"Three..."
The announcer's voice thundered through the arena.
Avian and Navila locked eyes—unyielding, relentless.
"Two..."
They dropped into low stances, muscles coiled, feet grounded like springs.
"One..."
In perfect sync, they raised their weapons to the right—mirrored reflections with murderous intent.
"GOOO!"
The announcer leapt from the stage as the ground behind them exploded into dust.
In a blink, both fighters launched forward—blurs of motion.
CCHING!
Steel screamed. Sword met blade in a clash that shook the air, frozen in explosive tension.
"Is that all you got?" Navila scoffed, eyes blazing.
"I pity you."
She hopped back—then lunged, slamming her blade down hard.
THUD!
His sword recoiled from the impact, and before he could recover—
CRACK!
Her boot drove into his gut. Armor splintered with a sharp, echoing snap.
Avian flew backward, skipping across the field like a stone, gouging lines into the stone floor.
"That all? Really?" she mocked. "You're the one saying that?"
Avian stood, brushing dust from his chestplate. His armor shimmered—repairing itself, piece by piece.
"Comes in handy," he smirked. "You should fix your aim... and your attitude."
But Navila had vanished.
No sound. No breeze. Just absence.
Avian didn't flinch. She slashed diagonally—
TCHK— KRAANG!!
She appeared midair, descending with a vertical strike.
A flash of steel.
A thunderous collision.
Then—silence. The arena held its breath.
Then chaos.
They clashed again—
CLING! CLANG! CLING! CLANG!
Each strike sharper, heavier, faster.
A relentless rhythm.
Navila drove the tempo like a hurricane—unrelenting, wild.
Avian blocked by instinct alone, arms numb, body reeling.
Steel rang against steel. Sparks flew. Sweat dripped.
One mistake and it's over.
The crowd erupted—
Some roared "Navila!", others "Avian!", and a few stood frozen, hearts racing with every blow.
This was pure swordsmanship.
Every swing is a gamble. Every parry, a heartbeat from defeat.
Sweat traced down Avian's cheek.
"Shit… I'm losing my grip."
Her strikes weren't just fast—they drove through him, bursting with full-body power.
"It's not just her arms…" he realized.
The twist of her hips. The precision of her footwork. Every attack started from the floor and cracked through her like a whip.
He watched again. Pivot. Launch. Torque.
"She's channeling power through her legs. Her core."
His stance shifted—feet wider, knees bent.
"If I break her timing…"
He braced, then drove upward through his core—
One devastating swing—
CLANG!
Her blade flew skyward.
Avian vaulted back, carving space between them.
"Got it," he muttered. "That's her rhythm… her secret."
He grinned.
"You're not far from perfect, are you?"
Navila's eyes flickered. A thin smile curved her lips.
"At least one of you isn't a moron."
Then, colder:
"Too bad you're still getting eliminated."
Avian's grin sharpened.
"Is that what you thought would happen?"
He crouched low—then exploded forward with a roar.
A horizontal strike hammered toward her ribs.
Navila raised her blade, but—
CRACK!
Her guard shattered.
Air left her lungs as she flew backward—bouncing, skidding—
Until she slammed into the arena wall, gouging out a crater.
She coughed, blood speckling her lips, clutching her ribs.
"You bastard… that hurt."
Shakily, she stood—blade in hand, body trembling.
Eyes still blazing.
"No more games."
The arena fell silent.
Anticipation crackled.
One final exchange awaited.