I stood tall on the stage with blood still on my lips. My face split by a smile that would not go away. As the echo of my voice shouting “Aha!” faded into the stillness, there was a heavy silence that settled over the whole ground. Not a word from the crowd, not even a cough, just a thousand eyes staring. They were waiting for someone to break the air and tell them what to think.
The Master was the first to find his tongue. His voice not as strong as before, but sharp, almost like he was afraid for the first time in his life. “I sided with you, young man, but now we are caught in death. How can you say our slogan? How can you shout what belongs to us?” The words were not for me alone, they were for the warriors, for the villagers, for the shadows that stretched across the ground.
Still I stood, relaxed. My body was aching but my eyes were calm and all around me people whispered to themselves, “Who is this? How can he stand there after that? How does he say such things?”. Not even the Nuniya moved, their faces tight with confusion, anger and fear. It was like seeing a dog bark at the moon and the moon barks back.
I looked at Daves, who was standing there, his chest heaving, sweat rolling down his face, his eyes full of something new. Doubt. I said it calmly, my voice not raised, not hurried, “Well, if you think you can, I will let you punch me one more time.”
There was a murmur through the crowd, like people were not sure if they are about to witness a miracle or a funeral. The other warriors looked at Daves, waiting, but he did not move, he just stared at me, his mouth half open. Someone in the crowd whispered, “What is his name again?” Another replied, “Daves, that’s Nuniya Daves.”
Daves lifted his chin, his voice shaking with anger, “Aha! You dare say that? I used only thirty percent of my strength. Now I will use one hundred percent and kill you. You are caught in death right now.”
From the corner, I saw Silver step forward, his hair shining in the late light, his features sharp and almost too perfect, the kind of face you didn’t expect to see on a fighter. “Master, let’s kill this man. He is now caught in death. How can he say the slogan? Not even the villagers at level one would dare, but a level zero dares to say ‘Aha!’ How does he say that?”
I shrugged, still at ease and said, “It’s just words.”
That small answer rolled through the stage, and you could see the warriors bristle. The crowd whispering again, some shaking their heads in disbelief, others pulling back as if I was something dangerous. Something they could not understand. A female warrior, older than the others, her eyes hard, her voice sharp, snapped, “How can he say it’s just words? How can he stand there as if nothing has happened?”
One of the boys whispered, “How is he not dead? Daves used all his power. Maybe he is a spirit.”
A thin man with a crooked back and a broom stepped closer to the edge of the stage. I remembered seeing him sweeping by the tuckshop. Samson, the one everyone called when something strange was happening. He never seemed important until the moment you needed the truth. Now he stood right in the thick of things, sharp-eyed and barefoot as a schoolboy.
Samson shook his head and set his broom aside. “You children don’t understand these things. In this village, we have levels. The Nuniya warriors, they are at level three. Only those who have trained for years can reach that. The Master and the Second Master, they’re at level four—the highest living rank here.”
Then an old man, his beard white as smoke and his back straight despite the years, stepped forward out of the crowd. I did not know his name, but the way people made space for him told me he was someone of weight.
He nodded slowly, his voice as steady as a drum. “Yes, and you forget, no one has seen level five since the days of the legend. Only the legend himself ever stood that high. Even the Master bows to that history.”
Someone whispered, “That’s the Second Master. He was the master before the one we have now. The only man the Master himself listens to.”
Samson went on, “A villager is level one. Even most of us, if we try to fight a Nuniya, we would just be swept aside. But this stranger, this… whatever he is… he stands here after Daves’s blow. It’s not normal.”
The crowd’s whispers grew deeper, some crossing themselves, others staring at the stranger with new fear.
A whisper behind him, from a young woman’s voice, “He fears Second Master. Daves must kill him.”
Daves’ hands started to move, his arms circling slowly, his fingers twisting the air, and I could see the energy gather around him, a kind of light that was not quite light, the way air bends before a storm, years of cultivated power building in his body, ready to strike. He glared at me, his lips drawn tight, and said, “Now I will use all my force.”
He moved, and it was like the air was pulled away. His body shifted so fast, even the dust rose after he’d moved—his foot dragging, his arm swinging, every muscle tight. As he let loose his full strength, his fist cracked through the space between us, hitting me with a force no man was meant to survive. I felt myself lift from the boards, my body flying inches above the ground, for a heartbeat held by nothing but pain and force. I then fell flat on my face, the world spinning. The noise from the crowd drowned out by my own breath, and the taste of dust and blood.
All around the stage the villagers screamed, some hiding their faces, some calling for the end, others watching with wide, unblinking eyes. Their hearts beating so loudly even the ancestors could hear.
But I was still smiling, even if only in my heart, even if only in the dust.
