The ground was too hard to be called a ring.
Compacted dirt, uneven, marked by old footprints and dark stains that no one had ever truly cleaned. The circle was formed more by people than by lines. Children, some teenagers, a few adults. Curious looks, whispered bets, nervous laughter.
Osborn took a deep breath.
The air smelled of old sweat and kicked-up dust. Each breath was dry, scraping his throat. He felt his heart racing, but not uncontrollably. It was different from hunger. Different from the fear of the streets.
This was focus.
In front of him stood his opponent.
A boy the same age—seven, maybe eight years old. A little smaller. Thinner. Ribs visible under the skin. Arms too skinny to hold a guard for long. His eyes were wide, not with anger, but with unease.
He doesn't want to be here, Osborn thought.
And that already says everything.
Osborn adjusted his feet on the unstable ground, feeling the irregularity through the worn soles of his shoes. He remembered what he always did before starting any training: posture first. Always.
The boy raised his hands awkwardly, imitating something he had certainly seen before. Elbows too wide open. Chin too high.
Mistake.
The man who organized the fights made a brief gesture with his hand.
"Go."
There was no count.
No ceremony.
Osborn's body moved before any conscious thought. A small step forward, weight balanced. The straight punch came clean—not with full force, but fast enough to test.
The punch hit the boy's shoulder, not his face.
Osborn was already moving sideways when the opponent tried to respond, clumsily, swinging his arm as if trying to swat something in the air.
Slow… he thought.
He didn't rush.
Cross.
This time, to the chest. The impact stole the boy's breath for a second. He didn't fall, but he staggered back, almost imperceptibly.
Osborn saw the fear grow there.
The way the eyes blinked too fast. The breathing too shallow. The hands starting to drop without him realizing.
He felt something strange in his chest.
It wasn't pity.
It was awareness.
If I want, I can end this now.
But that wasn't what he needed.
He advanced again, without exaggerated hurry. A simple front kick, straight to the stomach. Not full power. Just enough to push, to break the rhythm.
The boy doubled over, gasping.
Osborn took two steps back.
Waited.
Watched.
The boy tried to advance, but his feet wouldn't obey. It was as if the body no longer followed the will. He raised his arm, threw a punch way too high, without balance.
Osborn slipped underneath.
His leg swept the boy's support with almost cold precision. It wasn't violent. It was technical. A clean sweep.
The opponent's body hit the ground hard, the air leaving his lungs in a dry sound.
Silence—for a second.
Osborn advanced just enough to stay close, but he didn't mount, didn't strike.
"Don't get up," he said, low and firm.
The boy blinked, confused, breathing fast. He tried to move his legs, but stopped. He looked around. Saw the stares. The bets. The man running the fight.
He didn't get up.
The organizer raised his hand.
"Done."
The noise returned suddenly. Murmurs, comments, someone laughing, someone complaining about a lost bet.
Osborn stepped back, feeling the adrenaline finally begin to dissipate. His hands trembled a little now—not during. Never during.
He looked at the boy on the ground one last time. There was no hatred there. No resentment.
Just exhaustion.
Good, he thought. That's what I wanted.
He left the circle without anyone touching him. The fight organizer called him with a brief gesture.
"Twenty," he said, tossing the bronze coins into Osborn's hand.
The metal hit his skin with a very real weight for something so small. Osborn closed his fingers around them instinctively.
Money.
He had never earned money like this.
Not by chance. Not as charity. Not as scraps.
Work.
As he turned, his eyes met Bill's and Kerr's.
Bill stood frozen, mouth slightly open, staring at him as if seeing someone else. Kerr kept his arms crossed, serious, analyzing every detail, every movement still echoing in his mind.
Osborn didn't smile.
He just nodded once.
As if to say: that's it.
As he walked away, he felt something new settle inside him. It wasn't pride. It wasn't guilt.
Responsibility.
Because now he knew:He knew how to fight. He knew how to win. And there was a place in that world where that was worth money.
And this had been just the first time.
Advance chapters: https://www.patreon.com/cw/pararaio