Zack's punches landed with brutal efficiency, each blow a hammer strike against Tusk's increasingly battered form. Every time Tusk telegraphed an attack, Zack was already a step ahead, his movements a blur of evasion. It was a stark display of Zack's superior fighting prowess in this close-quarters exchange. The fight, once a whirlwind of chaotic energy, had become a methodical dismantling, Zack's calculated strikes carving a path of pain across Tusk's body.
With a grunt of exertion, Zack channeled all his power into a final, devastating punch, connecting squarely with Tusk's temple. The impact reverberated through the arena, a sickening thud that silenced the already anxious crowd. Tusk staggered violently, his legs wobbling precariously as his world tilted and spun. He fought desperately to maintain consciousness, his eyes glazed over, unfocused. The arena swam around him, the worried faces of the spectators blurring into indistinct shapes.
Then, an unsettling stillness descended upon Tusk. His eyelids fluttered, then closed. His body, however, remained upright, swaying slightly but refusing to fall. He was asleep, yet standing, a bizarre spectacle that baffled the onlookers and left Azreal in a state of bewildered uncertainty. Was the fight over? Had Tusk truly been knocked unconscious, or was this some strange, unforeseen tactic?
While his physical form remained precariously upright in the arena, Tusk's mind had drifted away, pulled back by the relentless tide of memory to the raw, gaping wound of his past.
Years ago, in the immediate aftermath of Dran's death and Dextin's hasty retreat, a fragile hope had flickered in the hearts of Tusk and Rebel. They had waited with bated breath amidst the throng of released prisoners, their young eyes scanning every face for the familiar features of their parents. But their hopeful anticipation soon curdled into a chilling dread. Their parents were not among the rescued.
The devastating news was delivered by the somber faces of their townsfolk, their voices heavy with grief. Their mother, a victim of unspeakable brutality at the hands of the Dextin soldiers, had fought back with fierce courage, a defiance that ultimately cost her her life. Their father, upon learning of his wife's horrific fate, had succumbed to an unbearable despair, choosing to end his own life rather than face a world without her.
The words hung in the air like a death knell, shattering the last vestiges of their childhood innocence. Tusk's breath hitched, a silent sob escaping his lips before the dam of his grief finally broke. Tears streamed down his face, hot and relentless. Rebel, who had tried valiantly to remain strong, his small face a mask of forced stoicism, finally succumbed to the overwhelming pain. His own tears flowed freely, mirroring his brother's anguish. The collective sorrow of their community surrounded them, a palpable wave of shared loss.
In the agonizing months that followed, their shattered community struggled to rebuild, both physically and emotionally. Amidst this turmoil, a debate arose regarding the Windmill Defense, a unique fighting style passed down through generations. Tusk, despite his lineage, was struggling to grasp its intricacies, his focus fractured by his grief.
Some argued that it was too soon, that the boys needed time to heal, to process their immense loss. Others, however, voiced a stark warning: Dextin's defeat might be temporary. They could return, and the community needed a warrior, someone capable of defending them. The dissenting voices countered that Tusk was still just nine years old, a child burdened by unimaginable tragedy. How could they expect him to bear the weight of their defense?
But others argued vehemently that Tusk was the only one, to truly master the Windmill Defense. Their debate was abruptly interrupted by the creak of the door. Little Rebel stood in the doorway, his small frame radiating a surprising determination. His voice, though still childlike, held a resolute firmness. He would do it. He would learn the Windmill Defense. He would take his brother's place.
Rebel's decision, though seemingly impulsive, was born from a deep understanding of his brother. He had witnessed the terrifying power that had erupted within Tusk at the border, a force born of unimaginable trauma. He feared that if Tusk were to ever unleash that power again, the consequences could be catastrophic. Rebel wanted to become strong, strong enough to protect both of them, strong enough to avenge their parents by defeating Dextin himself, without ever forcing Tusk to confront the dangerous potential that lay dormant within him. He explained his reasoning to Tusk, his young voice filled with a maturity beyond his years, a plea for understanding and acceptance of his self-imposed burden.
Back in the deafening roar of the present arena, a guttural shout tore through Tusk's sleep-walking stillness. His eyes snapped open, wide and unfocused, the lingering echoes of his traumatic memories still clouding his gaze. Zack, wary but ready, tensed his muscles, anticipating a renewed assault. The crowd, witnessing Tusk's sudden vocalization, stirred with renewed confusion and a flicker of hope.
But Tusk didn't charge. Instead, his already unsteady legs buckled. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he finally collapsed, falling heavily onto the blood-soaked sand. The fight was over. Zack stood victorious, the bewildered champion of a bizarre and unsettling conclusion. A wave of confusion washed over the spectators, their anticipation replaced by a stunned silence. What had just happened?