As soon as Quincy's signal cut through the air, both fighters surged forward without hesitation.
"Whoa! We're off to an explosive start!" Quincy cried, wings flaring wide as she shot upward to give the crowd a full view of the chaos unfolding below.
Water rippled violently beneath Hittag's charging feet, each step sending shockwaves through the stone. For a man just shy of ten feet tall, his speed was nothing short of monstrous. His frame barreled forward like a runaway siege engine, gauntlets clenched, the massive bands of metal around his body glinting with every thundering stride.
Across from him, Calvinel's silver plate rattled with rising tempo, each bootfall a crisp echo. His hand reached behind his back and in one clean motion, he unsheathed his greatsword with a gleam of polished steel. He drew it to one side, body twisting, ready to strike.
At the same moment, Hittag pulled back his colossal right fist.
They collided in a blur of movement.
Calvinel swung his sword in a wide arc, aiming for Hittag's torso—but before the blade could find its mark, Hittag brought his fist down in a brutal hammerblow. Flesh slammed into metal with a sharp, jarring clang as Hittag's knuckles struck the flat of the greatsword, slamming it downward and into the earth. The sheer force sent shockwaves across the ground, splashing water from nearby pools in wide bursts.
Calvinel grinned, eyes flashing.
"Let's give everyone a show."
Behind the narrow slits of Hittag's helmet, there was a glint—barely visible, but enough. The Champion's eyes narrowed, and though most wouldn't catch it, Calvinel did: the faint tug of a grin beneath the steel. This wasn't just a match. This was a performance.
"Ahhh!" Hittag roared, lunging forward as his left fist shot toward Calvinel's ribs.
Calvinel reacted instantly. He yanked his sword up and pivoted, angling the flat of the blade between him and the blow. The punch landed hard—hard enough to send a metallic boom echoing through the arena—and launched him backwards like a ragdoll. He hit the ground skidding, bouncing off one slope before crashing shoulder-first into a short stone pillar that cracked on impact.
"No thinking, no planning! These men just went straight at each other!" Quincy announced, looping overhead. "And it looks like the Champion has the advantage!"
Hittag wasted no time. He charged again, the ground quaking with each stride.
Calvinel groaned and pushed himself up, blood running down from a gash above his brow where he'd struck the stone. He wiped it aside with his forearm, but the grin remained plastered across his face. He looked up and locked eyes with the approaching behemoth, calm and waiting.
Hittag reached him, throwing a straight punch—not just raw strength this time, but precise and well-aimed. Calvinel ducked low, the strike sailing past and shattering the stone pillar behind him into jagged chunks.
Spinning on his heel, Calvinel brought his greatsword sweeping in a wide horizontal arc, aiming for the Champion's abdomen.
Hittag twisted back just in time—the blade grazed across the reinforced leather of his cuirass, leaving a shallow cut and a spray of sparks. Before Calvinel could follow through, Hittag's leg came whipping up in a quick counter. His shin, wrapped in thick segmented greaves, swept toward Calvinel's side.
Calvinel backstepped, boots skidding. He immediately lunged back in, swinging the flat of his blade like a massive bat.
The strike landed cleanly. It rang out with a loud clang! as it crashed into the side of Hittag's helmet, staggering the Champion and sending him stumbling. He nearly lost his footing, one leg dipping into the edge of a shallow pool before he caught himself and steadied.
Both men paused—huffing now, shoulders rising and falling. They locked eyes again.
"What an intense exchange! Their techniques! Their styles! Is this the best match we've had so far?!" Quincy shouted, the energy in her voice matching the roar of the crowd.
For a brief moment, Hittag and Calvinel glanced around, taking in the audience that thundered with applause and shouts. Then their gazes met once more.
"No matter who wins," Calvinel said, leveling his greatsword, "I think we can agree that they won."
"You're right," Hittag replied, raising his fists again. "We don't simply fight for ourselves—but for the ones who cheer for us."
And then, without hesitation, they both charged forward again.
Back in the fighters' waiting room, the tension was palpable—even through the walls.
"Goddess, those two are making us look bad," Ulrich said with a laugh, arms folded as he watched through the wide viewing window.
"So intense…" Gurion added, his fox ears twitching with visible excitement. His eyes gleamed, captivated by every movement in the arena. "Those two are the perfect opponents for one another."
"This energy's going to be hard to match for the rest of us," Xain said quietly, leaning against the window.
"Despite how much I dislike him," Bryanard muttered, narrowing his eyes as he focused on Calvinel, "there's no denying he knows how to win people over."
"Aw~ now I wish I matched up against one of them instead," Mae chimed in with an exaggerated pout, resting her chin in her hands as she leaned forward.
Back in the arena, the fight raged on.
The Champion and the Victorious moved in a violent blur—Hittag hammering forward with brutal punches, each strike meant to break bone. Calvinel, recognizing that blocking would only get him flattened, shifted his strategy entirely to evasion. His armor clacked with every agile dodge, just narrowly slipping past the colossal fists that carved the air around him.
One more strike came toward his head—a clean, deadly arc. Calvinel ducked under it smoothly, boots sliding across the slick stone. In that second, he saw it: a slight hitch in Hittag's movement, a tell. The Champion was having trouble reeling his fist back in time.
"Getting tired?" Calvinel teased, breathless but smiling as he moved to retaliate.
He stepped in, swinging low at Hittag's legs—only for Hittag's massive hand to snap around him mid-motion.
"No, just feinting!" Hittag roared, lifting him overhead in one fluid motion.
Then came the slam. Once—into the stone. Twice—the arena shook. Three times—Calvinel's greatsword was torn from his grip. On the fourth, Hittag hurled him like a ragdoll into the air, sending him flying toward one of the pools of water.
"You don't become a champion without tactics!" Hittag shouted after him, his voice booming. *I doubt you can swim in all that armor,* he thought, eyes following the arc of Calvinel's body.
Calvinel twisted mid-air, flailing as the wind howled past him. For a second, it looked like he might crash right into Quincy—who yelped and darted aside just in time, her owl wings flaring wide.
"Looks like this is it for the Victorious!" Quincy cried out. "If he can't protect himself, then the Champion wins!"
A wave of cheers rose from part of the crowd—others, especially many of the women, stared with anxious eyes. All watched as Calvinel plummeted toward the pool.
But instead of a splash… there was a hiss. A burst of vapor exploded outward the instant he hit the surface.
Mist enveloped the pool, rolling across the stone in a thick, cold fog.
"What is this? What's happening? Did the Victorious do something to save himself?" Quincy's voice rang out, tinged with disbelief.
The mist began to clear. Cracks echoed through the air like glass breaking.
Then—he rose.
Standing atop the now-frozen surface of the pool, Calvinel emerged, bloodied, battered—but still upright. The ice beneath him sparkled, his breath visible in the chill. His fingers curled into fists. His eyes, half-lidded from fatigue, locked onto Hittag across the arena.
"There it is—his ice magic," Bryanard said from the waiting room, expression unreadable.
Hittag blinked, clearly surprised.
But Calvinel simply lifted his arms wide and gave a sharp, beckoning motion.
Come at me.