Rudra let out a quiet breath, the flames around his arms dimming—not in defeat, but in awe.
> "You really are… an amazing one."
He stood straighter, blood drying on his robes, eyes fixed on Rikuya not as an enemy… but as something stranger. Something outside the pattern.
> "I've read scrolls from fallen empires.
I've watched a thousand styles bleed into dust.
But I've never seen one like yours."
He took a slow step back, then spoke—not to Rikuya, not to the crowd, but as if to someone else watching.
> "Maybe this world… isn't all it seems."
A silence settled. Then Rudra looked skyward, voice low, reflective.
> "There's an old tale passed among fire priests. That sometimes, for their own amusement, higher forces pluck a soul from another world…"
He turned his gaze back to Rikuya.
> "…and drop them here. No warning. No prophecy. Just to see."
> "To watch if he breaks… or bends.
To see if he becomes a tyrant bathed in blood,
or a beacon carved from pain."
A pause. Then Rudra smiled faintly, smoke curling from his lips.
> "Maybe you're that soul.
The one they dropped in for fun—just to watch what path you'd carve."
He tilted his head.
> "Suffering... or glory.
Collapse... or legend."
Then, softly:
> "Tell me, Rikuya… which will it be?"
Rikuya didn't answer right away. He cracked his neck, then rolled his shoulders as the red mana coiled tighter around him, more beast than blessing.
Then—he laughed.
Low. Unbothered. Defiant.
He met Rudra's gaze with fire in his eyes—not the kind gifted by gods… but the kind forged in the gutters, in betrayal, in rage.
> "So they dropped me in for fun, huh?"
He took a step forward—earth cracking beneath his foot.
> "Pulled me from wherever I was... just to see me dance? Suffer? Entertain?"
Another step—closer now. The flame hissed, red and feral.
> "Then I hope they're watching real close."
He pointed skyward, not in reverence—but in warning.
> "Because if they're gods…
if they're kings...
if they think this world is a stage and I'm their little joke—"
Rikuya's voice dropped to a near-growl, every word vibrating with promise:
> "—I'll climb that throne of theirs...
burn their script...
and shove their 'fun' straight down their throats."
The fire around him surged.
> "I don't play parts.
I punish the ones who write them."
Rudra stood swaying, his robes in tatters, sacred flame flickering weakly around his shoulders. Ash dusted his brow. His chest heaved, burned by every breath. But his gaze—fierce and unwavering—refused surrender.
Then—
Rikuya's stance shifted.
His breath deepened, slow and volcanic. From his core, something surged—not fire, not mana, but will. A pressure that made the crowd lean back without knowing why.
His veins glowed faintly.
His muscles coiled tight.
His hair shimmered into a deeper crimson hue, strands lifting as if defying gravity—no wind, just force. The arena itself felt smaller now. Like everything was being drawn into the center of him.
Then, quietly:
"Enjin."
The dirt cracked beneath his feet.
Rikuya launched.
First, his palm slammed into Rudra's chest, cutting through his defense like it was cloth. The impact made Rudra's back arch, air blasted from his lungs.
Then, Rikuya pivoted, using the recoil to swing a savage elbow into Rudra's jaw—bone met bone, the priest's head snapping to the side.
Rikuya followed, a sharp knee launched directly into the ribs he'd targeted earlier, lifting Rudra clean off the ground for a heartbeat.
In midair, Rikuya twisted, snapping a fierce roundhouse kick into Rudra's side, spinning the priest's body before slamming him down into the arena dirt with a bone-jarring thud.
Landing low, Rikuya didn't wait—he rolled forward with a brutal double fist slam, both arms crashing down onto Rudra's torso just as he hit the ground, driving him deeper into the earth.
He spun out, boot skimming the ground, launching a flaming roundhouse that traced glowing embers through the air before crashing into Rudra's shoulder—sending a ripple of flame through his cloak.
Then came speed.
A flurry of punches—jab after jab—followed by an open-palm thrust into the solar plexus. The rhythm was relentless, each blow precise, surgical, shaking Rudra's center.
Rikuya feinted low, baiting a defensive drop—then struck high with a brutal hooking uppercut, his knuckles trailing searing heat, snapping Rudra's head back.
Backstep. Charge. Slam.
He launched forward again, shoulder crashing into Rudra like a wrecking ram, heat blasting outwards in a ring. The priest's body lifted and hit the ground in a skidding blur of robes and smoke.
But Rikuya grabbed his wrist before he could recover.
He pulled Rudra forward violently, then—
One knee to the gut.
The impact buckled Rudra's core. His flame flared out—snuffed.
Second knee—just under the ribs.
That one crushed breath from lungs.
Third—same exact spot.
This time, something cracked. Rudra's lips parted, but no sound came. The world spun for him.
And still, Rikuya wasn't done.
He leapt, twisting midair—his entire body whipping down into a devastating axe kick, his heel crashing into Rudra's back like divine retribution. The ground quaked.
The priest collapsed.
Ash scattered.
Smoke hissed from his robes.
The crowd was silent.
Rudra pushed—tried to rise—hands trembling.
And Rikuya stepped forward, calm, fire trailing from his arm.
He exhaled. Focused everything into one point.
His right hand drew back, then:
A straight, hammering punch—dead center into Rudra's ribs, exactly where every strike had landed before. The force blasted downward.
The stone cracked beneath them.
Rudra didn't scream.
He just stopped moving.
His arms dropped.
Kneeling, scorched, broken—but alive.
As the wind settled and the smoke cleared, Rudra's body trembled—exhausted, scorched, but not without pride.
His vision blurred, but he could still see Rikuya—hair slowly returning to black, aura dimming, the storm within him settling. Silent. Composed.
Rudra smiled through cracked lips as he knelt, then collapsed gently to his side, catching himself with one arm before he fully fell.
Eyes locked on Rikuya, he exhaled, voice low and steady, almost reverent.
"Some flames are meant to destroy…"
"…but you—yours taught even fire how to kneel."
His head dipped forward, not in defeat—but in respect.
The arena held its breath. The ground, still scorched from divine fire, bore the quiet imprint of the last battle. Rudra Flameborn now lay on his side, conscious but unable to rise. His chest rose slowly, and as he gazed up at the sky turning black, he murmured a final quote through cracked lips:
"Some flames die with grace. Others... pass the torch."
Then the arena lights dimmed unnaturally. Thunder rolled across the sky. From above, storm clouds circled like watching gods. Silence swept the coliseum—until a single voice broke it.
The announcer, voice grim and reverent, declared:
"This is it. The final round. No more mercy. No more miracles. Only the path forward, carved by will and steel."
The iron gates groaned open. A figure stepped through, outlined by flickering torchlight and the cheers of a thousand voices rising in awe.
Torran Glaivehand.
He walked with effortless poise, twin glaives sheathed behind him like an extension of his spine. His armor bore the marks of past battles, but his stride was unshaken. He moved like a man who had already conquered defeat—and had come to see what stood beyond it.
Across from him, Rikuya stood still, body radiating the last vestiges of heat. His chest rose and fell slowly, blue veins dimming beneath his skin. His eyes, however, remained unwavering.
Torran stopped a few paces from him. His gaze roamed the warrior before him—not with scorn, but curiosity.
He spoke first.
"You're not what I expected."
Rikuya didn't reply. He simply adjusted his footing, his silence a challenge in itself.
Torran looked skyward for a moment, then back at the fighter in front of him.
"I've fought a hundred men. Some sought glory. Some wanted to prove something. But you—"
His eyes narrowed with understanding.
"You look like someone the world kicked down… and you climbed back up anyway."
Rikuya's voice was quiet, but resolute.
"And now I want to see who still stands at the top when the dust clears."
A flicker of a smile touched Torran's lips. Not mockery—respect.
"You've earned your place in this ring."
He reached back, slowly drawing his twin glaives with a smooth, practiced motion.
"Let's see if you can earn your name in the echoes of it."
Rikuya's fists clenched, not from anger—but readiness.
"I don't need my name remembered."
He lifted his chin slightly.
"Only that I didn't run."
No further words.
The sky crackled with thunder.
Two warriors.
No hatred.
Just sharpened wills.
The final round… began.
The clang of the bell echoed like thunder. Rikuya's eyes narrowed. Torran's boots scraped against the stone floor, his twin glaives already in motion. The two fighters didn't hesitate—they surged forward like lightning drawn to the same point.
Steel met muscle.
Torran opened with a feint—left glaive slashing low, right spinning overhead. Rikuya deflected the first and ducked under the second, retaliating with a sharp elbow to the ribs. Torran twisted mid-step, letting the blow graze past him, and countered with a knee aimed for Rikuya's sternum. The impact landed, but Rikuya absorbed it, twisted his hips, and drove a palm into Torran's shoulder, breaking their rhythm.
The force sent Torran sliding back a few feet—only for him to grin and spin both glaives in wide arcs, kicking up a cloud of dust.
"Eyes up! I don't rehearse!"
He lunged forward, blades crossing in midair as he unleashed a fast diagonal slash meant to force Rikuya into defense. The moment Rikuya dodged to the side, Torran reversed the motion in a fluid back-cut, nearly catching Rikuya across the midsection.
Rikuya's eyes burned with intensity. He dropped low, pivoted off his rear foot, and drove an uppercut toward Torran's chin. Torran blocked it with the shaft of his weapon and used the force to flip backward—spinning mid-air, landing with flourish.
Without warning, Torran transitioned. His body pivoted smoothly into a spin, both glaives twirling along his forearms like dancer's ribbons. Each revolution sent paired slicing strikes in all directions—high to low, left to right—an elegant whirlwind of blades.
"Cheer louder—I'm just getting warmed up!"
Rikuya weaved through the barrage like water through cracks. One blade kissed his shoulder—just a scratch—but he didn't break rhythm. He stepped in during the third spin, launching a brutal sidekick toward Torran's thigh. Torran hopped to the side, but Rikuya followed with a backhand, then a front kick, then a sweeping leg intended to knock the showman off balance.
Torran staggered, barely catching himself, but laughed through the struggle.
The momentum shifted—Torran's footwork adjusted, and suddenly he was airborne again. Both glaives carved the sky as he came down hard, slashing them in an X-shaped arc toward Rikuya's chest. The sound was like tearing silk mixed with roaring flame.
Rikuya crossed his arms to block—his boots digging grooves into the arena floor from the force.
Torran landed in a crouch, spun both glaives behind his back, and rose in a smooth, dramatic bow.
"Thanks for the applause. Try not to bleed on the floor too much."
Their eyes locked across the battlefield. Rikuya didn't smile, didn't speak. But his blood simmered, his muscles coiled, and the ground beneath him cracked just slightly as he stepped forward.
The next act of this duel was about to begin.
Rikuya locked eyes with Torran, their gazes filled with mutual respect. Torran's grin never wavered as he twirled his glaives with a flourish, the sharp blades gleaming under the arena lights.
"Not bad," Torran chuckled, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. "You've got some style. But let's see if you can keep up."
Rikuya gave a slight nod, his stance still poised, ready for whatever Torran had next. The tension was palpable as they circled one another.
Torran broke the silence, spinning both glaives above his head, the blades catching the light as the crowd—real or imagined—roared in approval. He breathed in deep, feeling the adrenaline surge, his energy spiking.
"Let's raise the stakes, shall we?" Torran's voice was a low growl, filled with anticipation.
Suddenly, his body blurred with motion. The glaives moved in a whirlwind, flashing in the air as they sliced through it with precision. His ego propelled him faster, and each strike seemed more lethal than the last.
Rikuya barely had time to react as Torran launched into his next series of attacks, moving so quickly that afterimages of the blades seemed to hang in the air. A vertical slash came first, followed by a swift horizontal cut, and then a diagonal slice, each faster than the last. Torran's grin widened as his speed intensified.
"One more act, and this ends!" he taunted, clearly enjoying the fight more than ever.
Rikuya managed to block most of the strikes, but the sheer speed and unpredictability of Torran's movements made it harder to keep up. He danced backward, narrowly avoiding the final diagonal slash that would have torn through his defenses.
Without a moment's hesitation, Torran spun again, bringing both glaives together with a flourish. The crowd's imaginary cheers filled his mind, urging him on. With a dramatic, exaggerated flourish, he struck a final pose, preparing for the climax.
"Center Stage!" Torran called out, his voice almost musical as he tensed his muscles, feeling the power surge through him. He was in his element now.
The air seemed to hum with the energy around him as Torran prepared for his next attack. His glaives crossed before his chest in a defensive pose before he exploded forward, moving so fast that the world around him seemed to slow. His blades crossed in a blazing diagonal slash, leaving a trail of light as they cut through the air.
The attack was unstoppable, and Rikuya could feel the heat of it bearing down on him, a force that felt almost like a natural disaster.
Torran landed, spun the glaives behind his back in a showy flourish, and then slammed them down one final time.
"And the show... is over," Torran said, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling with exhilaration.
Rikuya took a step back, his breath steady. His eyes never left Torran, though his body was ready for the next phase. The crowd—real or imagined—was silent now, waiting for the final act. Would Rikuya rise to meet Torran's challenge, or would he fall to the display of power and showmanship? Time would tell.