Slowly, the Astania boys creeped into the monks’ cave. Their sandals made no sound against the stone. Only their breathing betrayed them, shallow and fast. Moonlight slid through the narrow cracks in the cave walls, cutting their shadows into long twisted shapes that crawled across the floor.

  Harry lay on his sick bed. His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. His broken arm rested stiff beside him, wrapped in rough cloth. His face was pale, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. He looked smaller there, almost like a child who had wandered too far from home.

  Jerry raised his hand. The boys stopped. For a moment, only the drip of water from the cave ceiling could be heard.

  Then they moved. Two of them grabbed Harry’s legs. Another took his good arm. One clamped a hand over Harry’s mouth. Harry’s eyes flew open.

  He tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat, smothered by the rough palm pressed against his lips. Panic shot through him. His body jerked. His feet kicked uselessly against the air.

  They lifted him. Pain ripped through his broken arm as it swung, and a muffled cry escaped him. His eyes rolled wildly, searching the darkness for help that never came. They dragged him out of the cave.

  Cold night air hit his face. Stars burned faintly above, uncaring. The boys moved fast, breathing hard, boots crunching softly on gravel as they crossed the open ground toward the river. The Alabama river glimmered in the distance. Black. Silent. Waiting.

  They reached the shore and dropped him onto the damp sand. Harry’s back hit the ground, knocking the air from his lungs. The hand over his mouth was yanked away.

  He gasped. “What are you guys doing?” Harry said, his voice thin and shaking. Jerry crouched in front of him, his face half-lit by moonlight. A slow smile crept across his lips. “Getting rid of you,” Jerry said. “Our only weakling.”

  One of the boys stepped forward with rope. The fibers scraped against Harry’s skin as they wrapped it around his wrists, tight and unforgiving. Another looped it around his ankles. Harry thrashed. “Stop,” he cried. “Please stop.”

  A brick was brought forward. Cold. Heavy. They tied it to his back with another rope, pulling the knot until it dug into his skin. Harry’s heart thundered so loud he could hear it in his ears.

  Slowly, it dawned on him. The river. The rope.

  The brick.

  His breath caught. “No,” he whispered. Then louder. “No. Please.” Tears spilled from his eyes, running down into his hair. “Please,” he begged. “Do not do this. You are my brothers.”

  Laughter answered him. “We are no brothers to a weak bastard,” Jerry said. They grabbed him again, lifting him off the ground. The brick dragged his body backward, pulling him down even as they carried him forward.

  Harry kicked wildly. “Somebody please help me!” he screamed. “They are about to drown me. Please help me!”

  His voice echoed across the water, bouncing off the dark trees, but nothing came back. No footsteps. No shouts. Only his own fear returned to him in hollow waves.

  The boys chuckled. “Cry all you want,” one of them said. “No one will hear you from here.” They reached the edge of the river. Cold mist rose from the surface. The water moved slowly, thick and heavy, like it was alive.

  They raised him. Harry’s body swung for a second, suspended between earth and water. Then they threw him. The river swallowed him in a violent splash.

  Cold closed over his head. His breath was ripped away. Water surged into his nose and mouth, burning as it filled him. The brick dragged him down. Fast. Every piece of his life flashed through his mind.

  A boy standing alone in the palace halls.

  Whispers behind his back. The word bastard was thrown like a stone. Fists in the academy. Laughter in the arena. Angela’s single punch.

  His chest tightened. “Born a curse,” his mind whispered. The river pressed against him from every side. His tied limbs made him helpless. He could not swim. He could not reach the surface. He sank. “I should just die,” he thought. “My life would only be miserable anyway.”

  His eyes drifted shut. The world became darker. Water rushed into his lungs. His body convulsed once, then again, but there was nowhere for the air to go. His strength bled away. His heart slowed. The river floor rushed up. His body hit the bottom with a dull thud.

  There was silence.

  A memory that did not belong to him flickered inside his fading mind. A voice. Ancient. Steady. “Remain there till I return again.”

  Then something brushed his hand. At first, it felt like stone. Then metal. Harry’s fingers twitched. The object pulsed. Light flared in the dark water, cutting through the black like lightning. The shape was clearer now.

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  A hand. Not flesh. Not bone. An artificial hand. It shifted, as if alive, and pressed against Harry’s left wrist.

  The metal melted into him. Glued. Fused. A blinding glow burst from it. Energy surged through his arm, racing through his veins, burning and cold all at once. His eyes snapped open beneath the water, glowing with sudden fire. His body jerked. The ropes around his wrists trembled, then split apart.

  His ankles followed. The brick tore loose and fell into the darkness below. Harry’s chest expanded. Air rushed back into his lungs as if pulled by invisible hands.

  His body began to rise. Upward. The river released him. He broke the surface in a rush of water and light, gasping as he was carried toward the shore by a force he did not understand. His glowing hand cut through the dark, leaving ripples of shimmering energy behind him.

  He floated. Then he was thrown onto the sand. His body rolled, coughing water, his chest heaving. The light from his hand flickered once more, then dimmed.

  Darkness closed in. Harry went still. Unconscious on the riverbank.

  That moment, a strange memory of old started surging into him. He saw himself as a farmer. Grooming crops. Then a fighter, who fought both human and beasts. “I am Benjamin Salim. The wielder of the God Hand.” A voice said then he jerked up.

  He was in a strange room. A room he had never seen before. Then a voice boomed across the room. “You are awake!” Harry flinched and turned around. There staring at him was Master Kangfu.

  “Good morning, si. Sir,” he stammered. Master Kangfu didn't respond. His eyes still fixed on Harry. Harry became uncomfortable. The air between them felt thick, like it could be touched. His heart thumped against his ribs. “How did I get here?” He asked.

  Master Kangfu smiled and nodded his head. “I saw you lifeless at the river bank. You were trying to drawn yourself?” The words hit Harry like cold water. The river rushed back into his mind. The weight. The darkness. The brick.

  “No,” Harry snapped. “Some Astania boys tied me up and threw me into the river.”

  Master Kangfu was silent for a few seconds. The room seemed to shrink. Even the walls felt like they were listening. Then he burst into laughter. The sound was sharp and strange. “That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. If that is the case, did you swim out with your hands tied? Or did the river vomit you out?”

  Harry opened his mouth but nothing came out. His throat was dry. His fingers twitched. He could still feel the rope on his skin even though it was gone. He closed his eyes for a moment. The river again. The sinking. The glowing hand. It was all there but when he tried to grab it, it slipped away.

  “I do not know,” he said at last. Master Kangfu shook his head slowly. His smile faded. “I thought you were strong and persistent. I never knew you could easily give up without your last combat. I am truly disappointed.”

  The words cut deeper than any punch. Master Kangfu turned and walked off. His steps echoed as he left the room. The door shut behind him with a dull sound that felt too final.

  Harry was alone. He stood there, breathing, listening to his own heartbeat. It was loud in his ears. The room smelled of herbs and old wood. A single lantern flickered on the wall, throwing weak shadows that moved like ghosts. He looked down at his left hand. It was there. Normal. Pale. But it felt different. Heavy. Warm. Like something was sleeping inside it.

  He clenched his fist. No pain. His eyes widened. Slowly, he opened and closed his fingers. Still nothing. The broken bones. The bruises. The burning in his arm. All of it was gone. “I,” his voice came out shaky.

  He took a step forward, then another. His legs didn’t wobble. He felt strong. Too strong. He stood in front of the wall. The cracks in the wood were thin, like old scars. He raised his left fist. For a moment he hesitated. Then he punched.

  The sound was loud. Sharp. The wall cracked. Tiny lines spread from where his knuckles hit, like lightning trapped in wood. A small piece fell to the floor.

  Harry stumbled back. His mouth fell open. “Whoa!” He stared at his hand. Turned it. Shook it. Still no pain. “I am fully healed.” The words burst out of him. He laughed, half scared, half amazed.

  The farmer. The battle. The voice. Benjamin Salim. The name rolled through his mind like distant thunder. He ran to the door. His bare feet slapped against the floor. He grabbed the handle and pulled. It didn’t move. He pulled again, harder. Nothing.

  Locked. His breath came faster. He knocked. Then banged. “Sir. Master Kangfu. Please.”

  There was no answer.

  The room felt smaller now. The lantern flickered again. The shadows danced on the walls. Harry backed away from the door. His heart thundered. The memory surged again.

  A field. Wide and golden. A man holding a glowing hand. Blood. Fire. Beasts with burning eyes. “I am Benjamin Salim. The wielder of the God Hand.”

  Harry grabbed his head. The images were too clear, too real. “Get out,” he whispered. “Get out of my head.” But the memory didn’t fade. It pressed harder, like it wanted to live inside him.

  His left hand began to tingle. He stared at it. The skin looked normal, but beneath it, something pulsed. A soft glow, just for a second, like a heartbeat made of light.

  Harry gasped and pulled his hand back. The glow vanished. The room was silent again. Too silent. He walked slowly to the center of the room. His steps felt heavier now.

  The voice. The hand. The river. None of it felt like a dream. He could still feel the cold water in his lungs. The brick dragging him down. The rope biting into his wrists. He swallowed hard. “Why am I still alive?” he murmured.

  His eyes drifted back to his left hand. Something answered inside him. Not with words. With a low, steady pulse. Like a heart that was not his. The door creaked. Harry spun around, fists raised. Nothing came in. Just the sound of footsteps outside. Slow. Calm.

  Master Kangfu. Harry stood frozen, staring at the door. The memory burned in his mind. The hand tingled again. Whatever had happened in the river had not ended there. It had followed him back.

  Later on the door creaked open and master Kangfu came in. “Come with me, we are going to the contest arena.” Harry exhaled, ready to fight again. He walked in front of Master Kangful whose eyes were fixed on him. The hallway felt longer than usual, like it was stretching just to watch him walk through it. Each step echoed. His left hand felt warm again, not burning, just quietly alive.

  The moment they arrived at the Arena, the Astania boys became uncomfortable. They shifted. Some stepped back. Some whispered. Eyes followed Harry like he was not supposed to exist.

  “Am I seeing a ghost or he truly survived the river,” Jerry whispered to Daniel. Daniel swallowed. His face looked pale. “That is not possible, I tied a block to his back.”

  Harry heard them. Every word slid into him like a blade. His shoulders tightened. The river flashed in his mind. The sinking. The weight. His fingers curled slowly.

  The arena roared. Fighters stood in rows. The sand on the ground was dark in some places, stained from battles that never truly left.

  Harry flinched at the sight of them, fear and trauma curled into his spine. The open space felt like a trap. No walls to hide behind. No shadows to run into.

  Then the voice of the seven supreme masters dragged all attention towards them. “Welcome to today's episodes,” one said. His voice rolled across the arena like thunder.

  “Now listen to your fight five opponents.” The words sank deep. Five. His stomach twisted. He began to call the names again. One by one. The crowd reacted to each. Some cheers. Some groans. Some quiet prayers.

  Harry’s heart beat faster. His ears rang. The world felt distant. He knew if he is to remain a fighter, he must win the last fight. His hands trembled slightly. He closed his eyes.

  “Lord, please give me a weak opponent.” The prayer barely left his lips. “Tag Twenty eight, Harry Jones of Astania, against. Andy Cole Of Rocky City.”

  The sound that followed was not cheering. It was something else. A low, heavy wave of voices all crashing together. The room held his breath. Faces turned toward him. Some pitied. Some were curious. Some were already mourning.

  Everyone shook their heads for Harry, including Master Kangfu. “The boy is truly destined to be a monk and not a fighter. That is if he survives this fight.”

  Harry stood still. The words felt heavier than the river stone. Andy Cole. Harry looked toward the other side of the arena. Andy stood there like a wall. Broad shoulders. Scarred arms. His eyes did not blink. They were fixed, cold, like he had already chosen where Harry would fall.

  Everyone's eyes were fixed on him. Andy is the right hand man of Kelly, and they fight to kill and not just to win. A boy leaned close to Harry. His breath smelled of fear. “Give up now,” the boy whispered.

  Harry didn’t look at him. “Flozy died last night from the injuries Andy inflicted on her during their first fight.”

  The words hit him. Flozy. He saw her face for a moment. Her laugh. The way she used to mock him kindly. Harry exhaled. His fist clenched so tight his nails dug into his skin. His left hand pulsed faintly, as if it had heard the name too. “You would never survive this one,” the boy added and left.