Screening

The gym reeked of sweat, disinfectant, and leather—the smell of war. Punches echoed from every corner, gloves hammering heavy bags, ropes snapping as jumpers danced in rhythm. Freshmen crowded nervously by the walls, while the seniors sat relaxed near the ring, their expressions dripping with arrogance. They were kings in here, and we were intruders.

“New meat,” one of them muttered as I walked past. The others chuckled, eyes sizing me up like wolves testing their prey.

I ignored them.

Coach spotted me the moment I stepped in. His bald head glistened under the fluorescent lights. “Neville!” he barked. “You’re late.”

I glanced at the clock. 7:05. “It’s still early, Coach.”

He scowled. “Early is on time. On time is late. Five minutes late is disrespect. Now glove up!”

“Yes, sir.”

I jogged to the locker room, my heartbeat racing. I’d been in fights before, real ones and sparring matches, but this felt different. This was Royalty College. Everything here was a test.

As I wrapped my hands and slipped into gloves, I thought of my uncle’s words: ‘These boys will try to break you. Don’t let them. Show them you’re a beast.’

When I came back, two freshmen were already in the ring. They looked terrified, swinging wildly like windmills. The seniors booed.

“Pathetic!”

“Send them home!”

“Is this a boxing club or a ballet class?”

One senior slapped the mat and laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair. Coach wasn’t laughing. He watched with disgust, then blew the whistle.

“Enough! Next pair!”

The two boys stumbled out, faces red from both exhaustion and embarrassment. The next few freshmen weren’t much better—sloppy footwork, no defense, throwing haymakers like they were in a street fight.

By the time it was my turn, the gym was restless. Most of the other first-years had either been dismissed or humiliated. My chance had come.

“Collins Neville,” Coach called. His tone shifted—he remembered my name. “You’ve trained before, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re sparring Bernie.”

The room erupted with whispers and low laughter.

Bernie.

The senior who had dropped me with an uppercut on my first day here. He was already standing in the ring, towering over me, smirking like this was personal. He adjusted his gloves slowly, eyes locked on me.

“Looks like I get a rematch,” he said.

I climbed into the ring. My palms were damp inside the gloves, but my legs felt steady.

Coach stepped forward. “Three rounds. Light spar.”

Bernie chuckled. “Sure, Coach. Light.”

I knew that laugh. There would be nothing light about this.

The bell rang.

Round One

Bernie charged immediately, fists flying fast and heavy. The seniors roared.

“Eat him alive, Bernie!”

“Show the rookie what Royalty boxing really is!”

I ducked, slipping left, rolling right. His punches carried real weight—each one felt like it could break a rib. My ears rang with every glove that brushed past my guard.

“Move your feet, Collins!” Coach shouted.

I did. I pivoted, jabbed, pivoted again. My left hand cracked against Bernie’s ribs. He grunted, surprised, but kept coming.

He feinted, then sent a cross straight to my chin. My head snapped back. Pain flashed across my jaw, and for a second my vision blurred.

The seniors roared with laughter.

“Drop him, Bernie!”

“Too easy!”

Bernie pressed forward, confident. That confidence was his mistake.

I planted my feet, slipped his hook, and countered—jab, cross, hook, uppercut. My gloves dug into his body and jaw in one fluid sequence. Bernie staggered back into the ropes, his grin gone.

The bell rang.

Round one.

The gym fell into stunned silence.

Coach’s lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Not bad, Neville. Not bad at all.”

Bernie scowled, wiping sweat from his face. He wasn’t done.

Round Two

I leaned against the corner, catching my breath. My jaw throbbed, but the adrenaline drowned it out.

Then I saw her.

At the doorway—Aalia. She shouldn’t have been here, but there she was, her eyes wide, hands clutching the strap of her bag. She had that same focused look she’d worn at the boxing arena weeks ago.

My chest tightened. I wasn’t just fighting for me anymore.

The bell rang.

Bernie exploded out of his corner. No holding back. He swung with a vicious right hook. I ducked under it, countered with two body shots, then pivoted away.

“Stay sharp, Collins!” Coach yelled.

Bernie came again, relentless. His glove grazed my temple, but I snapped back with a stiff jab to his nose. Blood sprayed.

The seniors roared in shock.

Bernie’s eyes went red. He charged, throwing combinations like a man possessed. I blocked most, ate a few, but stayed standing.

He overextended with a wild uppercut. My moment.

I slipped left and launched what my uncle called “the bat”—a punch swung like I was swinging a baseball bat, clean across the jaw.

SMACK!

Bernie hit the canvas hard.

The gym went dead quiet.

Coach’s jaw tightened, but his eyes gleamed. He blew the whistle. “That’s enough.”

Bernie tried to rise, but his legs wobbled. Two seniors jumped in to drag him out.

Coach turned to me. “Neville… you’ve got power. But power without control is nothing. Tomorrow, 6 AM. Be here. We’ll work on your control.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, my chest heaving.

As I climbed out of the ring, I glanced at the doorway. Aalia was gone.

For some reason, that stung more than Bernie’s punches.

Back in the locker room, I unwrapped my hands slowly, my reflection staring back at me from the cracked mirror. My jaw was swollen, but I felt alive.

Royalty College had tested me tonight.

And I passed.

But I could already feel it—this was just the beginning.