Chương 19: Determined Steps

An extraordinary sequence of pistons and gears had transformed the arena. The sand was gone, replaced by a boxing ring with a polished floor decorated with the Agency logo, ropes strung in black and purple. Lautre and Lance stood at opposite corners, leaning against the ropes, studying each other. Everyone who had attended the meeting was now seated in the stands.

"This stays between us, clear?" Lautre said, his tone strict, tightening the wraps on his wrist. His gaze had become fixed and still on the boy, broken only by the slow rhythm of a blink. Lance nodded, adjusting his own hand wraps. He had to press his fingers together to stop the trembling, but his legs, remarkably, weren't shaking.

"No powers or Artefacts. If I catch you using either, you're disqualified." He pointed toward Lachesi, still on Lance's arm.

"I accepted the challenge on the assumption that the rule was already in place." He replied, attempting to remove Lachesi without success, to the baffled look of the audience.

"Let's see how long that arrogance holds up." Lautre smiled, assuming his stance. Fists held close to the face, torso lowered. He mirrored the guard, keeping himself lower, knees slightly bent.

"BEGIN!" Maliard bellowed, striking the bell above him with the heavy armoured plate on his forearm. The sound hadn't finished ringing before Lance found the agent already in front of his face. The movement had happened in a single breath, leaving him with no time to respond. Lautre's knuckles grazed his face, tearing away a strip of skin. He jumped to the side, trying to recover, but Lautre was already there. This blow came from below, striking his arm directly and sending him across the ring.

He spat saliva and blood onto the canvas, only to find Lautre already crouching over him before he could rise. The toe of Lautre's boot drove deep into his ribs, forcing him to his feet. His guard was broken, his balance gone, and the pain was beginning to displace his focus. While alarm signals fired through every nerve in his body, Lautre seized him by the face and lifted him off the floor.

"The clock barely hit half a minute. Pull yourself together." He whispered it into his ear, then threw him against the ropes and drove a fist hard into his stomach. Lance slid down, a metallic taste spreading from his lips. Lautre looked at him for a few seconds, his expression dark. Then he stepped back.

"I'm giving you ten seconds to get up. Otherwise, you forfeit." He raised his left thumb and began counting.

"Ten… Nine… Eight… Seven…" The numbers rang through the room, punctuated by the sighs and murmurs of the spectators.

"He isn't even using the frequency! Is that what a seasoned Meta is capable of?" Lance grabbed the ropes, trying to haul himself up, only to slip back down.

"My money's on Mr Clerc." Noel said quietly to Hoku, who had just tucked away the bundle of cash Noel had passed him, careful not to be seen.

"You shouldn't be betting on a match like this…Well, you shouldn't be betting at all!" Edvard appeared behind the two, wrapping an arm around each of them. His expression was dark and cutting enough to make them sweat. He glanced around for a second, then brought his lips close to their ears.

"Forty-five million on young Lance." He moved away from the two, stopped only by Sai's confused look.

"Are you certain?" Hoku asked, watching Lance, already bleeding and sweating at the beginning of the fight.

"I know Lautre better than anyone in this room, and I know what he's trying to do. But it wouldn't be entertaining if I told you." He smiled and returned to his seat.

"Three… Two… One…" He turned back to find Lance standing, hands slick with sweat and gripping the ropes, his legs impossibly steady.

"What a moron..." Lautre muttered, then hit him again, this time full in the face. It was barely visible, as if a spring launched him forward. His heavy hand snapped a second time, same target. Lance was incapable of forming any defence against the barrage; it was like standing under a waterfall of iron. He spat blood the moment he felt his ribs fracture under an enormous force. Lautre's kick was powerful enough to push him to the centre of the ring, where another hail of punches was waiting.

"Not now... I can still..." He was losing feeling across his body, the sensation of air in his lungs starting to dissolve. The barrage stopped without warning. He collapsed. Clerc was a few paces away again, counting seconds on his fingers.

"Another ten seconds to stand up. Almost two minutes now." His tone was dry, and he couldn't be bothered to look at him.

"Shit... Rise you..." He was trying to command his body to stand, but his legs refused. Blood ran more heavily from his lips and from the cuts on his face.

"I don't want to lose… I don't want to abandon her…" Tears had started down his face, swollen slightly by now, mixing with sweat and dried blood.

"Lance…" Jeanne tried to reach out and rise, but was stopped immediately by Maliard, who returned her to her seat.

"He chose this. Stay out of it." His tone toward her was precise and bladed. She looked down. Her hands closed tightly.

"I don't like that boy. I can stomach you, but not him." Maliard said, watching Lance sink into the pool of his own blood while Lautre finished counting.

"People exactly like him are what I despise. Idealist idiots chained to impossible principles." Maliard's words were heavy and cruel. Yet for a fraction of a second, his eyes brightened with something else.

"Lance Klint, though… Is even worse than they are. He's so consumed by his own determination that when he's cornered, he tries every possible thing to claw out, without regard for himself or anybody else."

"In my eyes, he's no different from prey that shows all its rage and despair to a predator. A hero? What nonsense. That boy is the most terrible kind of martyr." He concluded and turned Jeanne's face to the ring. He had finally gotten up, breathing hard, his whole body gripped by tremors.

"Lance Klint, you really expect to win without landing a single hit on me?" Lautre turned, looking down at him, tongue clicking.

"You think you can hold up your convictions with this little? Where is that grit you showed me earlier? Are you a fraud or something?!" He advanced slowly, cracking his knuckles, peeling away his blood-soaked wraps. Lance could barely keep his head raised high enough to look him in the face. He was right in front of him, eyes fixed.

"Are you an idiot? Do you really think you can protect anyone by only hurting yourself?" He shoved Lance hard, making him stagger.

"COME ON! ANSWER ME! I DEMAND AN ANSWER!" The blows were intensifying, each one trying to bring him down one final time.

"Is that really all the will you have in you? And you're telling me you want to protect other people?" Lautre grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him close.

"DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH! YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A FUCKED UP BRAT!" The palm of Lautre's hand struck him full force in the face, blood spattering across the black canvas.

"We're done here..." Monica rose to stop the match, but a force pressed her back down. Edvard had pushed her firmly back into the stands, leaving her momentarily bewildered.

"Ross, what the hell do you think you are doing?" She grabbed his arm, but his gaze never reached her; he was too busy watching the ring.

"Monica… Look there. I don't think we're done yet." He replied, pointing toward Lautre, who had gone completely still.

"You should know it, since you were the first to show how stupidly stubborn that man is!"

"What?" Lautre's expression had changed entirely, crossed by something like surprise and genuine curiosity. The hand coated in blood was locked in the air, seized by Lance, who was standing with his head raised.

"So what if I am?" The words came out of his dry throat in gaps between breaths. His grip only tightened.

"WHAT'S WRONG WITH BEING AN IDIOT?!" His fist connected with Lautre's face with full force, driving the nose and lips deeper into his skull. He flew against the ropes on the other side, his course arrested. Lautre pressed two fingers against his nose, running his blood-stained nails together. He smiled, flicking the red clots onto the floor.

"I'm an idiot because I sacrifice myself? Fine, I accept it." He moved forward, eyes recovering their colour, flooded with something new.

"I failed with my sister… But I won't fail again. Even if I have to crawl." He launched himself, knuckles tight.

"THE PAIN I'M GOING TO FEEL—" His fist hit Lautre's face again, pushing him back.

"WILL BE WASHED AWAY—" Another impact, this time on the ribs.

"BY THE PEOPLE I'VE HELPED!" Lance seized him, lifting Lautre off the ground, and threw him across the ring. Lautre rolled across the canvas and was back on his feet before reaching the corner.

"Am I selfish? Yes." Lance was moving again, dragging himself forward. Blood and saliva ran from his lips, but his body seemed charged with something entirely new.

"Am I pathetic? Am I deluded? Fine." Lautre shot toward him, arm lashing out like a piston. Lance grabbed the arm with ferocity, winding his fingers around the knuckles. He pulled Lautre close, locking his head, and began slowly bending his opponent's leg backwards.

"IF THIS IS WHAT IT TAKES TO HELP SOMEONE—" His knee shot upward directly into Lautre's face.

"I ACCEPT IT!!!" He folded backwards, blood spraying across the floor and everything around them. He slid, catching himself, pressing his red-stained face with careful fingers. A stunned expression moved across the crowd, except for Maliard and Ross, who were smiling quietly from the stands.

"Good…" He got back to his feet, pinching his nose shut with two fingers, stanching the flow.

"Let's see how deep your determination actually runs." He smiled, cracking his bones back into place, and began pulling off his vest. He threw it to the floor, drenched in sweat and filth, but didn't take his eyes off the boy for a single second. Their fists struck each other's bodies in turn, skin shuddering with each impact. This time, both of them were hitting back, trading barrages, wave after wave of hard blows.

"What's happening…" Monica murmured, unable to look away.

"That boy has put his most genuine convictions on the line. He can't afford to lose now." Ross told her and pointed back toward the ring. The exchange was growing more intense with every exchange. Flecks of dried blood and sweat were flying off in every direction. Strips of hand-wrap floated through the air, shaken loose by the force of their fighting. One of Lautre's strikes grazed Lance's face and opened a cut. The boy dropped to the floor, rolled on his palms, and gathered speed.

"Well, that style is a surprise!" Lautre had never seen anyone use their own body as a weapon in quite this way. He had been a soldier for many years, but now his smile grew together with his curiosity. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Lance's legs wrapped around his neck in an instant, lifting him from the floor. His elbows were starting to give, but he refused to let go.

He locked the grip tighter, bringing Lautre crashing down with a heavy impact that shook the ring on its foundations. Then he was airborne again, spinning and gathering momentum.

"We can stake more than that." Lautre murmured, catching Klint's kick on his forearm. The impact was dull and heavy, but he didn't flinch. He grabbed the ankle instead, to the widened stares of those watching. He lifted Lance overhead and drove him into the canvas with tremendous force, collapsing the ring inward. Lance felt his throat lock and his breath vanish. Lautre's hand found his neck, squeezing the trachea, half-suffocating him.

"Prove what you're saying! Or is this the best effort you can make?" Lautre held him over his head, tilting his head down to look at the blood-covered face.

"Take it back…" Only his lips moved, forcing him to lean in. Lance's eyes blazed. His forehead connected with Lautre's nose, breaking it completely. The grip released, and Lance drove his fist hard into the man's stomach, sending him tumbling.

"Fine then… I'll just have to break you once more." He smiled with menace, seizing Lance's arm and beginning to rotate it. He had to adjust the torque to force the boy back to him, and he showed no inclination to stop twisting the forearm.

"It hurts… It hurts… It hurts… It hurts!" His consciousness was being eroded by the searing pain, leaving him helpless and small. He was on the verge of moving his lips to beg for it to stop, and something held them shut.

"This is where the challenge truly begins… Lance Klint." A figure in the stands called to him. His eyes froze at the sight: a woman wrapped in a white cloak, her face hidden beneath a black veil. Nobody else seemed to notice her. But he could feel her gaze, warm and painful at once, reaching through him. She vanished as quickly as she had appeared, and the pain returned to its full pitch.

"You're testing me, aren't you? You think I'm capable. Good…" His mind had arrived at a reckless idea, born from the encounter with that unsettling presence. Lance began turning in the direction of the rotation, forcing his arm further. He bit down on his lip to bear it as he kept turning.

"You can't be serious..." Crack… crack… Snap. Lautre found Lance's boot pressed against his chest, as heavy and solid as a round from a pistol. He was pushed backwards, striking the supporting post of the ropes hard before finally going down. For the first time in the entire match, Lautre Clerc was on the floor. In front of him stood a boy breathing in ragged gasps, cradling a bruised and lacerated forearm. The entire room had gone silent.

Lautre rose laughing, covering his face as the laughter tore out of his throat. He raised a finger toward him, drawing his attention.

"You're not just an idiot... You're insane! AHAHAH!!" He had to press a hand against his stomach to stay upright. He never would have imagined Lance Klint capable of breaking his own arm simply to land a hit.

"Pathetic, right?" He smiled, adjusting the wraps around his arm and tying them to his neck for support.

"But such bravado is worthy of my respect." Lautre replied, reassuming his guard, unbothered by the blood dripping from his own mouth. Lance extended his fist, mirroring the same guard as before, low, leaning forward. Lautre shot forward, driving his knuckles toward the face, and only grazed the air around it. Lance had dropped to the floor, holding all his weight on his good arm, and launched his legs forward like a spring.

He caught the leg, only to find Lance's body spinning in the air, his free limb already preparing a second strike. The foot brushed Lautre's lip. His movements were accelerating, and even his perception had improved. He released his grip on the ankle, rotated, and loaded everything into the ball of his foot. The leg appeared alongside Lance, who was still off-balance. The speed of its execution was impossible to track.

Lance's entire body moved on reflex, blocking the kick with his forearm and feeling it give way entirely soon after. His legs absorbed the impact, leaving him trembling in front of Lautre, who struck immediately. Knuckles hard into the stomach. His hand came away stained with his opponent's blood and saliva, and he seemed not to mind. The light left Lance's eyes. The colour drained from his body.

"You won't even fall like that. Impressive!" He murmured, turning his back. The fight was over. The whole room had gone dark, only sighs and the soft, scattered sound of crying left in the air. Jeanne kept her gaze on the ring, swallowing with difficulty, her eyes dark and still.

"Edvard… Can we end it here?" Monica whispered, guilt spreading through her for every drop of blood that had been let.

"I know it's my fault! I should have just been more..." Edvard shushed her, with total disregard for her role.

"No. This is where it gets good." He smiled, turning her head toward the ring.

"It's exactly when they're against the wall that people like him shine brightest!" He fixed his bright eyes on the figure of Lautre, who had gone very still.

"Hey… Mr Clerc." Lautre's head was locked. He could only turn his eye sideways to look behind him. Lance's bloodied and bruised arm held him in an iron grip, trembling furiously. The muscles were barely keeping the bones in their correct position, pressing against the limits of what they could hold. His other hand was closed into a fist, just above shoulder height.

"Why aren't you counting?" His eyes had started to burn again; The last, desperate aura of determination still in them. A first punch struck Lautre full in the face. Then a second. Then a third. Keeping him locked in the grip with furious force.

"This is what I was talking about!" Edvard happily smiled with his face split by an enormous grin.

"I knew he was strong from our mission together, but this… This is something else entirely." Noel murmured, shaken by that last desperate push.

"You see, Nurse... People like him only shine when they can shine for others. That's the drug of idealism." Maliard leaned back, pressing himself into the cold concrete of the stands, smiling faintly. Now, even Lautre was returning the exchange, grabbing his throat, striking him repeatedly across the body. Every muscle, every organ seemed to vibrate and spark at each impact, like electricity crossing him, but he wouldn't release his grip.

He looked at him with burning eyes and began driving his fist into the left side of his body repeatedly, almost reshaping the flesh. With every blow, Lance spat blood and mucus, but he refused to let go.

"You're starting to bore me…" Lautre whispered through his teeth, striking his face with an elbow, bending his nose sideways. By now, Lance's strength to attack had run out entirely. He could feel his insides shifting. It was a miracle he was still upright.

"I don't want to lose…" The words escaped his lips as he wept. His eyes were almost completely sealed by blood and grime. He released his grip and clutched Lautre instead. With a last push, he drove him back to the edge of the canvas, backing him against the corner post.

"You really don't know how to quit, do you?!" He repeated, driving his elbow into his spine as he was pushed against the rubber post. Lance covered his face with his broken hand, blocking his view. One last, desperate, meaningless punch, soaked in tears and blood, struck his opponent. Lautre didn't move. He shook Lance off with a kick, leaving him on the floor in pain. His legs had lost any reason to keep his own useless body vertical. He gripped the ropes and the post, staining them, trying to haul himself up.

A gush of tears was flowing from his swollen eyes.

"Hey, Ed…" Lautre raised his gaze, wiping his brow. His cuts were beginning to close rapidly.

"What time is it?" He asked, adjusting his shoulder, swaying against the ropes.

"Nearly noon. The match has been going on for about ten minutes." Edvard replied with a warm smile. Lautre looked away, gripping the rope.

"Time for a drink." He dropped from the ring under the bewildered stare of the entire room. Monica was on her feet, eyes on him.

"What does that mean?!" She gestured toward Lance, who had gotten back up, trembling. He was losing significant blood. Tumefied flesh covered his right eye, but in the end, he was the only one standing in the ring.

"It means it's time I went and got myself a bottle of medicine. I forfeit." He made his way slowly to the door, soles striking the cold floor.

"Lance Klint is the winner. Hype him up." He picked up a vest from the locker by the exit.

"My spot is safe in his hands. Count me out." He was nearly gone, but a burning sensation stopped him mid-step, spreading a wide smile across his face.

"MR. CLERC!!!" Lance had leaned out over the ring, weeping openly. His voice was cracked by exhaustion, but still with enough force to shout.

"I WANT TO BE STRONGER!"

"Let's make another deal." He turned, the vest swaying between his fingers.

"If you can say with your own mouth when you return, then I won't refuse." Lautre disappeared into the corridor with a faint whistle. Edvard came down from the stands and handed him a black vial and a towel. His eyes were lit with deep satisfaction.

"Regenerate yourself first, then drink it. It should help." Edvard jogged after Lautre, who had already dissolved into the depths of the base in search of something to drink.

"I lost…" He laughed, slowly gathering his bones and capillaries back into their correct positions.

"Of course it hurts…" Tears were soaking the canvas, mixing with blood and sweat.

"Told you, that idiot isn't as fragile as he looks." Maliard said, dropping down after a glance at Jeanne, pale with surprise. His jacket drifted through the air, followed by the fading echo of his footsteps down the corridor.

"I have no words. I'VE LOST MY MONEY!" Noel fled to plead for mercy from Edvard, fully aware that he would collect regardless.

"Why am I this happy?" Jeanne thought it, smiling through her arms, coiled around her face.

"There you are," Edvard said, slightly breathless, with small beads of sweat on his forehead.

"I believe I said a bottle of rum was waiting for me!" Lautre replied, lifting the squat bottle by the neck before pouring himself another glass.

"Did you lose on purpose?" Edvard settled onto the stool beside him, letting a second glass slide across the bar. Lautre smiled and poured.

"If I'd genuinely wanted to take him apart… The fight would have been over in the first thirty seconds. Hurting him like that wasn't my intention." He swallowed the pale brown liquor in a single pull.

"Did you see something in him?" He murmured, sipping his portion. Lautre looked at him through the glass, eyes catching the light.

"I took a bet, and I lost it. I honestly thought that he would break for sure."

"You planned to forfeit from the beginning, didn't you?" He kept asking, already knowing the answers.

"You know me better than anyone, don't you? Then you already know why I did it!" Lautre said, wrapping an arm around Edvard's neck and tilting the bottle to refill his glass.

"You wanted to see whether he was just bitter, or whether he truly cared." Edvard swallowed his portion in one, the liquid igniting his throat.

"Exactly. Klint is reckless, but he's got a genuinely good heart." His eyes blazed with a bluish light while the colour rose in his cheeks.

"People like him are an anomaly among human beings. They only exist in the pages of old, celebrated stories."

"Ed… He looks far too much like August." His tone shifted quickly, eroding the atmosphere between them.

"I'll grant you that this time, but I am not in the mood for a still-open wound." He set down his glass and rose.

"You're right, though. That boy's heart beats more in others' chests than in his own. Give him every support you can." He left the room; the last thing Lautre saw was the tail of his shirt disappearing around the doorframe.

"Well, well… looks like I'll have things to do again." He smiled, pouring himself one final glass." I hope this time that it won't end up like those two."