Training resumed the next day. A harder task was introduced. They were led out before dawn, feet bare on cold stone, breath fogging the air. No warm-up. No words of encouragement. Just the scrape of iron gates opening and the dull sound of something heavy being dragged across the ground.

  A single rock was placed in front of each student. Not pebbles. Not stones you could cup in one hand. These were thick, uneven slabs, waist-high for some of the smaller children. Their surfaces were jagged, edges sharp enough to tear skin even without force.

  “You must strike it with everything in you,” the master instructed. No explanation followed. None was needed.

  Harry stood before his rock. It looked ancient, like it had been here long before the academy, long before any of them. He lifted his fist. Hesitated. Just for a heartbeat.

  Then he struck.

  Pain exploded up his arm. The sound was wrong. Flesh against stone. A dull, wet crack. His knuckles screamed. He sucked in air sharply, teeth clenching so hard his jaw hurt.

  “Again,” came the command. Harry struck again. And again.

  Around him, cries broke out almost immediately. One boy collapsed after the third blow, clutching his wrist, eyes wide with shock. He was dragged away without ceremony. Another screamed until his voice gave out, blood dripping steadily from his hand to the stone floor.

  Harry did not stop. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself. His skin split. He felt it tear, felt warmth spill over his fingers. Bone shifted beneath flesh. Something in his hand cracked. The pain became blinding, white and consuming, but still he struck.

  Over and over again.

  His breath came in broken gasps. His shoulders shook. Tears streamed down his eyes, blurring the rock until it became a shapeless gray mass. He tasted blood. He wasn’t sure if it was from his mouth or his hand.

  He did not stop.

  Stopping meant being seen. Being seen meant being measured. And Harry had learned already what happened to those who failed measurement.

  The rock did not break. But something in him hardened.

  When the horn finally sounded, Harry sagged forward, forehead resting briefly against the stone. His blood smeared across it, dark and sticky. He did not remember lowering his hand. He only knew that when he looked down, his fingers no longer quite lined up the way they should.

  After the training, the master walked down the line. He carried a bundle of crushed leaves in his palm. Green. Wet. Sharp-smelling. “Herbs,” he said. “Squeeze it and apply the juice to your injuries.”

  Harry took the leaves with his good hand. His fingers trembled as he crushed them. Juice seeped out, cold against his torn skin. The moment it touched his wounds, pain flared, hotter than before. He hissed through his teeth, eyes squeezing shut.

  The pain lingered, then slowly dulled. Not healed. Never healed. Just quieted enough to endure.

  Training continued.

  One day blurred into the next. The sun rose and fell. Weeks stacked on weeks. A month passed, marked only by new scars and old ones reopening. Every morning brought a different punishment. Carrying stones until knees buckled. Holding stances until muscles trembled uncontrollably. Striking. Falling. Rising again.

  Each day, Harry came out. Each day, he felt eyes on him. In the yard. In the barracks. Even in the narrow corridors where torches flickered and shadows clung to the walls. He felt the weight of their stares, sharp and heavy, like blades pressed just shy of skin.

  Hatred.

  It clung to him. Thick. Quiet. Patient. He didn’t mind, he was already used to it from home.

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  Or maybe he did, but there was no room left inside him to care. Pain filled that space now. Pain and something else. Something steadier.

  Things move on smoothly, except for Kelly Peterson and his gang who had become the De facto Government of the White Belts. Those who bowed to them had peace, but those who dared to challenge him experienced hell. Harry avoided him. He bows when he needs to but even that doesn't take their eyes off him. “You are a bastard, born with honour. Here is not a place for you.” Each time they intended to strike, But the ever looking eyes of Kangfu deterred them. “When I have my chance, I will kill you.”

  Then came the day of the big announcement. The horn sounded differently that morning. Longer. Louder. It dragged every student out of whatever they were doing and pulled them toward the central yard.

  They gathered in uneven lines, faces bruised, hands wrapped in cloth, eyes hollowed by exhaustion. A master stepped forward.

  “Your training here is about to take another dimension,” he said. A ripple passed through the crowd.

  “As from tomorrow, you will engage in combat among yourselves. Only those who win their five matches will be promoted to level two. And your points will be added to your kingdom’s score.” The words hit like a blow.

  Fear slid through the students, cold and immediate. Harry felt his stomach tighten. Five matches. Real combat. No stone. No invisible enemy.

  A girl near the front swallowed hard and spoke, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it. “With this contest, you can either make your kingdom proud and get promoted or disgrace your kingdom, and remain stuck in level one.”

  No one laughed. Harry’s heart jumped violently in his chest. He imagined the king’s face. That distant gaze. That single sentence. Rise or die.

  The announcement ended. The masters left them standing there, fear hanging in the air like smoke.

  From that moment, level one changed. Students trained harder by themselves. Groups formed and dissolved. Alliances were whispered into existence and just as quickly abandoned. Some gave up their sleeping spaces entirely, rolling mats into corners so they could read scrolls through the night by torchlight.

  Harry did the same. He sat with his back against the wall, scrolls spread before him, fingers stiff and aching as he traced diagrams of strikes and counters. He practiced in silence, slow at first, then faster. His body remembered pain. It obeyed it.

  He mastered a few moves. Nothing flashy. Nothing meant to impress. Just movements that worked. Efficient. Brutal.

  One night, after hours of practice, Harry stood alone in the yard. Moonlight washed the stones silver. He moved through the forms again, breath steady, feet grounded. When he finished, he stood there for a long moment.

  Then he smiled. “No one will defeat me easily,” he whispered to the empty space.

  The next morning, the bell rang. Level one students rose up anxious. Hands were wrapped tighter. Belts were retied again and again. No one spoke much. The air felt brittle, like it might shatter if someone breathed too loudly.

  Within twenty minutes, they were all gathered in the arena. Harry had never been inside it before.

  The space was massive. Stone tiers rose high on all sides, carved with symbols older than the academy itself. The ground below was darker than the rest of the compound. Stained. Smoothed by years of blood and impact.

  At the top floor stood seven old men wearing silver robes and golden belt. Their presence pressed down on the arena like a physical weight.

  “Whoa,” a boy gasped under his breath. “The seven supreme masters.” Harry looked at them nervously. Their hair was white. Their faces were lined and unreadable. Their eyes were sharp. Too sharp. “Who are they?” Harry asked quietly.

  “They are the biggest Karat Masters in the world,” someone whispered back. “They must have come to spot the talented fighters among us.” Harry’s pulse quickened. “I will impress them,” he told himself.

  The masters stood up in unison and bowed. The movement was slow, deliberate, carrying authority that needed no volume. “You are here to be tested,” one of them said. His voice carried effortlessly. “You either fight for your spot of greatness, or serve those who are great. This you must do with honour even if it takes your life.”

  Harry felt the words settle into his bones.

  “Those who pass this test will be promoted to level two. Those who win three out of five will be promoted with a condition. Those who win less than three fights will repeat level one for the next circle.”

  A few students shifted nervously. “But those who fail to win any of his five matches will be sent to the monastery,” the master continued. “Here is no place for weaklings.”

  Murmurs spread through the kids. Fear. Anger. Determination. Some clenched their fists so tightly their knuckles whitened. Master Kangfu raised his hand.

  Silence fell instantly.

  “Remember, white belt,” he said. “Death is an integral part of who we are. You must protect yourself. It is more honourable to die fighting than to live while running.”

  The words were not dramatic. They were factual. The students bowed. Anticipation of killing settled over them, slow and heavy.

  Harry straightened. His hands curled into fists. His heartbeat steadied. Somewhere in the crowd, eyes fixed on him. Watching. Waiting.

  The first combat was drawing nearer. And anxiety washed over the students who didn’t know who they would be fighting.

  “Now listen to your names for your fight one opponent.” Master Fen’s voice cut through the arena like a blade. It did not rise. It did not tremble. It simply existed, heavy and final, the way judgment sounds when it has already been decided.

  The murmuring stopped.

  All around the arena, white belts straightened where they stood. Some wiped their palms against their robes. Some lifted their chins, trying to look braver than they felt. Others already looked defeated, shoulders slumping before their fate was even spoken aloud.

  Master Fen unfolded the scroll slowly. He did not rush. One name. Then another.

  Each pairing landed differently. A tall boy smiled when his opponent was smaller. A thin girl swallowed hard when she heard the name of a mountain of muscle across from her. A few whispered curses under their breath. A few laughed too loudly, the sound brittle and forced.

  Harry listened. He did not move. He barely breathed. His heart beat loud enough that he was sure others could hear it. Every name felt like a drumbeat closer to his own execution. He told himself not to hope. Hope was dangerous. But it crept in anyway.

  Please, he thought. Anyone but Kelly. Anyone but him.

  Then the name came. “Harry Jones of Astania versus Kelly Petterson of Valley Top."

  The arena tilted.

  Harry’s heart dropped so fast it felt like it tore something loose inside him. The sound of Master Fen’s voice faded, replaced by a dull ringing in his ears. His fingers curled slowly, nails biting into his palms.

  Kelly Petterson.

  The name alone carried weight. It carried bruises and broken teeth. It carried whispers in dark corners and sudden silences when he walked past. Kelly was not just feared. He was obeyed.

  The self-acclaimed King of the white belt.

  Harry lifted his eyes. Kelly had already turned toward him. He was smiling. Not a wide smile. Not a loud one. Just a slow, knowing curl of the lips, as if he had been waiting for this moment. Kelly raised his thick hand and dragged his big thumb across his throat, slow and deliberate. “You are finished.”

  Harry’s chest tightened. Around him, the whispers came. “He hates you.” “He’s been waiting for this.”

  “He won’t stop until you’re dead.” The words slid into his ears, sank into his bones. Harry swallowed, his throat dry. His legs felt distant, like they belonged to someone else.