Dylan closed his eyes as he entered his inner world. Inside the world was nothing but blackness, his mentor, and himself. He looked down at the boxing gloves on his hands and his teacher looking at him with a gentle smile. Dylan smiled back as he mentally prepared himself.

“An out-boxer’s greatest strength is their footwork, stamina, defense, and mental state. Your only focus in that ring is to get points and avoid getting knocked out.” She told him.

“Right.”

“You have a good habit of finding people’s flaws. I’m a little jealous of how good your eyes are when you’re the one with glasses.” She rubbed the back of her head. “With that talent of yours and my training, you should already know how to handle most opponents.”

“I won’t let you down. Thank you for changing my life, Zoey...” Dylan returned to the real world.

“Kid, it’s time to go.” Coach Scott looked down at the meditating kid.

“Alright.” Dylan got up from the waiting room and made his way to the boxing ring with the coach.

Dylan’s entrance was met with the screams and cheers of thousands of audience members. Unfortunately, it seemed to have slipped that he was taught by Zoey Winters, The Devil herself, and since then, his nickname in the professional boxing league was decided without his input.

“Wrath!”

“Wrath!”

“Wrath!”

“Kill him dead, Wrath! Make your teacher proud, boy!”

“I want him coughing and bleeding by the end of this match!”

“Don’t forget you’re The Devil’s apprentice! Kill him!”

Wrath was what they decided on. It was a reference to the Seven Deadly Sins. Dylan wasn’t sure how they managed to make the leap in logic for the seven deadly sins to the devil’s apprentice, but they made it work. He was positive that more people knew him by Wrath than his actual name. Even the opponents that called him out for being Zoey’s student didn’t call him by his name but just Wrath.

It was rather embarrassing, but it also served as a good motivator to not embarrass Zoey. Dylan didn’t plan to waste everything that Zoey’s done for him. If he failed on his journey, it was a fault of his, not Zoey’s, teachings. Even though he knew that himself, he knew that others would see otherwise simply for the sake of making trouble.

As Dylan made it inside the ring and stared at the muscular body of his opponent, the crowd cheered even louder when comparing their physiques. He was tall, white, long, and lanky. His opponent was short, black, compact, and buff. It almost reminded Dylan of Zoey’s physique, but this guy didn’t give off the same scary aura she did, even though he resembled her body.

The two of them met face to face. Dylan calmly looked at the guy glaring at him. It was another intimidation tactic of his. In the pre-fight press conference they had, the guy did everything he could to try and get under Dylan’s skin. Insulting how he looked, his mannerisms, his parents, the way he talked, how he owed his entire career to a girl, and he was her slave. Just pointless banter to hype up the fight and garner more attention to the fight. Dylan’s heard far worse insults from the bullies he used to be bullied by before being taught by Zoey. It was no skin off his back from what others said. Dylan lived by the motto, sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt.

“Are you ready to get crushed, Twiggy?” Lewis smashed his gloved fists together.

“...” Dylan didn’t dignify that with a response.

“You think you better than me, white boy?” He stuck out his face, probably to make him flinch or something.

“In boxing, probably,” Dylan responded as the referee sent them to their corners. He already had his contacts in.

“You’re dead, Toothpick!” Lewis laughed on his way to his corner.

The bell rang, and Lewis didn’t hesitate to rush toward Dylan like a mad bull hankering for gore and violence. Dylan didn’t put up his guard at all. A no-stance type of guard where his long arms hung down and free. Lewis saw this as a free invitation to completely knock the white boy’s lights out in the first round.

Dylan could see it all. Without his arms blocking his vision, he could see all of Lewis’s flaws and movements. That telegraphed punch of his, the way his footwork was entirely unstable, and the openings he presented by trying to start off so strong. If there was one thing Zoey had to hammer into Dylan during their training in the beginning, it was that he had to be merciless during a fight. When the fight was over, he could be as kind and polite all he wanted. But it was completely unacceptable during a fight. Even if he was stronger than his opponent.

So, it wasn’t even a choice for Dylan to make when Lewis entered his range. It was more of an instinctive reaction when he saw a weakness in his opponent. His right arm blurred, and Lewis’s rush was halted briefly. Lewis stopped like someone had a remote and pressed the pause button on him. His vision went fuzzy, and he was confused about what had happened.

Dylan’s left arm vanished and landed solidly on Lewis’s unguarded jaw. Lewis was falling backward, but before he could fall on his butt, Dylan’s fist slammed into his face. Lewis’s head bounced off the ring from the force of Dylan’s punch. The referee nearly ended the fight then and there, but it was thanks to the cursing of Lewis’s coach that he decided not to do so. He began counting up to ten.

“One!” Lewis felt the pain all at once.

“Two!” The pain in his jaw from being struck twice in the same place.

“Three!” The pain from his face being hit by those thick-ass gloves.

“Four!” The pain from landing on the back of his head.

“Five!” The embarrassment and humiliation he felt for going down in the first fucking round.

“Six!” The anger and rage at being knocked down by this skinny-ass white boy.

“Seven!” Lewis shook his head as his vision cleared up, and the pain went away.

“Eight!” He was just caught off guard, that’s all.

“Nine!” Lewis got up from the floor and signaled to the referee that he was good to continue.

The referee looked into his determined, angry eyes and signaled for the match to continue. Lewis carefully made his way toward Dylan with his guard up, eyes peeled, and frustration rising. Dylan threw a jab. It was blocked by Lewis but not perfectly as Dylan followed up the jab with a hook that managed to connect thanks to the first jab throwing off Lewis’s guarded posture. If his guard covered the front of his face, the jab made it easier for Dylan’s hook to sink into the side of Lewis’s head.

But Lewis didn’t have all that stockiness for nothing. He took the hook to the side of the head like a champ and used the opportunity to close the distance between him and Dylan. Dylan circled around him to avoid being cornered in the ring, frequently sending out biting jabs through Lewis’s guard to keep him from just rushing him. It was a mental tactic. The pain of his jabs would make Lewis hesitate in charging in. Otherwise, he would feel even more pain by recklessly charging in. This was another tactic taught to him by Zoey that she classified as defense somehow.

Lewis refused to be knocked down again by leaving himself open. He patiently waited his chance while taking the stinging jabs head-on. The aggressive boxer kept his guard up, continued to try to corner Dylan, and would wait until the chance showed itself.

The first round ended with the bell as the three minutes were up. Dylan made his way to his corner, looking completely fine. He was given water to drink, had his mouthguard rinsed and cleaned, and was given advice by Coach Scott.

“You’re doing a damn good job out there, kid. Keep it up, and don’t let him rush you down. If he does rush you down, stay calm and do not fall to his level. Keep your range and continue to beat the shit out of him until he’s exhausted or makes a huge fucking mistake.” Coach Scott said.

"You got this, Dylan!” Steven said while massaging his left leg.

“Beat his ass!” Tony supported while massaging his right leg.

“The crowd’s on your side.” Zack massaged his shoulders.

“Thank you, everyone,” Dylan told them as the one-minute rest period was over.

When the start of the second round began, Lewis did not rush at Dylan like a hungry pit bull. His guard was slightly loosened, giving Lewis more vision, but not loosened enough that it exposed vulnerable points on his face. Dylan couldn’t easily target his jaw, temple, or eyes anymore. His torso was free game, but hastily targeting such an open spot would leave Dylan open to one of Lewis’s punches.

Dylan threw a jab that landed solidly on Lewis’s gloves. A thick heavy sound came from the impact, but it did nothing to prevent Lewis’s encroaching momentum. He threw another one, and this time, it momentarily stopped Lewis. Then he threw another one, and Lewis said fuck it. After the third jab, Lewis swung toward Dylan with a haphazard haymaker.

In the time that Lewis was throwing his haymaker meant to knock Dylan’s head off, Dylan let off several more jabs to Lewis’s suddenly exposed flaws before circling around Lewis. But this wasn’t enough to take out Lewis. Lewis took those two blows to the sides of his face like they were nothing as he honed in on Dylan. His fists came out wildly and dangerously. If any one of those landed on him, it looked as if Dylan would be knocked out on the spot!

When Dylan realized that he couldn’t safely throw any more jabs, he simply began to dance around the ring with Lewis until he tired himself out. Avoiding his slow but powerful punches, using both of his arms to block hits when he couldn’t avoid them, and throwing critically timed jabs when the chance presented itself.

These jabs were something that Dylan learned from Zoey. He called it The Perfect Jab. It was one of Zoey’s core techniques that he’s taken as his own and made the core of his fighting style as an out-boxer. This jab embodied everything that a jab should, and Dylan made it work for him.

The second round ended with Dylan looking a lot sweatier than he did during the first round. Lewis went back to his corner with two swollen eyes, bruises, and blood dripping from his face. It was at this point the crowd went crazy, chanting Dylan’s fighting name. It was going to take a miracle for Lewis to turn this fight around, but there was still a good portion of the crowd placing their hopes in him.

The bell sounded for the third round, and similar to the end of the first round, Lewis cautiously made his way toward Dylan. Dylan spotted Lewis’s fatigue and weakened spirit. He was injured and tired, and was that fear he saw? Just to test his theory, Dylan threw a feint of his jab. Lewis flinched as he threw it and, at the same time, threw a punch of his own. Just to be extra sure, he made another feint. This time he made it so that it looked like he was aiming toward the side of his face. Lewis did the same thing as before and threw a punch again.

‘Ah, so that’s your plan.’ Dylan figured him out.

How could Dylan block or avoid his punches when he was in the middle of throwing a punch himself? Was it possible to both attack someone and defend? If it was his teacher, he’d say she would certainly have an idea of how to do so, but Dylan wasn’t his teacher. He wasn’t the type of student to explore new paths but to stick to the one he’s been taught all along.

So, when Dylan threw a piercing jab into Lewis’s solar plexus, the man dropped to his knees, gasping in pain. It was the first time in all of the three rounds that Dylan focused his punch somewhere below the neck. A purposeful tactic on Dylan’s part from the very beginning, as people are far more likely to protect their face compared to anywhere else. This was a strategy that would be impossible if it wasn’t for The Perfect Jab being able to control the pace of a fight perfectly and Lewis’s lack of technique. He had nothing but strength and toughness.

The referee called the fight after Lewis dropped face-first into the mat, painfully clutching the area above his stomach. Dylan had his hand raised by the referee to show that he was the victor. Wrath was met with the enthusiastic support of the audience and felt every inch of his body showered by their cheers. He left the ring with his friends from the gym and felt proud of himself. And thankful to his teacher for giving him a chance when no one else did.

“Why did you decide to teach me, Zoey?” Dylan asked.

“Spite.”

“Spite!? Toward me?!” Dylan was shocked.

“No, not you. Steven and Tony made fun of me when I offered to teach them. So I picked you to teach since I saw that you were new and no one else was teaching you. That way, when you got super good, Steven and Tony would have no choice but to regret making fun of my offer.” Zoey honestly told him.

“Oh...” Dylan was more than a bit conflicted about learning that this was the reason Zoey decided to be his teacher.

“Yup.” Zoey popped the p in her answer. “Now, back to hitting that sandbag. Your endurance is nowhere near enough if you want to last in a real fight.” She ordered.

Dylan was still thankful, even if it ruined his image of Zoey a little after hearing why she decided to teach him.