Dawn was approaching.
The first pale fingers of light crept between the shattered rooftops, not quite breaking the horizon yet, but close enough that you could feel it coming — another minute or two and the ruined street would be washed in full morning glow.
Noel forced himself up on shaking legs, boots scraping through dust and stone shards. His whole body felt like it had been run over by a truck.
Then he heard it again.
Heavy footsteps. Slow. Confident.
And that low, rumbling laugh rolling closer through the haze.
Even now… Noel thought, wiping blood from his split lip. Four hours straight. No food. No water. Nothing. And he's still laughing like this is the best night of his life.
Every bruise throbbed. Every cut burned. His ribs screamed with every breath.
I just want to go home.
The thought hit harder than any punch Ragnar had landed.
I want to see my little girl again. Want to watch her green hair spill across the pillow while she nods sweetly in her dreams. Want to sit on the edge of her bed, pat that soft head, and know she's safe. Then crawl into my own bed and sleep until the world forgets my name.
I think to myself... Can I let this one go? Just this once? Walk away and let it become someone else's problem? Just for a minute… just long enough to breathe?
No. I can't.
Noel clenched his bloody fists, eyes narrowing toward the approaching silhouette in the dust.
But God… I wish I could.
Through the swirling dust, Ragnar's silhouette finally emerged.
The giant was barely held together by scraps of armor. The once-mighty Shingu was almost completely destroyed — most of the spiked plates had shattered and fallen away in the last hour, leaving only jagged fragments clinging to his massive frame by broken straps and sheer stubborn will.
The chest plate was gone entirely, the pauldrons reduced to dangling shards, the greaves cracked wide open. Blood poured freely from dozens of deep gashes across his exposed torso and shoulders, yet he still stood tall, wobbling like a broken statue that refused to fall.
One orange eye blazed through the crooked, half-shattered visor, and that same bloody, feral grin split his face like this was the greatest night of his life.
Noel's own legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds each. His very breath felt like fire. But he pushed forward anyway.
Both fighters lumbered toward each other at the same exhausted, plodding pace—no more explosions of speed, just two battered war machines refusing to quit.
They met in the middle and threw identical right hands at the exact same moment.
Fist met face with a wet, meaty CRACK. Both heads snapped sideways.
Noel immediately dropped a heavy gut punch that sank deep into Ragnar's now-exposed midsection, forcing a spray of blood from the giant's mouth.
Ragnar answered with a slow but monstrous overhand left that smashed into Noel's chin, snapping his head back. Noel's torso rolled with the blow out of pure instinct; he fired back with a left hook to the ribs.
Ragnar countered with an uppercut that lifted Noel onto his toes. Noel answered with another vicious gut punch—hard enough to make Ragnar spit another mouthful of blood onto the cracked street.
Ragnar tried a looping right; Noel barely blocked it, arm numb. Ragnar switched and cracked a left across the chin instead, fresh blood flying from Noel's mouth.
Noel roared and threw an uppercut of his own. Ragnar slipped a left in return. Noel answered with a right. Both men screamed through gritted teeth as the blows landed, raw and ugly.
Noel chambered a heavy kick to the body. Ragnar barely got his forearm up in time to block it, then immediately answered with a sloppy uppercut that clipped Noel's jaw, followed by a left kick that sent the younger fighter stumbling back a step.
Ragnar retaliated with a tired right hand, then tried to loop a kick at Noel's head. Noel ducked under it by a hair and drilled another gut punch home.
And it kept going.
Minute after brutal minute.
Every punch slower, every block sloppier, every step heavier. Shoulders sagged. Boots dragged trenches through the rubble.
Breaths came in ragged, wet gasps. Blood and sweat poured down both their faces. Vision blurred at the edges. Arms felt like they were made of wet stone. Yet neither backed up. They just kept trading—lefts, rights, knees, elbows—two exhausted monsters locked in a war neither had the strength to end, but neither had the will to stop.
The sun finally crested the horizon, painting the ruined street in pale gold, and still the sickening sound of fists on flesh echoed on.
Through the golden haze of dawn, the fight had become something pathetic and beautiful at the same time.
Ragnar threw one last slow, looping kick — more of a drunken shove than an attack. Noel's forearm rose on pure reflex and caught it, but his legs gave out. Both men toppled together, crashing to the broken street in a tangle of limbs and blood.
Ragnar pushed himself up first, swaying like a felled tree. Noel followed a heartbeat later, vision swimming.
The giant turned, roaring, and swung a wild overhand left that whistled through empty air. The momentum carried him straight down; he face-planted into the cobblestone with a heavy thud.
Noel tried to capitalize, stumbling forward with an overhand right — but his body betrayed him. The punch missed by a foot and he collapsed right beside Ragnar, both of them on all fours, gasping, coughing blood.
They crawled. They clawed at the ground. Noel made it up first, legs shaking so badly they looked ready to snap. He tried to throw another overhand right — missed again. Ragnar dropped flat once more, then somehow forced himself back to his feet.
Noel lunged for a desperate tackle. Ragnar twisted at the last second, shoving him sideways. Noel hit the ground hard.
Ragnar's knees buckled. He dropped back down, too exhausted to stand. On all fours he threw one final, pathetic punch — a weak, trembling fist that still clipped Noel across the cheek.
Noel answered with his own sad, wobbling punch. It landed. Both men dropped again.
For a moment they just lay there, chests heaving, the only sound the wet rasp of their breathing.
Then, with a guttural scream that tore from both their throats at the same time, they forced themselves upright one last time.
"IT'S OVER!" Noel roared.
"YOU'RE FINISHED!" Ragnar bellowed back.
Both threw everything they had left — one final, desperate right hand.
Fist met face with a sickening crack.
The impact dropped them both like puppets with cut strings.
They hit the ground at the same moment.
Seconds stretched into minutes.
The ruined street was silent except for the soft crackle of settling dust and the distant call of morning birds.
Neither moved.
It looked like no one was getting up.
Until… Noel's fingers twitched.
Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself onto his elbows, then his knees, then — one trembling leg at a time — he stood.
Ragnar tried. His arm shook violently as he tried to rise… but his body gave out. He collapsed back down with a broken grunt, orange eye dimming behind the shattered visor.
Noel stood over him for a long second, swaying, blood dripping from his chin onto the golden cobblestone.
He looked at the fallen warrior.
Then, without a word, Noel turned his back on Ragnar and started walking away — slow, limping steps into the rising sun, every movement screaming pain, but still moving.
Still standing.
The fight was over.
A couple of seconds later, just as Noel reached the mouth of the alley, the sound of scraping metal and heavy boots dragged him to a halt.
He spun around, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted to burst out.
Ragnar was standing.
The giant swayed on legs that should have given out hours ago, armor nothing more than a few jagged scraps clinging to his blood-soaked body, orange eye still glowing faintly behind the ruined visor. Blood dripped from his chin in a steady rhythm, yet somehow… he was up.
Noel's stomach dropped. For one terrifying heartbeat he thought the fight was about to start all over again.
Ragnar watched him for a moment through the broken visor.
Then, slowly, he raised one battered fist and tapped it once against his chest — a silent warrior's salute.
Then Ragnar reached into the small pouch still strapped to what was left of his belt, pulled out a small glass vial filled with glowing red liquid, and tossed it underhand across the distance.
Noel caught it on pure reflex.
"That was a great fight, kid," Ragnar rumbled, voice hoarse but warm. A tired, genuine grin cracked through the blood on his face. "You won fair and square. You need it more than I do. My troops will be here soon… probably wondering why the hell it took so long."
He gave a weak, bloody chuckle and waved one massive hand.
"Go on. Get out of here."
Noel stared at the vial for half a second, stunned.
Then he ripped the cork out with his teeth and poured the entire thing over his worst wounds and down his throat in one desperate gulp.
The healing hit like liquid fire and ice at the same time. Cuts sealed, bruises faded from deep purple to dull yellow, cracked ribs knit back together with a warm rush. His legs stopped shaking. The world stopped tilting.
He could walk normally again.
Noel looked up at the broken giant one last time.
Ragnar just nodded, still grinning that same crazy, respectful grin.
Without another word, Noel turned and started walking — this time with steady, even steps — out of the ruined street and toward home.
The sun was fully up now.
And for the first time in four brutal hours, he was finally going back to see his daughter.