The remnants of their shattered weapons lay scattered across the blood-stained sand, silent witnesses to the brutal intensity of their clash. Zack and Tusk moved like blurs, a whirlwind of furious energy and desperate skill. They traded blows with their broken hilts and improvised strikes, each refusing to yield an inch of the arena floor. Their movements were a chaotic dance of aggression, a testament to their raw power and unwavering determination.
Tanker, a figure of stoic composure amidst the roaring chaos, watched the spectacle unfold with his arms crossed, his gaze unwavering. His eyes, sharp and analytical, followed every twitch and shift in their movements, his expression betraying nothing of the internal calculations he was surely making.
The crowd, initially a thunderous wave of sound, had fallen into an awed silence. They strained to follow the impossible speed of the two fighters, their heads swiveling back and forth like synchronized observers at a lightning-fast duel. The air crackled with anticipation, every near-miss and brutal impact drawing gasps and murmurs.
From the elevated pavilion, Rider leaned forward, his initial anxiety momentarily forgotten in the sheer spectacle of the fight. "This is incredible," he breathed, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "Their movements are so fluid, even without their weapons. But… it looks like Tusk is a hair faster, isn't he?"
Aingo, perched beside him, frowned deeply, his earlier detached observation replaced by a palpable tension. "Are you serious right now, Rider? You're watching these two tear each other apart, and all you can think about is who's a little quicker? You're going to face the winner of this tournament! Either one of them could dismantle you without breaking a sweat. Are you insane?" His voice was sharp, devoid of any humor.
Rider flinched slightly at Aingo's bluntness, but he tried to maintain a facade of calm. "I'm terrified," he said, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his seat. "But I can't show it. I have to be strong… because Bianca… Bianca has made it this far. If Bianca…"
Aingo cut him off with a frustrated sigh. "Here we go again with this Bianca nonsense! When are you going to drill it into that thick skull of yours that everyone in this arena is your enemy until you hold that Sword Master title? And honestly, the more I witness the sheer power you'll be up against, the more my courage dwindles. I fear I'm going to disappoint Dran." A shadow of worry crossed his face.
Rider fell silent for a moment, the memory of his brief, tense interaction with Zack in the contenders' area flashing through his mind. Zack's quiet intensity and the underlying strength he had sensed still lingered in his thoughts. Finally, he spoke, his voice laced with a forced conviction. "No matter who it is, Aingo, I promise you… I will win." He tried to sound more confident than he felt, hoping to reassure his worried mentor.
Aingo leaned back in his chair, his expression skeptical. "Yeah, sure. Just know that after this match, before the semi-finals, I'm going to train the absolute hell out of you. Prepare to run until your lungs collapse and spar until you can't lift your arms."
Meanwhile, back in the blood-soaked arena, Tusk was a relentless storm of attacks. He pressed his advantage, his movements fueled by a volatile mix of adrenaline and lingering rage. Zack, now weaponless, was forced into a purely defensive posture, his movements fluid and precise as he blocked and dodged Tusk's furious onslaught.
(I can't read his movements anymore…) Zack thought, his brow furrowed in concentration. (It's like his rhythm changes every millisecond. Damn this guy.) Seizing a brief opening, Zack lunged forward, using the broken hilt of his katana in a sharp, jabbing motion towards Tusk's ribs. Each movement was still executed with a practiced efficiency, a testament to his training.
Tusk evaded each strike with an almost preternatural agility, his eyes wide and unblinking. He took a large leap backward, creating a momentary distance between them, and whispered the now familiar, chilling word under his breath: "Kill…"
With that single, whispered command, he exploded forward, his speed even more terrifying without the encumbrance of his shattered staff. Zack, sensing the renewed intensity, also charged, his empty hands raised in a defensive stance, ready to counter whatever Tusk unleashed.
The moment their bodies collided, the remnants of their broken weapons, still clutched in their hands, shattered further, splintering into smaller pieces that skittered across the sand. Zack, still holding the jagged handle of his katana, stared down at it in a flicker of shock. (We both don't have weapons now… maybe we should call a time-out and get new weapons. Yeah, that makes sense.)
But before Zack could even raise his head to address Azreal about their disarmament, Tusk's fist slammed into his face with brutal force. The punch landed squarely on the bridge of Zack's nose, sending a sharp crack echoing through the stunned silence. Zack was sent flying backward, landing hard on the bloodied sand.
A collective gasp rippled through the female section of the audience. "How cruel! Not on his beautiful face!" one exclaimed, clutching her chest dramatically. Another chimed in, "Well, Tusk is kind of hot too, in a wild sort of way." A third voice, sharper and more insistent, cut through their commentary, "Hey! We aren't here for Tusk! We're Zack's fans, so keep your heads in the game!"
Rider, who had inadvertently shifted closer to the vocal group of Zack supporters, gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to snap at them. Their frivolous comments grated on his already frayed nerves. Instead, he shot them a glare so intense that a few of the girls visibly recoiled, a sudden chill replacing their earlier enthusiasm.
Back in the brutal reality of the fight, Zack, dazed and reeling from the unexpected blow, struggled to push himself up from the arena floor. Before he could fully regain his footing, Tusk was upon him, his smaller frame a whirlwind of relentless aggression. He pinned Zack down, raining heavy, rapid blows onto his defenseless opponent.
The crowd watched in a horrified silence as Tusk's fists pounded into Zack's face and body. The impacts were sickeningly loud, each one carrying the weight of Tusk's pent-up rage and trauma. Zack's head snapped back with each blow. Tusk's knuckles were soon raw and bleeding, but he didn't stop, his earlier terrifying focus dissolving into a primal, uncontrolled fury. He was no longer the eerily calm force of nature from moments before; he was a child lashing out in blind rage.
As Zack felt the force of Tusk's punches begin to weaken, a grim realization dawned on him. The calculated anger he had stoked in Tusk had backfired, pushing him past the point of that terrifying, emotionless focus. Seizing the opportunity, Zack waited for Tusk to wind up for another punch and then, with surprising speed despite his battered state, he caught Tusk's fist in his hand. A small, almost imperceptible smile flickered across Zack's bloodied lips. (Got you.)
With a sudden, brutal move, Zack slammed his forehead into Tusk's. The sickening crack of bone against bone echoed through the arena. Blood immediately gushed from Tusk's nose, staining his face crimson. Zack, despite the pain that shot through his own head, used the momentum to push himself up from the ground, standing as if the brutal beating had barely fazed him.
King Neon, who had been watching with a mixture of confusion and concern, exchanged a quick glance with Azreal. his expression grave, offered a quiet explanation. "Tusk's power… it only truly manifests when he reaches an extreme emotional peak. But at that point, he loses all semblance of control, consumed by something raw and untamed. Zack, unable to decipher that initial surge of power, tried to overwhelm him with anger, hoping to break that focus. He risked his own body to push Tusk, and now… it seems to have paid off, albeit in a messy way."
A slow understanding dawned on King Neon's face, and he nodded grimly before turning his attention back to the unfolding drama in the arena.
Tusk, clutching his bleeding nose, stumbled backward, his earlier fury dissipating, replaced by the familiar, paralyzing fear. He couldn't move, his body trembling uncontrollably. Zack, his own face bruised and bleeding, stepped towards him, his gaze intense. "At this point… you're useless," Zack said, his voice surprisingly calm despite the brutal exchange. "So, I'm going to knock you out now."
Tusk remained silent for a long moment, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and terror. Then, his voice, small and filled with a lingering resentment, broke the silence. "I still… really hate you."
In a flash, mirroring their earlier exchange, Tusk headbutted Zack again, the unexpected move sending Zack stumbling back a step, momentarily thrown off balance. Zack stared at Tusk, a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes. (He shouldn't be able to fight… this is his true self, he should be terrified. But all I did was… just anger him more.) A strange, almost manic grin spread across Zack's bloodied face. (I'm beginning to enjoy this.) He raised his fists in a classic boxing stance, his eyes locked on Tusk, ready for another brutal, bare-knuckle brawl. Tusk, mirroring his stance with a shaky determination, prepared to meet him head-on. The fight, stripped of its elegant swordplay, had devolved into a raw, visceral battle of wills.