The news of the impending fight—a direct, physical confrontation between the elites and Michael Kingston—spread through the Harvard campus like wildfire. The quiet, intellectual atmosphere was instantly replaced by a frenetic energy, dividing the student body into two fiercely opposed, though unequally powerful, factions.
In Massachusetts Hall, the office of the President of Harvard University, Charles William Eliot, was a bastion of academic seriousness and monumental administrative power.
Born in 1834, Charles William Eliot had served as Harvard's President since 1869. By 1908, he was a living legend, one of the most transformative figures in American education. His tenure—which would soon conclude, though he had not yet formally announced his retirement—was marked by the radical introduction of the elective system, replacing the rigid classical curriculum with student choice. This change, along with his emphasis on higher entrance standards and professional schools, had elevated Harvard from a regional college to the premier modern research university in the world. Eliot, a chemist by training, was known for his progressive, if sometimes autocratic, approach to administration, believing in efficiency, academic freedom, and the moral development of his students. He carried the weary yet sharp dignity of a man who had successfully dragged a centuries-old institution into the 20th century.
Just as Professor Hastings, a nervous classics scholar, arrived at the President's outer office to relay the scandalous news, he saw Michael Kingston exiting the inner sanctum. Michael offered the professor a polite, almost amused nod before disappearing down the hall.
Puzzled, Professor Hastings hurried into the office. "Mr. President, I bring disturbing news. There is a planned physical confrontation—a boxing match, sir—between the affluent students and young Michael Kingston, set for 4:30 in the gymnasium. This is intolerable, a violation of order!"
Eliot, seated behind a vast, impeccably clean desk, calmly interlaced his fingers. "Michael just finished explaining the situation, Professor. Please, fill in the details of the student gathering, if you would."
The Professor recounted the confrontation, the challenge, and the general unrest.
Eliot nodded thoughtfully. "Indeed. Michael has convinced me this is, regrettably, a necessary release. He made a compelling case that the deep, simmering resentment between these two factions—the 'Old Money' and those who feel unfairly held back—had reached a critical point. It needed to be resolved or, at the very least, safely vented through a definitive, one-on-one spectacle."
Professor Hastings was aghast. "Sir, are you really suggesting this? This spectacle was your idea, or Mr. Kingston's?"
"Michael convinced me that it was a good idea," Eliot stated simply, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "For the sake of safety, however, I have instructed some of the athletic staff and a few campus security guards to be present in the gymnasium. Furthermore, I want no word of this incident, under any circumstances, to reach the pages of the Harvard Crimson. This is an internal matter."
The Professor nodded stiffly, accepting the command, and left.
Eliot leaned back in his leather chair, running a weary hand over his chin. He still couldn't quite believe he had agreed to endorse such a ridiculous, almost medieval resolution.
The boy is utterly persuasive, Eliot thought. And entirely without fear.
******
The Hemenway Gymnasium is the primary Harvard gymnasium, a massive, Romanesque Revival structure built in 1878. Inside, the main hall was a cavernous, cathedral-like space, dominated by soaring, open-trussed ceilings designed for air circulation and vastness. The light, mostly filtering through high, arched windows and supplemented by the harsh glare of early electric lamps, illuminated a space smelling heavily of oiled hardwood and sweat. Suspended apparatus—climbing ropes, heavy bags, and parallel bars—lined the periphery, above which ran a raised running track. In the center of the varnished floor, a boxing ring had been erected, its ropes taut and the canvas worn smooth.
By 4:25 PM, the gymnasium was packed with nearly 500 students, easily a third of the undergraduate male student body. The atmosphere was electric, thick with anticipation. Roughly one-tenth of the crowd belonged to the Elites, recognizable by their expensive wool suits and smug, assured expressions, clustered together near Christian. The rest were students from ordinary, middle- or poor-family backgrounds, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their faces tight with nervous hope for Michael's victory.
Women were not officially part of Harvard—they studied across the river at Radcliffe College, a tradition of separation still rigidly enforced. Radcliffe was separated from the Harvard Yard by a distance of about a mile, but Radcliffe women were permitted to audit some Harvard classes. Veronica, the woman who initiated the confrontation, was one such student.
The main focus, however, was on the imposing figure standing in the ring. He was a colossal man, easily six feet two inches (188 cm) tall, with a muscular density that made him look like a well-fed bull. His weight was approximately 240 pounds (about 109 kg) of solid, intimidating bulk.
(Note: While 240 pounds may not seem exceptionally large compared to modern NFL players or heavyweights, in 1908, the average height and weight of men were considerably lower than in the 21st century, making Brad Striker's size truly massive and intimidating to the average person.)
"Who the hell is that?" asked a student on the floor, his voice cracking with surprise.
"That's Brad Striker," replied a man beside him. "One of the Wyoming wealthy ranching heirs. I heard he's a boxer—a good one, too. He hopes to become a professional."
"Professional?" the first student asked, stunned. Turning professional was typically a path chosen by those needing to earn a living, not by the heir to a vast ranching fortune.
"Yeah, apparently he just likes beating his opponents. They say he's a bit of a violent man," the man replied, lowering his voice.
"So, can Michael win?" he asked, worried.
"He has to. I hope he wins and wipes those arrogant smiles off those bastards' faces."
A third student chimed in skeptically, "Wait, Michael is also one of them, right? He's more Elite than all of them combined."
"Oh, shut up. He's different from them," the first man hissed, defensively.
Michael walked down the aisle, his suit still perfectly on, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He stepped onto the canvas and slowly began to undress, removing his tailored coat, his vest, and then his crisp white button-down shirt, folding each item meticulously. He was left in a simple cotton undershirt and his dark trousers, a stark contrast to Brad Striker, who wore only boxing trunks.
Christian was outside the ropes, near the corner where Michael now stood, his face tight with anger.
Brad Striker laughed, a loud, grating sound. "Why are you overdressed, Kingston? Are you thinking why change when you're going to lose anyway?"
Michael ignored the barb, shaking his head. He pulled a pair of dark, professional-grade boxing gloves from his bag and began to lace them up. He looked up at Brad, his eyes cold and calm.
"It will be over soon," Michael said, his voice carrying clearly. "Though I'm not sure you're right about who will win."
Furious at the casual dismissal, Brad wanted to pounce but forced himself to wait for the signal.
The bell to signal the start of the event rang, cutting off the low murmur.
"Introducing the challenger, Mr. Brad Striker!" shouted the referee, acting as a makeshift announcer. The Elites cheered wildly.
"And the opponent, Mr. Michael Kingston!" The vast majority of the students, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, roared their approval, an explosive wave of sound that shook the high ceiling.
The referee, one of the gymnasium staff who had been quietly co-opted, gave the signal, and the first round began.
Brad Striker immediately exploded across the ring like a battering ram, a hurricane of practiced motion. His opening salvo was a torrent of powerful, sweeping arcs aimed at Michael's head and torso. This was no sloppy brawl; Brad had the textbook form, terrifying power, and genuine ring speed of a professional contender.
But Michael was untouchable. He didn't move backward, nor did he block. Instead, he simply sidestepped, leaned, and ducked, avoiding every single blow by the narrowest margin. The air whooshed as Brad's massive glove swept past Michael's ear. Brad landed fifteen, twenty powerful strikes, each one a potential knockout, yet not one connected. Michael did not attempt to counter, only to evade.
The Elites began to shout provocative calls, trying to break Michael's concentration.
Brad, sweating heavily and his rage mounting, shouted, "If you are a man, don't run! Fight me head on!"
Michael, who had been circling effortlessly, stopped dead. He stood his ground, a fixed point in the center of the ring, beckoning Brad to come forward. "As you wish. Let's finish it."
Seeing his chance, Brad roared and launched a furious, powerful straight right hand—a punch designed to end the fight. Michael shifted his weight, allowing the blow to graze past his shoulder, and then initiated his terrifying counter-attack.
Michael's counter-attack was a singular, uninterrupted chain of controlled violence, his hands a blur of motion. It began with a punishing hook to the solar plexus to steal Brad's breath, followed instantly by a sharp jab to the left ribs and a snapping strike to the right ribs. With Brad doubled over and his defenses shattered, Michael drove two rapid crosses to the left and then the opposing side of the chin, rocking his head back before finishing the sequence with a final, vicious uppercut directly below the chin, a strike delivered with such force it actually lifted Brad's massive body clear off the ground.
Sixpunches. No pause, no recovery. Brad's massive body went rigid, all the air and strength driven out of him in a blinding flash of pain. He collapsed backward onto the canvas with a sickening thud, his eyes glazed over, entirely unconscious.
The gymnasium went utterly silent. Michael looked at the referee, nodded, and immediately began to remove his gloves, unlacing them with the same meticulous care he had folded his coat with.
The referee, regaining his composure, began the count. He reached ten, slammed his hand down, and declared Michael the winner.
The entire gymnasium erupted. The students supporting Michael roared, cheering, stomping, and throwing their hats into the air. It was a victory not just for Michael, but for their pride.
On the Elites' side, their faces were blackened with shock. They knew how strong Brad was, but he had been taken down in a flash, an act that defied belief.
As Michael was ready to put his shirt on again, a shrill, furious shout pierced the cheering.
"He cheated! He used illegal gloves!" It was Christian, his voice frantic with disbelief and denial.
Michael stopped, his eyes going cold again, and looked at the opposition's corner. Michael's supporters immediately began to argue, shouting back, "What cheating?! You're just a sore loser!"
Christian ignored them, focusing solely on Michael.
Michael raised a hand, silencing his own supporters immediately. He looked directly at Christian, who had made the accusation.
"Christian," Michael said, his voice calm, addressing the antagonist who had warned him. "So you think I cheated to win by using illegal gloves?"
Christian nodded, his face contorted in anger. "You couldn't have otherwise."
Michael could have simply offered the gloves for inspection, but he knew there was no reasoning with them now.
Michael gave a slow, deliberate nod. "So, let's do this again."
Christian just stared, dumbfounded. "What? What do you mean?"
"I mean, let's do this again, right now, but this time, without gloves." Michael glanced briefly at Brad, who was stirring and looking dazed on the floor. "Since your best fighter is down, let's make it fair. You can choose two from your side to step in."
Christian continued to stare in utter shock, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.
"Not sure? Then three," Michael said, a low, cold laugh escaping him at the lack of response from Christian. He looked directly at the cluster of Elites. "My final offer: four of you can fight. From four sides. Maybe then you will win."
From the gallery, Michael's supporters began shouting, "No, Michael! Don't do it!" and "You got the win! Stop!" Some, confused, wondered if the quick victory had gone to Michael's head.
But Michael knew he could take care of them.He had faced multiple opponents armed with knives in his previous life as a Dean in another world, where he was regarded as the best fighter.
The core of his superiority was his gift: the ability to sense danger before it arrived, which he used constantly to avoid fatal or dangerous strikes and shots. He had honed his senses so much with that gift through countless wars that he no longer even needed to actively use it to fight these mere four delicate, pampered rich boys.
Not to mention that in this life as Michael, he was stronger and faster than he was as Dean in his previous life.
twisting his lips. "Since you said that, you can't call us cowards again after losing."
Christian looked at his companions, his eyes blazing with humiliation and spite. He pointed, selecting three other, large and imposing young men—Henry, Thomas, and Richard—all of whom were known for their brawn and entitlement. Christian then stepped forward himself.
"No rules, then, Kingston. Come on!"
Michael just smiled, a purely predatory expression. He discarded his undershirt, revealing the lean, corded musculature of his upper body.
Christian and his three chosen companions—Henry, Thomas, and Richard—closed in, surrounding Michael on the worn canvas. The entire gymnasium crowd fell into a tense, profound silence, realizing they were about to witness a vicious, desperate brawl, not a sporting match.
The four men rushed him simultaneously.
Michael didn't move like a man; he moved like a force of nature. It was like he had the grace of a gazelle and the striking power of a lion. His body moved with lethal speed, twisting and snapping.
None of the four men—not Christian, Henry, Thomas, nor Richard—managed to land a single blow on him; their wild, frantic efforts passed harmlessly through the air he had just occupied.
Henry, attempting a clumsy tackle from the side, was met not with a punch, but a blindingly fast spinning back-fist that struck his temple. Henry dropped instantly, his eyes rolling back, knocked out cold before he hit the ground.
Richard, the largest of the group, lunged from the front, relying purely on his considerable bulk. Michael waited until the last moment, pivoting sharply to the side of the charging man, securing a deep underhook grip beneath Richard's armpit. Leveraging Richard's forward momentum, Michael dropped his hips and executed a Sweeping Hip Throw. Richard was hoisted violently, his massive frame flipped and driven down into the canvas, landing hard on his shoulder and the back of his head. The impact instantly stunned him, leaving him gasping and unable to rise.
Michael met the charging Thomas with a short, brutal elbow strike to the jaw, followed by a knee driven into the solar plexus. Thomas crumpled against the ropes, instantly incapacitated, gasping for air.
Christian, seeing his three friends decimated in three seconds, attempted a desperate, wild haymaker. Michael ducked effortlessly under the swing and countered with a hammer-fist smash to the base of Christian's neck, followed by an immediate, vicious heel-palm strike to his chin. Christian went rigid, all motor function ceasing instantly, and he collapsed onto the canvas, unconscious and utterly humiliated.
The fight lasted less than one minute.
Throughout this devastating sequence, Michael ensured that his strikes were precise and focused, securing the defeat with massive internal bruising and concussive force, without causing any lasting breaks or shatters to bone, though the pain was absolute.
With all four men—Christian, Henry, Thomas, and Richard—lying broken or unconscious on the canvas, Michael was left standing alone, breathing easily, surrounded by the wreckage.
Michael turned, still breathing easily, and looked out at the remaining cluster of Elites outside the ropes, their faces now mirrors of shock, shame, and terror. He addressed a startled-looking student near the ropes. "Give me a cigarette."
The student fumbled one out. Michael placed it on his mouth. Another man instinctively rushed forward and lit it. Michael took a long, deep puff, exhaled a plume of smoke, and looked over the defeated.
"Is there anybody else?"
The remaining young men in expensive suits hung their heads, their defeat complete, total, and absolute.
The silence broke. Michael's supporters erupted again, this time with a primal, unified roar that swallowed the gymnasium. They flooded the ring, lifted Michael onto their shoulders, and carried him out of the Hemenway, a hero crowned in a cloud of dust and sweat, leaving the defeated Elites and their unconscious champions behind.