Elgar unleashed hell. Fireballs and spears of lightning erupted from his hands in a manic frenzy, tearing through the air as he laughed—a deep, cruel sound that reeked of madness. Flames licked the edges of the arena. Magic crackled like thunder.
But Rikuya was gone.
No sound. No scream. Just a blur. And then he was at Elgar's side.
A precise left jab slammed into Elgar's liver—short, sharp, devastating. His body jolted violently, the flames faltering.
Before he could cry out, a brutal chop cracked against the side of his neck. The world tilted for him—blood flow disrupted, vision swimming.
Then a calm, open palm pressed into his solar plexus—not with strength, but surgical intent. Elgar gasped, breath stolen in an instant, his magic flickering.
Rikuya stepped behind him and flicked the back of his knuckles into the pressure point above the hip. Elgar's legs gave out, numb and betraying him.
And then Rikuya moved in front again, slow and deliberate. He stared into Elgar's dazed eyes.
Without a word, he drove his palm upward into the chin. Not to maim—just to end it.
Elgar's head snapped back. Silence. Collapse.
Then Rikuya let loose a roar from deep within his chest.
The arena responded with a violent gust—wind whipping into a furious spiral, slashing around him like phantom blades. Dirt and magic residue scattered into the sky, sending bystanders stumbling back, shielding their faces.
Rikuya stepped back once, slow and controlled, eyes still burning.
The crowd exploded in cheers—shocked, awed, and electrified by what they'd just witnessed.
"Youuuuuu!" Elgar screamed, madness and fury in his voice as he chanted a spell. A monstrous fireball bloomed in his hands—swirling, burning, hungering for destruction.
But Rikuya didn't flinch.
His eyes were calm, almost cold. Beneath that stillness, rage simmered—not loud, but deeper than words. He walked forward. One step. Two. Then vanished in a blur.
He reappeared right beside Elgar, silent as moonlight.
A brutal knee rocketed into Elgar's ribs, lifting him slightly off the ground as the air burst from his lungs. No scream—just a wheeze.
Before he could react, Rikuya's foot struck the inside of his thigh with surgical precision. The nerves in Elgar's leg fizzled, his stance crumbling.
Rikuya spun with deadly grace, his heel sweeping low—catching Elgar behind the knee. The cursed man dropped, crashing onto both knees, dazed and stunned.
Rikuya stepped behind him. No drama. No mercy. Just a single, heavy stomp to the back.
Elgar didn't scream.
He just froze—locked in a paralysis of pressure and tremors, his body still intact, but every inch of him trembling with silent agony. Pain without injury. Helplessness without blood.
Rikuya stood still above him, breathing slow, as if the battle hadn't even begun.
Rikuya backstepped, his boots scraping softly against the dust-swept arena floor. His chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath as he stared down at Elgar, twitching in the dirt.
His eyes didn't show rage. They showed decision—like a blade deciding which part to cut first. Inside his mind, punishment unfolded like scripture. Justice not of laws—but of pain. Of penance.
He moved.
Rikuya dashed in with calm fury, seizing Elgar's throat in one hand and lifting him off the ground. The cursed man's legs kicked in panic, gasping, clawing as his breath was crushed.
Without releasing the grip, Rikuya spun violently, caught Elgar's arm midair, twisted it backward, and with a savage stomp to the spine, dislocated the shoulder with a sickening pop.
Elgar collapsed to one knee.
Rikuya stepped back—then surged forward again. A boot to the chest. A knee to the jaw. A kick to the nerve in the enemy's knee. Each strike sharp, brutal, clean—meant to hurt but not finish.
Elgar tried to scream—but Rikuya caught his face with one hand and slammed his forehead directly into the cursed man's mouth. Teeth cracked. Blood spilled. Silence followed.
He dropped low, wrapped his arms around Elgar's waist, lifted him like a ragdoll, and twisted midair—driving him headfirst into the ground with a suplex that shook the arena.
Elgar twitched.
Rikuya didn't stop.
He locked his legs around the man's ribs, contorting the arm backward and squeezing—air, bones, muscles—all locked in a chokehold that crushed without snapping.
And then the punches came.
Sharp. Left fist after left fist slamming into Elgar's bloody face. Not fast. Not slow. Just rhythm. Until every hit left a splash, and every breath was a gurgle.
Then, the last hit paused.
Rikuya's hand opened.
Not a punch.
A palm. Heavy. Precise. It slapped across Elgar's face like thunder, infused with mana. The cursed man's limbs jolted—and then went still, nerves paralyzed but alive.
Rikuya stood.
He grabbed both arms. Pulled.
Both shoulders wrenched in opposite directions, dislocated in unison. Elgar's body seized with a sharp, ugly cry—one of final defeat.
And then… silence.
Rikuya stood above him. Calm. Unmoving. His foot slowly pressed onto Elgar's chest.
He looked down—not as a warrior, but as judgment itself.
"Suffer in silence. That's your mercy."
With a final heel stomp into the stomach, the cursed man went limp. Out cold. Broken. Finished.
The arena was deathly silent for a moment, as if the entire world held its breath. Rikuya stood over Elgar's broken form, his chest heaving with slow, measured breaths, his cold eyes never leaving the defeated man.
The crowd—who had been clamoring, shouting, and jeering only moments before—now stood in stunned silence. The brutality of the fight, the precision of Rikuya's strikes, had left them speechless. They had witnessed death in every movement—every strike was a promise of pain, a glimpse into something darker.
And then... a single roar.
A cheer broke out like a wave crashing against the shore. The stands erupted into thunderous applause, a cacophony of voices shouting Rikuya's name, chanting his title, his strength, and the utter annihilation of Elgar. The crowd's energy shifted from shock to admiration, to awe. They had seen something they would never forget—an overwhelming, merciless display of raw power and control.
The referee, eyes wide with disbelief, stepped back, his hand raised high.
"Winner!" The referee's voice cracked through the roar. "Rikuya!"
And still, the crowd cheered louder, the sound echoing throughout the arena. People stood on their feet, clapping, shouting, as Rikuya remained motionless, his gaze still locked onto Elgar's broken form.
The silence that had once followed his every movement was now filled with wild, almost manic energy. They had seen him dominate, not just with strength, but with sheer intent—a warrior who fought not just for victory, but for justice.
The cheers didn't stop. Rikuya had proven something much greater than strength. He had proven that mercy was in the hands of the strong, and those who believed themselves invincible—were merely fleeting shadows.
As the crowd's cheers echoed around the arena, a new presence moved toward the center of the stage. The noise slowly began to fade as the figure emerged from the shadows—tall, imposing, and draped in heavy chains that clinked with every step. The chains were more than just a part of his attire; they were a testament to his past, to the agony he had endured and the sins he had vowed to never forget.
Zurin the Chains stood there for a moment, his cold, calculating eyes scanning the fallen Elgar. His expression was unreadable, his stance unmoving, yet there was an undeniable weight to his presence.
He slowly approached Rikuya, who stood there still, his eyes steely and focused.
Zurin's voice broke the silence, deep and gravelly, yet laced with a strange gratitude.
"Thank you," he said, the words coming out with surprising sincerity. "For doing that to him."
Rikuya's eyes flickered, but he didn't say anything. He simply watched Zurin, his body still tense, his focus sharp.
Zurin, feeling the weight of his words, let a brief, bitter smile curl on his lips.
"I joined this tournament," he continued, "with one singular goal in mind. To kill that trash." He pointed at Elgar's broken body with a disdain that made the very air around him grow colder. "A man like that... He deserves no mercy. No reprieve. He's nothing but a stain on this world."
His chains rattled ominously as he stepped closer to Elgar's limp form, bending down to meet his eyes for a brief moment, before turning back to Rikuya.
"I've seen men like him before," Zurin said, his tone almost like a whisper. "In the prison camps. They feed on the weak, they break what they can. They destroy lives for pleasure. I swore I would never become like him. But I couldn't just stand by and watch. Someone had to deal with him."
He straightened, his chains clinking like a melody of sorrow and pain.
"Thank you for doing what needed to be done. For making sure the world doesn't have to suffer him anymore."
With a final glance at Rikuya, Zurin turned his attention back to the crowd, the weight of his chains a constant reminder of the man he had once been, and the man he could never afford to become again.
Rikuya stood there, his eyes narrowed slightly, and after a long pause, he spoke. His voice was calm, measured—a stark contrast to the violence of the previous moments.
"There's a story," he began, his tone serious, almost like he was telling it to himself rather than Zurin. "It's about a man—a warrior—who fought for survival, for honor. He lived in a world torn by war and bloodshed. One day, in the heat of battle, he faced a man who was once a comrade, someone he had fought beside in the past. The two had shared victories, losses, and dreams of peace. But in that moment, the warrior had no choice but to fight. His comrade, now his enemy, had betrayed everything they once believed in."
Rikuya's gaze turned hard, focusing directly on Zurin.
"The warrior's sword was sharp. His resolve was firm. He struck his comrade down, ending the battle with one final blow. But after the dust settled, the warrior felt a strange emptiness. Not because he regretted the action—it was necessary, after all—but because he realized something that shook him to his core. The man he had killed... was still a man. He was still a soul, a person who once had hope. The warrior's victory didn't feel like a triumph. It felt like a weight. And he carried that weight with him, through the rest of his days."
Rikuya paused, letting the words linger in the air.
"Now, tell me, Zurin," he asked, his voice low but piercing, "Why do you think that warrior felt empty after the battle?"
Zurin stood there, staring at Rikuya, his eyes filled with confusion at first. His chains rattled as he shifted his weight.
"Because he killed a comrade?" he answered, his voice tinged with certainty. "Because he betrayed someone he once trusted?"
Rikuya shook his head slowly, his expression unchanging. "No. That's part of it, but not the real reason. The real reason the warrior felt empty was because he had lost his humanity in that moment. He had forgotten that no matter what we fight for, we're still fighting for something that should be preserved—something that we all share. The person he killed was just as human as he was. And the moment he took that life, he crossed a line, no matter the justification."
Zurin's brow furrowed, confusion clouding his face. "So, you're saying... killing someone, even if they deserve it... means we lose something of ourselves?"
Rikuya's gaze softened, though there was still a hardened edge to his eyes. "Exactly. It's not just about victory or revenge. It's about preserving the part of yourself that makes you human. The warrior had the right to fight, but in doing so, he lost a part of himself—his compassion, his understanding. And that's something you can never take back."
Zurin stood still, his chains heavy against his body, the weight of Rikuya's words sinking in. He closed his eyes, clearly processing everything, before speaking again.
"But... I've killed before. I've done things to survive. Does that mean I've lost myself, too?"
Rikuya didn't answer immediately. He stared at Zurin for a long while, letting the silence hang between them, until he finally spoke, his voice calm but filled with purpose.
"No, it doesn't mean you've lost yourself. But it's important to recognize the cost. Every choice, every action, every life taken—it leaves a mark on you. The key is knowing when to stop, when to draw the line. That's what separates those who fight for survival from those who become the monsters they once swore to defeat."
Zurin nodded slowly, the weight of Rikuya's words pressing down on him like the chains that bound him.
"Then... What now?" Zurin asked, his voice quieter, more reflective.
Rikuya gave him a final look, his eyes steely but filled with understanding.
"Now, you learn to live with the choices you've made," Rikuya said softly. "And remember, Zurin... It's not about how many lives you take, but how you live with what you've done after."