[FLASHBACK ]
The faint hum of chatter filled the air, punctuated by the soft scrape of chairs and the distant echo of footsteps in the classroom. But in that moment, time seemed to slow for me.
It was the opening day of eighth grade.
I still remember it like it was yesterday.
My name is Samar. Back then, I was a skinny kid with unruly, puffed-up hair that seemed to have a life of its own, and no glasses to shield my sharp eyes. Beside me sat Armaan—neither bulky nor skinny, just… average, with messy dark brown hair that always looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. No specs, no particular care for appearances, just naturally confident.
We were seated on the very last bench of the classroom, half-listening to the teacher's dull introductions, half-lost in our own world.
Then, the door creaked open.
A boy stepped in. He wore glasses—a pair of rectangular frames that sat perfectly on his well-shaped face. His black hair was neatly combed, not a single strand out of place, giving him an air of quiet confidence. His build was a little bulky, not overpowering, but noticeable. His expression was calm, collected… almost like he already knew where he belonged.
Without hesitation, he walked straight to the front of the class and sat down on the first bench, as if it was his rightful place from the very beginning.
That was the moment Roumit arrived.
After taking his seat at the front, Roumit stood up once more and introduced himself with a confidence that could make the coldest winter sun seem warm.
"Hello everyone… My name is Roumit Kumar… I look forward to a great year together."
Man, seriously, the way he said it… so damn cool. His voice was clear, steady, and carried this subtle charm that made half the girls in the class practically swoon on the spot. Honestly, it was like he was born to be the center of attention.
Of course, Armaan wasn't having any of that. Not long after, he reclaimed his position as the most handsome guy in the class. Roumit was cool, no doubt, but Armaan had that effortless style that turned heads without even trying.
After his introduction, Roumit went back to his seat, sitting down politely, as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
Armaan, glancing at him with that signature half-lidded, indifferent expression, murmured, "Seems to be a good guy, huh?"
It wasn't often that something or someone caught Armaan's interest, so I was honestly a little surprised by his words. I nodded, replying casually, "Yeah, seems so."
Soon after, the teacher began distributing diaries and fee books, the usual boring stuff that nobody really cared about.
And then came the announcement that wasn't a surprise at all.
Since Armaan had been the class monitor back in seventh grade, and had done a fine job, the teacher didn't even hesitate—he was chosen again as the class monitor, and Alya as the monitress.
Yeah… these two have been presiding over our class for more than five years now. I mean, who does that?
Anyway, keeping them aside for now…
Roumit was a genuinely good guy. Polite, respectful, and somehow radiating this quiet strength. But… there was one little problem.
Communication wasn't his strong suit.
Despite that undeniable confidence in standing up and introducing himself, when it came to actual interaction, especially casual chit-chat… it was like talking to a wall.
No matter who approached him—be it a girl or a boy—his replies were so blunt, so straightforward, that people could only smile wryly before making some polite excuse and walking away.
That was Roumit Kumar for you.
So the day went by fairly normally. Me and Armaan just casually spent it doing… well, practically nothing, except scribbling down some notes during classes to look productive.
But right after the last bell rang, everything changed.
One of the delinquents from our class—Ayush—decided to approach Roumit.
"Hey, you new student, wanna hang around?" His voice carried that typical taunt, coated in arrogance and trouble.
Roumit, without hesitation, calmly replied, "No. I have some business to take care of."
It was as if he already knew that hanging around this guy would only bring trouble. And he wasn't wrong.
Ayush sneered, his lips curling in mockery as he started badmouthing Roumit in the most vulgar way possible, trying to provoke a reaction.
Then, without much warning, he grabbed Roumit's collar, his hand rough and unyielding, like he wanted to push him into submission. His fist followed, aiming for Roumit's face.
Armaan's expression flickered, about to intervene—
But then… Roumit's fist shot out.
A powerful, precise punch landed squarely on Ayush's face.
The impact was harsh, cruel almost, and Ayush stumbled backward, his balance lost, and he crashed to the ground with a loud thud.
Armaan casually walked over, his posture relaxed, his voice calm as ever.
"Oh… what's going on here?" His tone was like he was asking about the weather, not a fight.
Roumit didn't hesitate for a second. In a polite and formal tone that was so out of place it almost sounded comedic, he explained everything. How Ayush approached him, the offer, the collar grab, and his decision to retaliate.
Even Armaan, who was known for his indifference, nearly laughed at how stiffly Roumit presented it, but he swallowed it down.
"If he really held your collar, you've done a good job." Armaan gave him a slow thumbs-up.
Roumit's eyes widened a little, clearly surprised by the approval. His expression was a mix of confusion and pride, as though he didn't expect anyone to appreciate his action.
But the drama wasn't over yet.
Ayush, lying on the ground, groaned and got back up, aiming a clumsy punch at Roumit once more.
Armaan, with nothing but his bare hand, casually stopped Ayush's punch mid-air.
Yeah… even though Armaan didn't look the fittest or strongest, he definitely had strength beneath that lean frame. And me? I was no slouch either—trust me, you'll know soon enough. (A little self-praise, if I may.)
Seeing the situation spiraling further out of control and Armaan's cold, expressionless face, I stepped in, raising my voice.
"Ayush, back off."
But Ayush just sneered harder.
"You've done something bad, newcomer," he spat, "You'll pay for it. I've got friends in Belilious Road. If I just give them a call, they'll be here in no time to beat you all to pulp."
Those words were enough to get Armaan triggered.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward, grabbed Ayush's collar, and delivered a sharp punch that reverberated with authority.
"Involving outsiders in school matters is not allowed."
Ayush flew back like a ragdoll, crashing against a desk with a loud crack.
Before Armaan could say another word, Alya rushed to him, trying to stop him from doing anything further, her face flushed with worry.
I also moved in, trying to calm Armaan's rigid posture, while Ayush kept blabbering nonsense about revenge, threats echoing in the now silent classroom.
Finally, defeated and humiliated, Ayush stormed out, grumbling and promising vengeance in a voice that was way too full of itself.
And that… was how Roumit got his first unintentional fight of the year.
After a while, when things had more or less settled down, me and Armaan started leaving the school campus together. The air was calm, and our steps were easy, as if nothing had happened… until it hit me.
"I gotta buy something from the store behind the school," I said out of nowhere, as if it were a sudden revelation sent from the heavens.
Honestly, I couldn't remember what exactly I had to buy. But that realization—oh man, it was the best realization of my life. I swear.
Armaan frowned slightly and muttered, "You punk… why do you always remember stuff so late?"
Then, without waiting for me to respond, he turned sharply on his heels and marched back toward the store.
When we arrived, the scene was far from good.
A bunch of guys—maybe twelve or thirteen of them—were surrounding one boy. He was wearing our school uniform and rectangular specs, looking as calm and composed as ever. Yeah, that was Roumit.
One of the guys sneered, "Oi… I heard you hit my friend, huh, four eyes?"
Roumit's reply came out cool and collected, straight from some protagonist's script:
"He was the first one to hold my collar. It couldn't be helped."
There was no hint of fear or hesitation in his voice.
But the guy simply smirked, grabbed Roumit by his collar, and challenged him, "Now try to hit me."
He leaned forward, giving Roumit all the room he needed.
And without a second thought, Roumit landed a solid, square punch right on the guy's face.
The impact echoed faintly, and the guy staggered back, clearly stunned.
Just as the rest of the group—armed with bats and rods—was about to lunge at Roumit, Armaan and I intervened, perfectly in sync. We stood back to back, forming an unyielding wall.
"Yare yare… another fight, huh?" Armaan murmured in that calm, deadpan tone of his, as though we were merely dealing with an unavoidable daily nuisance.
"Can't be helped," I added casually, "That fatso is a big trouble."
Yeah… I was definitely referring to Ayush, who was standing off in a corner, visibly too afraid to step forward.
But then, as if summoned by his own rage, Ayush finally stepped out of the shadows and charged at me, fist raised to strike.
That's when I kicked his leg sharply and, with a few fluid movements of my hands across his upper body, sent him crashing to the ground.
Though I was skinny as hell, I had a black belt in karate, thank you very much. (Self-praise fully justified.)
Roumit—who still looked somewhat stunned by our sudden interference—blurted out, "Why would you guys interfere!?"
Armaan responded without a hint of hesitation:
"What you did today in school was right. So if you're fighting to defend your point, I'll stand with you.
And admit it, bro… you alone couldn't handle this much-armored nonsense." His eyes were calm, but a faint smirk played on his lips.
One of the gang members stepped forward, voice dripping with malice:
"You three are going to die here. You don't even stand a chance against us."
Armaan's expression remained impassive.
I smirked devilishly, and in perfect unison, we answered:
"Don't underestimate us, you bastard…
Who do you think we are?"
[Back to present]
The vast arena of the second stage stretched infinitely in all directions, cold and hollow under the dim, unnatural glow of the black hole overhead. Armaan, Samar, and Roumit now stood side by side, their expressions calm yet focused, as if preparing for a ritual.
Samar let out a soft chuckle, breaking the tense atmosphere.
"Ah… this line gives nostalgia…" he mused, his eyes flickering with faint amusement.
Armaan smirked, that trademark half-grin playing on his lips.
"Yeah," he replied smoothly, "this time even Roumit said it with us."
Roumit's lips curled into a faint smile as he casually pushed the temple of his specs up, the slight gesture oozing nonchalance.
"Cool," he said simply.
From above, Zykarith's violet eyes gleamed mischievously as she delivered her line in an exaggerated, comical tone, almost theatrical.
"If you are done with your so-called romance, shall I send the first wave?" Her voice dripped with teasing sarcasm.
"Yeah…" Armaan responded, instantly reverting to his expressionless demeanor, a sense of quiet determination hardening his tone.
Without further delay, the first wave appeared.
Forty to fifty human-like figures emerged from the darkness, their faces expressionless, their movements mechanical. Each one looked trained, uniform, and completely devoid of hesitation. The arena seemed to pulse with tension, as if the air itself were aware that something monumental was about to unfold.
Armaan, Samar, and Roumit stretched subtly in unison, a quiet signal of readiness.
Then, with a synchronized surge of momentum, they lunged forward.
Roumit was the first to engage. His hand-to-hand combat style was a striking blend of pure boxing technique and precise kicks. His fists struck out like pistons, each punch calculated and sharp, connecting with the opponent's ribs, jaw, and solar plexus with devastating efficiency. He moved with fluid grace, blending seamlessly from one blow to the next, his body rotating as he ducked and weaved.
Samar stepped in next, his black-belt karate expertise shining through every calculated movement. His strikes were crisp and powerful, designed to overwhelm and disarm. A spinning back kick sent one opponent flying several meters back, another opponent staggered under a palm strike that felt like a concussive wave. His feet moved swiftly, grounding him yet propelling him forward, like a storm in human form.
Meanwhile, Armaan orchestrated his own unique style. His movements were less orthodox, almost experimental, but brutally effective.
He delivered a one-handed punch to the face of an opponent, sending the man staggering backward… and at the exact same moment, he delivered a precise kick to another enemy's back, toppling him forward.
Armaan then leaped lightly onto the shoulder of one unfortunate figure, pivoting and launching himself into the air once more. With impeccable timing, his boot connected squarely with the head of the man below, causing the opponent to be launched into the air…
Not alone.
Seven or eight other nearby fighters were caught in the momentum, their bodies colliding mid-air, and all of them crashed onto the hard arena floor with a series of muffled thuds.
Roumit, spotting an opportunity, punched another attacker squarely in the chest, sending the man hurtling backward… directly toward Armaan. Without missing a beat, Armaan performed a back kick, propelling the man even further, and the attacker slammed into two others who had been advancing.
Armaan grabbed one of the advancing foes mid-stride and casually flung him toward the same pile, ensuring another brutal impact.
Each movement was precise, every action timed as though choreographed a thousand times over. Their coordination was uncanny, a dance of destruction built from deep understanding of each other's rhythm.
Zykarith, observing from above, couldn't help but smirk, a faint trace of admiration crossing her usually indifferent expression.
From her vantage point, the trio's performance looked like a fluid, seamless fight scene pulled straight out of some epic martial arts saga.
Even to her, it seemed too well-coordinated… too perfect.
It wasn't just brute force. It was trust.
It was instinct.
It was teamwork.
Together, Armaan, Samar, and Roumit methodically reduced the number of enemies, each wave falling like dominoes before them.
Every punch, every kick, every throw—echoed the synchronized strength of a trio bonded by more than circumstance. A bond forged in mutual respect, in shared struggles, and in silent understanding.
The first wave slowly disintegrated into nothingness, their bodies lying motionless across the arena floor.
The trio stood upright once more, breathing steady, their faces calm but their eyes sharper than ever.
This was only the beginning.