The Shelby family didn't throw their young into the ring like raw meat, not at first.
The Peaky Blinders had a system, a brutal kind of school for their own.
Down a muddy alley behind the Garrison, tucked in a warehouse that smelled of sawdust and leather, was the "Forge"; a training ground where Shelby boys learned to fight, to survive.
It was less a ring than a proving ground; just a dirt floor, a few battered punchbags, and a crowd of older lads circling like wolves ready to test the new blood.
Finn had been coming here since he was thirteen as all boys did, learning the hard way under the eyes of men like John and Arthur.
But It's the first time for Elliot.
Today, the Forge was alive with shouts and the rhythmic thump of fists on flesh.
Finn pushed through the heavy door with his cap low and felt the weight of eyes on him.
John sauntered beside him with a grin and a cigarette dangling from his lips. "Time to show 'em you're a true Peaky blinder, eh Finn?" he said, nudging him hard enough to make him stumble.
Arthur who is trailing behind was quieter, his broad frame filling the doorway.
His knuckles were scarred and his eyes carrying the weight of too many fights, but he watched Finn with a mix of pride and caution. "Keep your guard up, lad," he rumbled. "No one's pullin' punches today."
Inside, the air was thick with sweat and the low growl of men egging each other on. The Forge wasn't about polished technique, no, it was about grit, about learning to take a hit and keep swinging.
Finn's opponent today was Eddie, a wiry kid a year older, with a mean streak and a chipped front tooth.
Eddie smirked as Finn stepped into the dirt circle while cracking his knuckles. "Ready to eat dirt again, Finn?" he taunted, echoing their last spar where Finn, still green, had taken a bloody nose.
Finn didn't answer. His mind was already working on breaking down Eddies' stance: feet too close together, left shoulder dipping before a punch.
When Elliot had just transmigrated, he learned to fight by watching, mimicking, adapting, his brain turning observation into muscle memory.
The trainer, a grizzled Peaky named Mick, spat into the dirt and clapped his hands. "Go on, lads. No dawdlin'."
No bell, no gloves; just fists wrapped in cloth strips and a crowd hungry for a show.
Eddie came in fast throwing a jab at Finn's face.
Finn ducked, his body moving on instinct, and countered with a sharp hook to Eddie's ribs.
The crowd hooted as they are surprised.
Eddie grunted as his smirk faded and swung harder, a wild right that grazed Finn's cheek.
Finn's mind was a machine cataloging every move.
Eddie's punches were strong but sloppy and his balance off when he overcommitted.
Finn weaved, his feet light on the dirt and snapped two quick and precise jabs into Eddie's nose.
Blood trickled from Eddie's nostril and the crowd roared.
John leaned forward, his cigarette forgotten and a grin splitting his face. "That's it, Finn! Fuck him up!"
Arthur stayed silent but his eyes narrowed, catching the way Finn moved, it's too controlled and too deliberate for a kid his age.
Eddie who is pissed now, charged while throwing a flurry of punches.
Finn took a hit to the shoulder and the pain sharp but familiar.
He slipped under Eddie's next swing and drove a hard fist into his gut.
Eddie wheezed, doubling over, and Finn stepped back with his fists still raised.
The voice in his head was calm: Don't rush. Let him come to you.
Mick called a halt, grabbing Eddie's arm before he could lunge again. "Enough! Finn, you're gettin' sharp, lad." His tone was grudging, but there was respect in it.
Eddie spat blood into the dirt while glaring but nodding at Finn; a rare sign of truce.
The crowd buzzed, some clapping Finn on the back as he stepped out of the circle, and his knuckles were stinging under the wraps.
John was on him in a second, slinging an arm around his neck. "You little bastard! Where'd you learn to hit like that?" His laugh was loud, but his eyes were searching, like he sensed something off about his baby brother.
Arthur joined them and put his heavy hand on Finn's shoulder. "You're comin' along, Finn," he said with a low voice. "But don't get cocky. Forge ain't the street, and real fights don't stop for nobody."
His grip tightened as a warning and a promise.
Finn nodded while wiping sweat from his brow.
His power already analyzing the fight, noting where he'd been too slow, where he could've hit harder.
The Forge was brutal but it was perfect for him; a place to hone the skills he'd memorised and practiced alone and to mold Finn's body into the perfect weapon.
He wasn't here to just survive, he was here to stand tall among all men.