The veteran came at him without warning.
No feints this time. No probing steps or half-committed strikes. He closed the distance in a burst of controlled aggression, boots scraping stone as his weight shifted forward with intent. A short right snapped toward Osric's head, followed immediately by a body shot meant to sap breath and strength in one exchange.
Osric moved.
Not back—through it.
His guard rose just enough to deflect the first blow as his torso twisted aside, the second strike grazing his ribs instead of landing cleanly. Pain flared, sharp but manageable, and vanished as quickly as it came. His feet were already adjusting, carrying him out of the pocket before the veteran could crowd him again.
The crowd's reaction came a heartbeat late.
This wasn't a newcomer being tested anymore.
The veteran reset, eyes locked on Osric now, his expression stripped of amusement. He had felt it—the timing, the control, the refusal to break under pressure. Whatever he'd expected tonight, this wasn't it.
Osric exhaled slowly through his nose, heat humming beneath his skin.
The patterns he'd studied.
The openings he'd waited for.
The instincts that had guided him here.
They were no longer theory.
They were alive.
And as the veteran stepped forward again, this time with real intent, Osric leaned into his stance—ready not just to endure the fight, but to take it.
The veteran didn't rush this time.
He stepped in low and fast, not with a punch but with a kick—shin snapping toward Osric's knee, ugly and efficient. There was nothing sporting about it. Cripple the leg, end the fight.
Osric felt it coming a fraction of a second before it landed.
He shifted his weight and lifted his leg just enough that the kick scraped along bone instead of smashing through it. Pain lanced up his calf, but he was already moving, answering with an elbow aimed at the veteran's temple.
The man ducked it by instinct and drove his shoulder forward instead, slamming into Osric's chest. The impact knocked the air from his lungs and sent them both stumbling into a messy clinch.
This was where the ring got ugly.
The veteran wrapped an arm around Osric's neck and dragged him close, forearm grinding into his throat. At the same time, his knee came up hard, aiming for Osric's ribs.
Osric twisted, taking it partially on the hip instead. He felt the jolt all the way through his spine, teeth clacking together. The crowd roared—this was the kind of fighting they came for.
The veteran leaned in close, breath hot against Osric's ear.
"Thought you were clever," he muttered, and drove his forehead forward.
Osric turned his head at the last moment. The headbutt clipped his brow instead of his nose, splitting skin but not bone. Blood immediately blurred his vision on one side.
Combat Instinct surged.
Not panic. Not pain.
Direction.
Osric stomped down hard on the veteran's foot.
The man grunted in surprise, his grip loosening for just a moment. Osric took it. He jammed his forearm under the man's chin and shoved upward, breaking the clinch with brute leverage, then followed with a short punch to the throat.
Not clean.
Not pretty.
Effective.
The veteran staggered back, coughing, eyes wide with sudden anger. He wiped at his mouth and came back swinging wild—fist, elbow, then a desperate grab meant to pull Osric back into close quarters.
Osric ducked under the grab and drove his shoulder into the man's midsection, tackling him sideways. They crashed into the stone wall at the edge of the ring, bodies slamming hard enough to draw a collective gasp.
The veteran reacted instantly, raking his fingers across Osric's face.
White-hot pain exploded as nails tore at skin near his eye.
Osric snarled and answered with a knee straight into the man's thigh, then another. He felt muscle give slightly under the impact. The veteran hissed and tried to twist away, but Osric stayed on him, forehead pressed into the man's chest, denying space.
This wasn't about clean strikes anymore.
It was about control.
The veteran hooked a hand into Osric's belt and tried to throw him, using weight and experience to force him off balance. Osric felt it happening—and went with it. He shifted mid-motion, letting himself be dragged just far enough to slip an arm free and hammer an elbow down into the man's collarbone.
Something cracked.
The veteran cried out, half in pain, half in fury, and shoved Osric away with both hands. They separated again, both breathing hard now, sweat and blood streaking their bodies.
The veteran's stance was different.
Lower. More guarded.
He rolled his injured shoulder once, jaw clenched, eyes burning.
No more confidence.
No more teaching a rookie a lesson.
Osric wiped blood from his eye with the back of his hand and reset his footing. His chest burned, ribs aching, leg throbbing where the kick had landed—but he was still steady.
Still thinking.
Still seeing.
The veteran lunged again, desperate now, throwing everything into a brutal combination—punches aimed anywhere they could land, a kick thrown without care for balance, a wild grab meant to drag Osric down with him.
Osric slipped inside the last swing.
This time, he didn't hold back.
He drove a punch into the veteran's exposed jaw, felt bone give, and followed immediately with a headbutt of his own. The impact snapped the man's head back, legs faltering.
Osric stepped through and shoved him hard.
The veteran fell.
Not gracefully.
He hit the stone on his back, the breath leaving him in a ragged wheeze, arms flailing uselessly as he tried—and failed—to rise.
Osric stood over him, chest heaving, vision narrowing.
The man didn't get back up.
The crowd erupted.
Not polite applause. Not cheers.
A roar.
Osric stepped back as the handlers moved in, blood dripping from his brow, fists still clenched. His whole body shook now—not from fear, not from exhaustion—but from the aftermath of violence barely restrained.
He was still standing.
He had won.
And somewhere beneath the noise, beneath the pain and heat and blood, Osric felt it settle into him with cold clarity—
This wasn't survival anymore.
This was progress.