over?" he snarled, voice cracking. "I'll melt that smug face off your skull!" Zaire didn't flinch. He stood still, blood dripping from his lip, gaze unwavering.
Brayden charged, fire coiling around him like a serpent ready to strike. But before he could close the gap—
Boom.
A gust of compressed air exploded between them, blasting Brayden back and sending loose debris skittering across the corridor.
A new figure stepped between them.
"That's enough."