The proctor's hand sliced the air.
"Begin!"
Daichi burst forward like a battering ram, but his eyes weren't reckless. Every twitch of Samui's stance, every shift in her shoulders — he studied them with the wary focus of a hunter who knew one wrong step meant a trap.
Yet Samui didn't move. She stood rooted, calm as ice, letting him close the gap without a flicker of tension.
Too still. Daichi's gut tightened. At the last heartbeat before striking distance, he veered sideways.
A sharp whistle split the air — Samui's hand speared forward, a straight jab meant to skewer his solar plexus. Had he not shifted, the fight might've ended in that instant.
Now on her open flank, Daichi seized the chance. He cocked his fist and snapped it like a cannon toward her face.
Samui's eyes barely blinked. She didn't dodge — she guided. Her palm brushed his wrist, turning his blow just wide enough to slip past. In the same motion, her other hand snapped into his gut with surgical precision.
The crowd gasped at the clean strike — but Daichi only grunted, teeth clenched. Instead of retreating, he surged closer, crashing his forehead into Samui's with a brutal headbutt.
Crack.
Samui staggered back a step, her lip split with fresh blood.
Daichi straightened, chest heaving, a grin tugging at his face.
Samui wiped the blood away with a thumb, eyes cool and unreadable.
Two styles had collided — raw stone against cold steel — and neither had given an inch.
Daichi pressed the attack, his fists firing like pistons, each swing meant to break through Samui's guard. But beneath the storm, her stance hardly shifted — arms raised just enough, shoulders rolling to absorb, feet sliding like she was gliding on ice.
Every blow rattled her bones, but her calm never cracked.
Daichi gritted his teeth. She's waiting for me to make the mistake.
So he changed. Instead of another wide hook, he feinted — a low kick that stopped short — and when Samui adjusted, he snapped an elbow toward her head.
Her forearm rose, redirecting the strike, but this time his shoulder slammed in behind it, a sudden smash that shoved her half a step back.
The crowd erupted. He wasn't just a brawler — he was adapting, using the same cunning Mizue once used against him.
Samui steadied herself, expression cool, but her lip curled in the faintest trace of respect.
⸻
Samui shifted gears. No longer content to simply deflect, her counters snapped like blades drawn from their sheath.
A sharp palm to Daichi's ribs.
A sweep at his ankle that forced him to stumble.
Two precise jabs that rattled his shoulder, making his arm sluggish.
The crowd gasped as Daichi winced, slowed by her surgical blows. But even wounded, he didn't fall back.
Instead, he roared and answered with sheer grit — eating a shot to the ribs so he could drive an uppercut into Samui's guard. The force lifted her slightly, air hissing through her teeth.
She slid back, calm restored, but the message was clear: he wouldn't stop just because she cut him apart piece by piece.
⸻
Both fighters now carried their scars. Daichi's ribs and arms throbbed with precision strikes; Samui's arms were bruised purple from blocking his heavy fists.
Daichi's breath came harsh, but his grin didn't fade. He feigned a stagger, letting his shoulders slump.
The crowd murmured — is he finished?
Samui read the signal, moving in to finish with a clean strike. But the second she committed, Daichi's grin sharpened. His fist lashed out in a sudden hook, aiming to end it.
Gasps. She barely slipped the blow, his knuckles grazing her cheek. In the same breath, she punished him — a nerve strike into his shoulder joint that sent fire racing down his arm.
Daichi's roar shook the air, but Samui pressed with cold precision, forcing him back step by step.
Stone and ice clashed in deadlock, neither breaking.
Sweat dripped, blood streaked — the arena held its breath as Daichi launched his final storm.
He charged, fists pounding in a wild, relentless flurry, each one heavy enough to crush bone if it landed clean. The crowd screamed at the sheer violence of it.
Samui met the storm head-on, not retreating now. She absorbed, redirected, letting his momentum build — then turned it.
A slip of the hip. A pivot of the shoulder.
Daichi's fist tore past her head — and her palm speared into the side of his neck. His body locked for half a heartbeat.
In that instant, her leg snapped low into his ankle, unbalancing him, and a final chopping strike to his jaw sent him crashing to the dirt.
The arena erupted.
Daichi lay on the ground, chest heaving, trying to rise even as his vision swam. Samui stood above him, shoulders rising and falling, her lip bloodied, her arms bruised, but her stance unbroken.
The proctor raised his hand.
"Winner: Samui!"
The crowd roared — not at a domination, but at the clash. Stone had pushed ice to its limit, and ice had only barely held.
Samui extended a hand down to Daichi.
He smirked, took it, and let her pull him up.
Two styles. Two wills. And on this day, by the narrowest edge, Samui's discipline triumphed.