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Elijah is evolving faster than you think.
His power is growing.
His business empire is expanding.
And the story only gets crazier from here.
Right now, this platform is far behind.
At patreon.com/KingAlex738, the story is already past Chapter 100… and moving toward Chapter 200.
Don't get left behind while everyone else moves ahead.
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Chapter 47
Elijah stood in the center of the ring, his good hand raised, his ruined arm hanging at his side.
The crowd was a wall of noise, but he didn't hear them. His world had narrowed to the man in front of him, to the purple aura that burned bright and steady, to the rhythm of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He looked at his left arm. The shoulder was dislocated, the same one Henry had injured earlier, the joint popped out of its socket, the arm hanging useless. He couldn't fight like this. Not against Tristan.
He reached across with his right hand, grabbed his left wrist, and planted his left elbow against his own ribs. The crowd noise faded to a distant hum. He breathed in, held it, and pulled.
The pain was blinding. White light exploded behind his eyes, and for a moment, he thought he might pass out.
His jaw clenched so hard he felt something crack in his teeth. But the joint slid back into place with a wet, grinding sound that he felt more than heard.
He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. His left arm dropped to his side, throbbing, weak, but there.
He flexed his fingers, felt the tendons pull, felt the pain settle into something he could work with. He could move it now. That was enough.
He rolled his shoulder, testing it, and raised both hands.
Tristan watched him, his purple eyes unreadable. He had waited. He could have attacked while Elijah was putting his arm back in place, could have ended the fight right there. But he had waited.
"Done?" Tristan asked.
Elijah didn't answer. He settled into his stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, his hands up, his weight balanced. His Ki sense reached out, sharp and clear, and he felt Tristan's sense reach back.
Tristan moved first.
His fist came at Elijah's face, fast and precise. Elijah's Ki sense read it, and his body moved before his mind caught up.
He stepped inside the punch, felt it pass over his shoulder, and slipped to the side. The wind of the punch brushed his cheek, but it didn't touch him.
Tristan followed with a hook, then a knee, then a kick. Elijah moved through each one, his feet light, his body flowing around the attacks like water around stones.
His Ki sense was sharper than it had ever been. He could feel the tension in Tristan's muscles before they contracted, could read the trajectory of each strike before Tristan's fist left his guard.
But he couldn't land a hit.
Every time he tried to counter, Tristan's Ki sense read him. Every punch Elijah threw, Tristan had already shifted, already adjusted, already moved into a position where Elijah's strike would hit nothing but air. They circled each other, a dance of near misses and empty spaces.
Elijah threw a jab. Tristan slipped it. Elijah threw a cross. Tristan ducked. Elijah threw a hook. Tristan's forearm came up, blocking it without seeming to move at all.
"You're faster," Tristan said, and there was something in his voice that might have been approval. "Your sense is better than it was. But you can't touch me."
He kept moving, kept circling, kept his Ki sense spread wide. He could feel Tristan's aura, purple and bright, could feel the rhythm of his movements, the patterns he fell into.
There was a gap, a fraction of a second between Tristan's attacks where his guard dropped, where his focus shifted from offense to defense.
But Elijah wasn't fast enough to exploit it. Every time he tried, Tristan was already there, already waiting, already moving into the space Elijah needed.
Minutes passed. The crowd was silent now, watching, waiting. Elijah's breath came in ragged gasps.
His shoulder throbbed. His ribs screamed with every movement. His leg was still numb where Tristan had kicked it. But he kept moving.
Tristan threw a combination—left, right, left, hook—each punch faster than the last. Elijah's Ki sense read them, and he moved.
He slipped the first, ducked the second, blocked the third on his forearm, and leaned back from the hook. The punch passed inches from his face, close enough to stir his hair.
But Tristan had shifted his weight. His next attack wasn't a punch. It was a kick, low and fast, aimed at Elijah's already injured leg.
Elijah's Ki sense screamed. He tried to move, but his leg wouldn't respond fast enough.
The kick connected, driving into his thigh, and pain exploded through him. His leg buckled, and for a moment, he was off balance, falling, his guard dropping.
Tristan's fist came at his face.
But Elijah saw it. His Ki sense read the trajectory, the speed, the force. And instead of trying to dodge, instead of trying to block, he stepped into the punch.
The fist caught him on the cheek, hard enough to snap his head to the side, hard enough to send blood spraying from his split lip.
But in that same moment, his own fist was already moving, driving toward Tristan's ribs, into the place where his aura was thinnest, where Henry had taught him to look.
The punch landed.
Tristan grunted, his purple aura flickering, and for the first time, he stepped back. Not a stumble, not a retreat, but a step.
The crowd erupted.
Elijah didn't wait. He pressed forward, his Ki sense reaching, searching. He could feel Tristan's aura now, could feel the places where it was thin, the moments where his focus slipped.
He threw a combination—jab, cross, hook—and Tristan blocked the first two, but the third slipped through, catching him on the shoulder.
Tristan answered with a punch to Elijah's stomach. Elijah took it, felt the air leave his lungs, and threw a knee in return. It caught Tristan in the thigh.
Tristan's fist drove into Elijah's ribs. Elijah heard something crack, felt the pain lance through him, and drove his elbow into Tristan's chest.
They traded blows in the center of the ring, neither giving ground, both taking hits that would have dropped lesser fighters.
Elijah's lip was split, his ribs were cracked, his shoulder was screaming, but he kept moving. Every time Tristan hit him, he hit back. Every time Tristan pushed him back, he pushed forward.
The crowd was on its feet now, screaming, money forgotten, bets forgotten. There was only the fight, only the two men in the ring who refused to fall.
Tristan's purple aura flickered. His breathing was heavier now, his movements less precise.
Elijah could feel it, could feel the cracks in his control, the places where his Ki sense was starting to slip.
But Elijah was tired too. His arms were heavy, his legs were shaking, his vision was blurring at the edges. He had minutes, maybe less, before his body gave out completely.
He needed to end this.
He changed his rhythm. Instead of attacking where Tristan was weak, he attacked where Tristan was strong.
He threw punches at Tristan's guard, at his forearms, at the places where his aura was brightest. Each hit was absorbed, blocked, turned aside, but each hit also pushed Tristan back, step by step, toward the ropes.
Tristan's eyes narrowed. He was reading it, Elijah knew. He was seeing the pattern, the rhythm, the strategy. He was waiting for Elijah to overcommit, to throw a punch he couldn't pull back, to leave an opening.
But Elijah wasn't going to give him that opening.
He threw a punch at Tristan's face. Tristan blocked it. He threw another. Tristan blocked it. Another. Another. Each one faster, each one harder, each one pushing Tristan closer to the ropes.
And then, when Tristan's back was against the ropes, when his guard was high, when his focus was entirely on the punches coming at his face, Elijah changed.
His kick came from below, low and fast, aimed at Tristan's knee. Tristan's Ki sense screamed, and he tried to move, but there was nowhere to go.
His back was against the ropes. His weight was on his heels. He couldn't dodge.
The kick connected. Tristan's leg buckled, his purple aura flickering wildly, and for a moment, his guard dropped.
Elijah moved.
His fist drove into Tristan's stomach, folding him forward. His knee came up, catching Tristan in the chest.
His elbow drove down, crashing into Tristan's shoulder. And then his fist, his good fist, his right fist, drove into Tristan's jaw with everything he had left.
Tristan's head snapped to the side. His purple aura flickered once, twice, and for a moment, Elijah thought it was over.
But Tristan caught himself. His hand shot out, grabbing the ropes, and he pulled himself upright. His face was bloody now, his lip split, his eye swelling. His purple aura was flickering, weak, but it was still there.
He looked at Elijah, and for the first time, there was something in his eyes that wasn't calm. It wasn't anger, wasn't fear. It was something closer to annoyance.
"You fight like a cornered animal," Tristan said, his voice low. "You take hits just to land hits. You bleed just to make me bleed. It's desperate."
Elijah didn't answer. He couldn't. His lungs were burning, his body was screaming, his vision was swimming.
"I've been fighting for a long time," Tristan continued. "I've faced people stronger than you, faster than you, better than you. And they all fought like this, Desperate and Reckless. They threw themselves at me until they couldn't stand anymore. And they all lost."
He straightened, rolling his shoulders, his purple aura brightening.
"You're not going to beat me by taking hits. You're not going to beat me by fighting desperate. You're not going to beat me at all."
Elijah heard the words, but he wasn't listening. He was watching Tristan's aura, feeling the rhythm of his Ki, the patterns he fell into. And he realized something.
Tristan thought he knew Elijah's strategy. He thought Elijah was fighting desperate, throwing himself at him, hoping to land a lucky hit. He thought Elijah was going to keep attacking, keep taking hits, keep bleeding until he couldn't stand anymore.
He had fallen for it.
Elijah's Ki sense reached out, and he felt Tristan's focus narrow. The man was waiting for Elijah to attack, to throw himself forward, to leave an opening. His guard was set. His weight was balanced. His Ki was coiled, ready to counter.
But Elijah didn't attack.
He stepped back. His hands dropped slightly, not lowering his guard, but changing it. His weight shifted, his stance opening, his Ki sense reaching deeper.
Tristan's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"
He breathed in, held it and let it out slow.
And then he reached for Zenith.
One hundred percent.
The red aura exploded around him, brighter than it had ever been, brighter than the lights above the ring. His muscles screamed, his bones creaked, his blood burned in his veins. Pain lanced through him, white-hot, blinding, but he held it. He held it with everything he had.
His stats shifted behind his eyes, numbers climbing higher than they had ever climbed before.
Strength: 27 → 54
Endurance: 24 → 48
Defense: 25 → 50
Tristan's eyes went wide. His Ki sense flared, reading the sudden surge of power, and for a moment, his calm cracked.
Elijah moved.
His fist drove into Tristan's guard, and this time, the guard didn't hold. Tristan's arms folded inward, his body betraying him, and Elijah's fist connected with his jaw. Tristan's head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his split lip, and he stumbled.
Elijah didn't stop. His next punch drove into Tristan's stomach, folding him forward. His knee came up, catching Tristan in the chest. His elbow drove down, crashing into Tristan's shoulder. And then his fist, his left fist, the one that had been hanging useless minutes ago, drove into Tristan's ribs with everything he had left.
Tristan's purple aura flickered wildly, guttering like a candle in the wind. He tried to raise his guard, but his arms wouldn't respond. He tried to move, but his legs wouldn't carry him. He tried to fight, but his body had nothing left to give.
Elijah's fist came up one more time. Tristan's eyes met his, purple on red.
The punch landed square on Tristan's jaw.
Tristan's eyes rolled back. His knees buckled, and he hit the mat on his back, his arms splayed, his chest heaving. His purple aura flickered once, twice, and went dark.
The crowd was silent. For one long moment, no one moved, no one spoke, no one breathed.
And then the world exploded.
The noise was deafening, a wall of sound that crashed over Elijah, over the ring, over the whole warehouse. People were on their feet, screaming, shouting, money flying through the air, hands raised, faces wild with disbelief.
Elijah stood over Tristan, his chest heaving, his red aura flickering, his body screaming. His arms hung at his sides, too heavy to lift. His legs shook with every breath. His ribs screamed with every heartbeat. His shoulder was a ruin of pain.
He had won.
The announcer's voice cut through the noise, shaky with disbelief. "Winner Elijah."
A screen flashed in the corner of his vision.
[Quest Complete]
[Reward: Unique Skill — ???]
[300 EXP]
[Total EXP: 300]
Elijah didn't read the rest. His vision was blurring, his legs giving out, the world tilting sideways. He felt himself falling, felt the canvas rushing up to meet him, felt the darkness closing in.
But before he hit the mat, arms caught him. Kai's arms. He heard Kai's voice, distant and muffled, saying something he couldn't understand. He heard Henry's voice somewhere behind him, heard the crowd still screaming, heard the announcer still talking.
He tried to open his eyes, but they wouldn't open. He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't move.
The darkness took him.