43

Kyle advances like a destructive force—strategic, ruthless, intent on defeating me.

He has stopped underestimating me.

The initial moments of the battle felt like a game to him, a way to entertain himself before he laid me in the ground. However, what about now?

Currently, there’s annoyance in his actions, a trace of irritation underlying his typically assured blows.

Since I’m still upright.

Since I’m not cracking.

However, Kyle is born as a Beta. Larger. More powerful. Regardless of how quick I am or how often I evade him, he continues to wear me down, compelling me to respond rather than strike.

Then he grabs me.

His fist crashes into my ribs with the power of a battering ram.

Agony surges through my body, searing and relentless. I stagger back, panting, but I lack the opportunity to regain my composure before—

Another success.

Quicker this round. Harsh. Exact.

It has me tumbling.

The planet inclines. I land on the ground, and instantly, I'm trapped under Kyle's weight, the chilly earth under me, the smell of dirt and sweat heavy in the atmosphere.

I attempt to shift, but his hold is like steel, holding me down. More powerful. More weighty.

And for a moment—I pause.

Since this has evolved beyond mere combat now.

This is now.

This is history, wrapping around my ribs like a clamp, pulling me back to an era when I had no power, when I was insignificant.

The recollections hit me more forcefully than any blow.

Hands restraining me.

Joyful sounds resonating in the darkness.

Wolves that regarded me as mere filth beneath their paws.

Lisa’s tone, piercing and unforgiving—

"You were never intended to be one of our kind."

Kyle leans closer, his breath warm against my ear, his tone dripping with sarcasm and confidence. "Did you genuinely believe you could triumph?" he mocks, his hold becoming firmer. "You will forever be weak, Nina."

His voice turns back to the past, to each harsh whisper, every rejection, every reminder that I never measured up.

Feeble.

Omega.

Banishment.

My sight becomes unclear.

And afterward—

Something within me breaks.

NO.

I am no longer that girl.

I am not feeble.

I do not lack strength.

A wild growl erupts from my throat as I push against him with all my strength.

Kyle previously underestimated my abilities.

I’m about to make him wish he hadn’t.

I pivot quickly, forcing my knee into his abdomen.

He grumbles, surprised, his hold relaxing slightly—I seize the opportunity.

I smash my elbow against his jaw.

Difficult.

He recoils, astonished, the grin completely erased from his expression.

I don’t hesitate.

I push myself back up, panting heavily, engulfed in rage.

The audience is cheering now—whether in astonishment or enthusiasm, I’m indifferent.

Kyle brushes his jaw, his expression wavering between humor and a more intense feeling.

I expose my teeth in a taunting grin.

"Do you still believe I’m weak?"

His eyes grow dim.

The genuine struggle starts now.

Kyle cleans the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, his grin wavering for the initial moment.

Not due to being injured.

Still not.

No, Kyle is frustrated.

Since this was meant to be simple.

In his view, this was never a battle—only a performance.

The formidable Beta-born fighter looming over the vulnerable Omega, asserting dominance for everyone to witness.

However, I'm still present.

Continuing to stand.

Continuing to battle.

His dark eyes shimmer, a tempest forming within them. He breathes out forcefully, then turns his

shoulders as if brushing off the moment. And then, just like that, the smirk reappears—but it’s more subdued now, contrived.

"A being like you should understand her role."

The words slip from his mouth like a scornful remark, intended to wound and belittle.

The audience responds—some wolves nodding in affirmation, others laughing, as if my being here is merely a joke.

For a moment, something pointed presses into my chest.

Because at one time, I was aware of my position.

I understood what it was like to be at the bottom of the group.

To be neglected. Disregarded. Regarded as insignificant.

I understood what it meant to be discarded.

However, that was in the past.

Prior to exile. Before I struggled to endure, before I discovered how to battle in the shadows, before I transformed into something greater than what they aimed to shape me into.

Before I understood that the only one who determined my position was myself.

I clench my jaws, the warmth in my blood escalating to a raging blaze.

"You’re correct," I reply, panting yet calm, locking eyes with Kyle without wavering. "I need to understand my role."

I move ahead, my fists clenching by my sides.

"And it definitely isn't beneath you."

Kyle growls.

He charges forward, filled with raw power and restlessness, his anger finally erupting.

His fist crashes forcefully, targeting my ribs once more—just like the previous blow that took me down.

However, on this occasion?

I can sense it approaching.

I dodge at the last moment, sensing the air change as his punch narrowly avoids hitting me.

Kyle is powerful. Quick.

However, he battles like a wolf accustomed to triumphing within the first five minutes.

He becomes careless when annoyed.

Foreseeable. And that's his gravest error.

I pivot suddenly, my body reacting on impulse, and I thrust my elbow directly into his ribs.

The jolt reverberates through my bones, yet I continue moving.

I accelerate, delivering another blow—a quick jab to his side, making him falter slightly backward.

Kyle snarls, swinging once more, but he’s overly aggressive, overly eager.

He’s exerting energy into every motion.

However, power holds no value if you lack connection.

I evade, nimble in my steps, anticipating his next action before he executes it.

And then—I attack.

With all the strength I possess, I position my foot, transfer my weight, and drive my fist directly into his chin.

Break.

The noise reverberates across the battlefield, piercing and unmistakable.

Kyle’s head turns sharply to the side.

Blood splatters onto the ground.

The audience becomes quiet.

Kyle backs away, shaking his head, blinking in shock.

He raises a hand to his mouth, cleaning off the blood. He gazes at it, his eyes squinting, nostrils widening.

He is upset now.

Yet he’s also coming to a realization.

This is not a joke.

This is not a performance.

And I am not feeble.

The group whispers, moving restlessly, the gravity of the situation hanging over them.

Since this is not what they anticipated.

This isn’t what they were informed would occur.

For the first time, they are not regarding me with contempt.

For the initial time, they’re pondering—

"Perhaps she isn't as weak as we thought."