As Even barreled forward, convinced this would be the final clash, Xain only grinned. The moment Even's arm swept in for a heavy strike, Xain dropped low, his stance shifting fluidly. He hooked an arm under Even's elbow while his other hand pressed firmly across Even's chest plate, pulling the larger fighter off balance. Using Even's own momentum, Xain pivoted sharply on his heel, twisting his hips as he drove through the motion. The sudden redirection of force sent Even hurtling over Xain's shoulder, his armored weight slamming into the wooden floor with a deafening crash. Planks splintered under the impact, shards and cracks bursting outward as the ground trembled from the sheer heaviness of Even's body.
"There it is! That fighting style he used during his first match! Xain knocks Even down!" Quincy's voice rang out, barely audible over the eruption of the crowd. The arena roared, their cheers shaking the coliseum walls.
Even groaned, trying to push himself up, but the sheer mass of his enchanted armor pinned him. He clawed against the floor, struggling to roll, but his weight betrayed him. Xain tilted his head, a playful glint in his eye as he looked down at the trapped fighter. "You became too much a big boy, Even~" he purred, giggling as he leapt into the air. His body curled mid-flight, flipping once before untwisting into a spinning descent. Both heels came crashing down with brutal precision onto Even's face. "I know you're short, but that was too much overcompensating," Xain added with a slow lick of his lips.
In the fighters' waiting room, Mae leaned forward, her gaze locked on Xain. "How do you think it feels to be under him like that?" she asked with a sly grin. The others ignored her, their focus elsewhere. Amos broke the silence. "By the way, has anyone seen anyone else use what Xain's using?" He scanned the room, but each shake of the head gave the same answer. Gurion rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I mean, they're just throws, but I've never seen anyone do them that well."
In the stands, Lia tapped her fingers against her armrest, her eyes narrowing. "Hmm, that's different from the hereditary ability," she murmured under her breath. "What was that?" Dirk asked, catching only a fragment. "Nothing!" Lia replied quickly, waving it off. "Come on, we're supposed to be cheering for Even. Focus." Dirk frowned but nodded, turning back toward the clash below.
In the VIP stands, Samwell's eyes narrowed as he studied the battlefield. "As I suspected," he muttered, arms crossing over his chest. "That spell is unrefined. Even if he patched the gaps with blood magic, there's a reason earth magic users avoid constructs like that. It collapses under its own flaws." His gaze stayed locked on his son. *Are you really going to lose?* Matthew thought from beside him, fists clenching tight.
Back in the arena, Xain raised his foot again, ready to stomp down and end it. But before the strike could land, Even released the armor. The construct shattered away in fragments, the sudden loss of weight making Xain stumble atop him. Blinking in surprise, Xain tilted his head. "Over with it so quickly?"
Even pushed himself upright, his body glowing faintly as he pulled water magic over his wounds, mending torn flesh and battered muscle. But his movements were sluggish, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. Maintaining the armor and constantly healing himself had drained him. Mana exhaustion clung to him like lead. His shoulders sagged as he glared at Xain. "You… don't embarrass me," he panted. "Don't beat me looking like this."
Xain's brow rose. "What do you mean? You basically cheated, so why should I not use this?" His tone carried the same lilt as Eirisse's, his hand gesturing lightly toward himself. Even's jaw clenched as he steadied his stance, fists lifting. "Because I'm begging you not to, alright? Just let us settle this normally. Just a straight fight."
For a long moment Xain studied him, his gaze searching Even's face. Then, slowly, he reached up, untying the band that held his hair in a bun. Strands fell loose around his face as he tucked the strip of cloth away. "Alright. Just a straight fight," he said, raising his own fists.
Even gave a sharp nod, setting his stance. Both fighters lifted their fists, muscles coiled, eyes locked. And in the next instant, they surged forward, closing the distance with nothing but their fists ready to decide it.
Quincy's voice boomed over the roaring crowd. "Looks like the fighters have decided to settle this one with their fists!"
The first clash came in an instant. Xain's fist snapped across Even's jaw, making his skull rattle from the impact, while Even's left hook cut through empty air as Xain weaved out of range. Even stumbled a step, teeth clenched against the daze, and swung again with his left. This time Xain caught the arm under his right, locked it tight, and drove his own left fist into Even's face in rapid succession. Each blow cracked with practiced precision—Even could brawl, but Xain's movements were sharper, honed, and utterly relentless. Even without Annie being in control, Xain was in an entirely different category compared to Even.
But, in the fighters' waiting room, people began to notice something odd. "Why is he only attacking with his left hand?" Hittag muttered, narrowing his eyes. "I noticed that too," Annabel said quietly, her gaze sharp as she studied the details others might have overlooked. She caught it—the faint glow at the back of Even's right hand, so dim most would dismiss it as nothing. But she knew better. "He's setting something up," Lexy added, her assassin's instincts prickling at the unnatural restraint in Even's movements.
Back in the arena, the brawl raged on. Xain's knee snapped up, driving hard into Even's sternum. The impact knocked the wind from him, forcing him back with a gasp as pain shot through his chest. Yet Even refused to go down. His boots dug into the arena floor, teeth gritting as he swiped the blood trickling from his lip. *I'm sorry for what I'm about to do, brat,* he thought, bracing himself.
With a guttural yell, Even surged forward, his left fist cocked and ready. To Xain, it looked predictable—too predictable. He set his stance, ready to weave aside and counterstrike.
But just as Xain shifted, Even snapped his right hand back, the glowing mark on it flaring to life. Xain's eyes widened as sharp, needle-like stings pierced into his back, stealing his focus with sudden pain. His breath hitched as his balance faltered, his guard dropping in that critical moment.
His gaze flicked toward Even's hand—stone was gathering across his knuckles, jagged and heavy. *So this is what it feels like to have dirty tactics used against you? It sucks…* he thought, but he had no time to recover.
Even's stone-coated fist crashed into Xain's jaw with brutal force. The impact cracked like thunder, snapping his head to the side and sending him sprawling across the arena floor. He hit the ground hard, his body motionless, consciousness torn from him in an instant.
Even stood over him, chest rising and falling heavily, swallowing against the taste of blood in his mouth. "Ooo! Even used his own dirty tactics and caught Xain with a stone punch!" Quincy's voice boomed, almost giddy with the turn of events. "Xain isn't getting up! That means the winner of this match is Even Mathers!" The coliseum erupted into deafening cheers, the crowd chanting Even's name.
But Even's eyes weren't on them.
With staggering steps, he turned his back to Xain and began walking toward the throne at the head of the table. Each movement was a struggle, his body screaming at him to stop, yet he pushed forward. There was a reason he had convinced Quincy to create this arena, a reason this fight had to play out here.
Slowly, heavily, he reached the throne where the patriarch of the family sat. The air grew heavy as Even lowered himself into the seat, his battered body slumping against it. Gasps swept through the coliseum.
Samwell's eyes widened, shock flashing for only a second before twisting into something far darker—rage. Fury burned in his features at the boldness of the public declaration, at the defiance Even dared to show before the entire crowd.
Matthew sat in silence, equally stunned, his mind reeling at his brother's audacity. Never, not once, had he expected Even to take such a drastic step.
Even lifted his gaze, the weight in his chest replaced with a fire that met his father's glare head-on. His voice was raw, cracked from strain, but every word was steel.
"After this tournament," Even swore, his eyes locked with his father's, "I'm dealing with you, old bastard."
Father and son stared at one another, their glares burning with the promise of fury and vengeance yet to come.