The two groups of boys stopped in the center of the yard.
They faced each other, a rope pulled tight between them. One wrong move, one twitch of a shoulder, and it might snap.
Dust hung in the air. Sunlight lay flat on it, hot and steady, like a hand pressing everything down.
They stood still, eyes locked, like two small gangs waiting to settle a score in dust and daylight.
Wei and Minnow's side was small.
Too small.
You could see it in the line of them, thin shadows trying to look tall. The difference in numbers pressed on them like a wall.
A real one. Heavy.
Built with fists and the promise of pain.
Wei felt that weight settle across his shoulders. He swallowed. His throat clicked like something hard and dry.
But Minnow, lean and tight as a drawn bow, stepped in front of him. Half a step, no more.
His eyes were wide, alive with fear and something fiercer.
Courage. Maybe stupidity.
Maybe both.
But it held him there, a skinny shield between Wei and the bigger boys across from them.
He wasn't tall. He wasn't broad. But he stood like a post hammered into hard earth.
A small screen of stubbornness between Wei and the world.
Wei looked at him. His chest tightened.
Something in him nudged, small and sharp.
He did not move. He did not speak.
He just looked and felt something old wake up.
Around them, the other boys shuffled back a little.
Their feet itched. Their shoulders rose.
They wanted to get closer, to see better.
Boys always did. Fights were like fires. You put your hands up and said you didn't want them, but your eyes and feet walked you right to them.
They said they were afraid. Their eyes told another story.
Minnow's voice broke the heat.
It came out dry, hard, and cold.
A voice sharpened on something long buried. Hurt, or maybe anger.
"You can insult me if you want," he said.
"But those so-called 'undying heroes' you cheer for… ask yourself this. Do they see you as their people? Or as cattle? As slaves?"
The words landed. Sharp as a blade.
The slouching boy in front felt them slice. His face flushed quick and red, like a kettle heating too fast.
He hissed, and the veins in his neck rose like ropes.
"You're with those outsiders," he spat.
"I knew it. All of you—filthy insects. You should have been killed long ago!"
"Bang."
Wei's punch came faster than thought.
A fist hit his nose like an arrow released from a taut bow.
A hard crack. A wet crack.
The world went sour.
Smells- metal, sweat, and something bitter. They exploded in his nose and throat.
He tasted fire. His eyes poured water.
He screamed. Not words.
Just noise. Raw and loud.
Around them, the yard froze.
Boys sucked air in, held it, counted.
"He hit me," the red-faced boy cried. "He really hit me! Someone help!"
Minnow froze. Arms spread wide.
His mouth trembled. He tried to sound strong. It didn't work.
"Stop… stop. Talk first—"
But shadows fell. Bodies crashed into him like dark waves.
Knees and fists, elbows and shins rained down on him.
He bent, curled, shrieked.
The sound split the air like sparks snapping off dry wood.
Sunlight slanted through the boards of the shed walls, cutting bright lines across moving bodies, then losing them, then finding them again. A rhythm. Light, dark, light, dark.
Some boys backed away fast.
"Stop! Iron-Throat said anyone who fights gets death!" one shouted, hands high, body bent like he already expected a blow.
They crouched, palms out, showing they weren't part of it.
Their fear was loud. Their relief at not being in the circle was louder.
Others clapped and laughed. Sharp, high laughter. Excited. Hungry. Like watching dogs fight from a safe fence.
Minnow curled in on himself. Hands clamped over his head.
His voice muffled from his armpit.
"Hit all you want… but don't hit the face… hear me? Don't hit the face!"
On the other side, Wei's fist rose.
He remembered the forest when he was smaller.
His first hunting arrow wounded the wild goat.
It didn't run.
It stood there, breath like steam. Legs trembling. Eyes bright. Alive.
He had thought it would flee. He had been wrong.
It charged. Fast. Close.
It threw him into damp leaves. The weight, the smell, the heat of it pressed down on him.
Its horns came close—too close.
He remembered the cold of them. The curve. The hollow feeling in his chest.
His father had pulled him away by the collar and dragged him ten steps back before scolding him.
"Once you start," his father said, "don't stop. Hesitate, and you die."
Now the punch hit flesh. Firm. Cold. Clear.
The lesson struck with it.
He focused on one boy. The slouching one. The one who always smirked. The one who had swung first.
He saw only him.
Wei's fists fell like rain. Not wild. Not lost. Hard, fast, true.
The boy scrambled backward into the crowd, yelping, terrified.
"You're burning me! Somebody get him off!"
His friends surged forward.
Wei felt a heavy mallet strike his lower back. Another kick hit the backs of his thighs. Then another. Hard. Sloppy. Fast.
The first one made him stumble.
The second bent him.
The third brought a grunt out of him.
He shook his head, cleared it, didn't turn. Didn't look. Didn't care who was kicking.
There was only one target. One pair of eyes he meant to drive into the dirt. Once he fixed on it, he wouldn't let go.
His fists, once wild, found their mark again.
Strong.
Precise.
The poor boy's heart skipped. His legs softened like dough. He fell flat on the ground.
Before he could even breathe, Wei was on him.
Clean. Sharp. A weight.
Pinning him tight.
But before he could lift his head again, more shadows slammed into him.
One. Two. Three.
Heavy. Solid. Crushing.
Pressing his back. Bending him in half.
Air fled his chest.
His ears filled with steps, shouts, breathing. They were heavy and close.
"Hua—help me—"
Minnow's voice came through the gaps between bodies pressing down on him. It trembled, thin as a cracked reed. Close to breaking.
Hua stirred.
His foot scraped a curl of dust off the ground, then stopped. Then pulled back.
He stood there like a wooden post hammered deep. Not moving. Not speaking. Not helping.
Outside, the guards saw the chaos through the slats. One reached for the shed door.
A bigger hand stopped him.
"Wait," Iron-Throat said. "No rush."
His hand clamped on the door like a pair of pliers tightening. His other hand flattened beside it. He pressed his shiny, grinning face to the crack. His breath was hot and sour.
He watched the chaos inside.
His eyes gleamed like a mouse that had found something fat and easy.
"Good chance," he said softly, almost kindly, as though speaking to the wood itself."This time, you won't slip from my hand."
He licked the corner of his mouth.
Patient. Slow.
Like a cat waiting for a fish to come near.