Nero "The Phantom" Karsin stepped into the arena, slow and poised, every movement like a whisper of death. His mask glinted beneath the sunlight, and the crowd hushed—half in fear, half in anticipation.
He tilted his head slightly, voice distorted through the mask.
"So… this is the so-called Rikuya? Hmph. I thought legends were taller. This'll be quick."
Rikuya stretched his neck, cracked his knuckles, then slowly walked forward with a lazy grin.
He mockingly repeated, exaggerated and nasal,
"Sooo this is the so-called Rikuya~?"
Then added, with a teasing wink toward the crowd,
"Hmph. I thought assassins were less talky and more… stabby."
The crowd laughed and howled, some shouting:
> "GET HIM, RIKUYA!"
"He mocking the masked man! This is gonna be spicy!"
"Make him take that mask off with one punch!"
The masked fighter's fingers twitched.
Rikuya stepped into stance with a grin.
"If you're testing poisons, better pray I don't make you taste your own."
Nero's fingers flexed at his sides, the dark mask reflecting the sunlight like a jagged shard of glass. His voice, cold and metallic, filtered through the mask.
"I've silenced louder mouths than yours... and they never saw it coming."
A shiver ran through the crowd as his body tensed, muscles coiling like a serpent ready to strike. His hands hovered near his weapons—hidden blades, the kind that could end a life before the first breath was drawn.
Rikuya's grin didn't falter, but his eyes narrowed, sensing the lethal intent behind the words. He cracked his neck with a sharp sound, then shifted into a more defensive stance.
"Good. I was getting bored." He gestured to the crowd, teasing, "Let's see who's really the quiet type."
With the crowd still roaring, the tension snapped like a string pulled taut, and both combatants prepared for the inevitable clash.
Nero spun mid-air, his blades a blur of death as they sliced through the air. Rikuya barely had time to react, but his body moved with unnatural speed, twisting and ducking beneath the deadly arcs of the knives. The moment Nero's feet hit the ground, he was a whirlwind of steel—hundreds of poisoned blades tearing through the air like a storm.
But Rikuya danced through it, his movements graceful, inhumanly fast. Every twist and turn was a blur as he dodged, weaving around the deadly barrage as if the knives were nothing more than raindrops.
Then, without warning, he closed the distance.
He ducked low, avoiding a swipe, and in the same motion, delivered a crushing knee to Nero's ribs. The masked assassin's breath whooshed out as he staggered back, barely able to regain his footing before Rikuya was already on him.
Sidestepping another strike, Rikuya spun around, landing a brutal back kick to the same point, sending Nero stumbling.
Rikuya slid beneath another slash, his body moving like liquid, and drove his elbow upward into Nero's chest with enough force to make the air crackle.
A feint to the right, followed by a lightning-quick left roundhouse that swept Nero's legs out from under him.
Before Nero could recover, Rikuya stepped in, delivering a palm strike to his face, but just as quickly, he backstepped to avoid a counterattack, his reflexes impossibly sharp.
Without missing a beat, Rikuya leapt into the air, driving his knees down on Nero's chest with bone-crushing precision.
Nero's body jerked as he tried to push back, but Rikuya was already spinning low, his heel crashing into Nero's side with devastating force.
The masked assassin barely had time to process the pain before Rikuya was on him again—elbow, fist, palm—each strike landing with a ferocity that left the crowd gasping.
When Nero swung wildly in retaliation, Rikuya ducked beneath the attack, pivoting behind him like a shadow.
A reverse elbow shot out, landing with a sickening crack as Nero's head snapped back, his body teetering on the brink of collapse.
Rikuya's double side kick slammed into Nero's torso, shoving him backward as the fight seemed to slip from his grasp.
With a rush of movement, Rikuya closed the gap once more—fist, knee, knee, palm, palm—all targeted at the same vulnerable spot, sending waves of internal pain through Nero's body.
Rikuya moved with fluid precision, his strikes building, overwhelming the assassin with relentless power. One final twist kick, and Nero gasped for air, his chest tight, his breath cut off.
Standing over him now, Rikuya remained eerily calm. His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it carried through the tense silence of the arena.
"You only needed one weak spot. I just reminded you where it was."
Nero's knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground, the fight gone from him.
The arena fell into an uneasy silence as a figure stepped into the ring, his presence like a storm in a calm sea. The crowd murmured, sensing the arrival of someone truly dangerous. Rudra Flameborn, the fire priest, walked slowly toward the center, the very air around him shimmering with heat. His robes flickered like tongues of flame, and his eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, as though he had seen the world burn and had become one with it.
His voice was deep, resonating like the crackle of a roaring fire, as he spoke.
"Each soul I claim... is a soul purified by fire. Every life snuffed out by my flame is a cleansing, a renewal of the world's balance. Fire is not just destruction—it is rebirth. The flames I summon are divine, guided by my will, fueled by my wrath. When I stand before an opponent, it is not merely a fight. It is a test of purity."
He paused, his gaze locking onto Rikuya, who stood unfazed, watching him intently. Rudra's smile was a slow curl, the warmth of his presence suffocating.
"Do you know what it is like, Rikuya? To feel the heat of a soul in turmoil, to witness the final moments of one who has been consumed by their own sins? I have seen it. I have watched as their final breath escaped, their soul shattered by the searing touch of my flames."
He took a step closer, his tone growing darker, almost mournful.
"There was a time… long ago, when I, too, was lost. When I too was consumed by my own rage. But I was saved, Rikuya. By the flame. By the purity it offers. I understand your pain, your struggle. But in the end, we are all just fragments of a greater flame—burning, purging, reborn."
Rikuya, who had listened in silence, finally spoke, his voice calm yet laced with something deeper.
"And what happens when a man like you—one who claims to be cleansed by fire—realizes that the flames you've embraced have only turned you into a monster?"
Rudra's eyes flickered with a trace of something—regret? It was gone in an instant, replaced by a cold resolve.
"Monsters? Perhaps. But we are the ones who endure the fire, and it is those who are too weak to face it that are consumed by it."
Rikuya gave a soft, dry chuckle, his grin widening.
"Then let's see if the fire is enough to purify you."
Rudra's eyes glinted with divine conviction, the arena basking in a sudden surge of heat as he stepped forward. His voice echoed with quiet power.
"Why don't I show you."
His hand ignited—not like wild fire, but controlled, sacred. A disciplined wrath. He raised it with solemn reverence and murmured a short verse, barely louder than a whisper but felt deep in the bones of all who watched:
> "Let wrath guide my hand—
Let fire cleanse the flawed."
Then he struck.
A blur of motion. His fist surged forward, cloaked in holy flame—not a roaring blaze, but a precise, purifying heat. The fire didn't explode on impact; it sank into the core of his target like judgment itself. The air shimmered. Time seemed to bend.
Rikuya blocked, forearms crossed, bracing for impact—
—but the moment the strike connected, his body was hurled back, boots grinding across the arena floor, a scorched trail marking his path. The sheer force wasn't from muscle—it was the weight of divine wrath behind it.
He skidded, staggered, breath caught for just a heartbeat.
Behind Rudra, the air shimmered again, a glowing flame sigil lingering like a ghost in his wake—ancient, sacred, and crackling with warning.
Rudra didn't press. He stood tall, flames curling up his arm, eyes locked on Rikuya with both reverence and challenge.
"This is not vengeance," he said calmly. "This is atonement."
Rikuya rolled his shoulder, the heat still stinging through the block, then wiped a thumb across his lip with a grin.
"Then let's both confess… with fists."
Rikuya exploded forward, fists a flurry of fury—wild, relentless, the rhythm of a storm given form. His blows tore through the air like cracking thunder, raw and unforgiving.
But Rudra… moved like water over fire.
His bare feet glided across the dirt without sound, cloak flowing behind him like smoke in a temple breeze. His eyes never blinked, never broke focus. Calm. Clear. Controlled.
Each time a fist came close—
He tilted.
He slipped.
He flowed just beyond reach.
Flames danced at his heels, not wild, but reverent.
And all the while, Rudra chanted.
Slow.
Measured.
As if time belonged to him.
> "First flame, shield my body…"
"Second flame, temper my soul…"
"Third flame, guide my wrath…"
On the final word, he dipped low beneath Rikuya's hammering strike. In a single breath, he stepped in.
Close.
His hand pressed gently—almost kindly—against Rikuya's ribs.
And then—
FWOOOM.
The moment Rudra's flaming palm met Rikuya's ribs, a sear of divine heat ripped through flesh and bone—but Rikuya didn't flinch.
His breath hitched, teeth gritted. Eyes wild. Alive.
Without pause, his hand snapped up—veins bulging—grabbing Rudra's wrist in an iron grip.
With a low snarl, he pulled him close and growled:
> "You wanna burn souls? Let's see if yours can take the pressure."
He ripped Rudra forward.
BAM — a brutal knee to the gut, folding the fire priest.
Then CRACK — an elbow slammed down on the back of Rudra's neck. No grace. No style. Just street-born violence. The kind learned from survival, not temples.
Rudra gasped, knees wobbling. His chant broke—
But before Rikuya could follow through—
The fist came, a punishing arc toward Rudra's skull—
And then—
> "Fourth flame—ignite the breath between moments…"
Rudra twisted—robes spinning like wings caught in holy wind.
He met the punch not with a block, but a deflection—his forearm catching it with eerie precision.
Then—
BOOM.
A sudden pulse of heat exploded from his chest.
Not fire. Not light.
Pressure.
A concussive wave of blessed air, bursting outward.
Rikuya was knocked back, feet skidding, his shirt smoking. The air between them shimmered.
Rudra stood bleeding. Skin scorched. Breathing ragged.
But his form was centered. Hands pressed together.
Head bowed slightly.
Ash ran from his lips like melted incense.
> "The fifth... is for vengeance."
He opened his eyes — bloodshot, burning, unwavering.
Then, to Rikuya, with a voice torn but firm:
> "You fight with fury, born from pain. I borrow my strength from flame… but flame does not come freely. Every time I call upon it, it asks me—are you still worthy?"
He coughed blood onto the dirt. Then smiled faintly.
> "So ask yourself… are you?"
Rikuya stood tall, chest rising slow and deliberate. The arena's heat shifted—not from Rudra's flame, but from him.
He lowered both arms straight in front of him, palms open.
His muscles tensed, veins snaking like rivers across his frame—then glowed.
First blue.
A calm, arcane hue that shimmered across his skin like a gentle tide.
But then—
The mana twisted.
Red.
Hotter.
It pulsed, growing wilder with every heartbeat. The air warped around him.
Rikuya's hair blew back—then grew, strands flaring crimson like living fire. His eyes burned—not with vengeance, but with challenge. The quiet before a storm that would never apologize.
And in that voice, low and cocky, with the weight of gods behind it, he spoke:
> "Then let me borrow the flame too—"
He tilted his head, smirk razor-sharp.
> "—like this, for example."
The ground beneath him cracked.
Every breath became smoke.
This wasn't divine. It wasn't sacred.
It was raw, untamed—rage forged into a weapon.
Even Rudra blinked. Just once.
Rudra narrowed his eyes, sweat and ash clinging to his brow.
> "How…?" he whispered, half to Rikuya, half to the flame itself.
"That power—it's not sacred. It doesn't belong to the divine…"
Rikuya stepped forward, firelight dancing across his body—red mana surging in rhythm with his heartbeat. His longer hair whipped behind him, wild and alive.
He stopped just within striking distance, gaze locked.
Then he said—calm, but with iron behind every word:
> "You bind your flame in prayer. I learned mine in pain."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes burning brighter.
> "Sacred fire obeys rules. But the fire of the living—? It adapts. Learns. Burns different every time."
He raised one hand, letting the red aura flicker like a living spirit.
> "A blade that never bends breaks.
A man who can't evolve crumbles.
But the one who adapts…"
"...can burn in water and breathe in flame."
He clenched his fist—fwoom!—the red flame snarled around his arm like a dragon just waiting for command.
> "I don't need permission from gods. Just the will to survive."