The next match was about to begin.
Match 7: Narcis vs. The Laughing Demon
The holographic screen shimmered as the next battle was announced:
🔹 Match 7: Narcis vs. The Laughing Demon
The Grand Intergalactic Arena was already crackling with energy from the
previous fights, but as the two names lit up in bold golden letters, the atmosphere shifted.
There was a hushed anticipation, a mix of intrigue and unease. This was a battle
between light and chaos, divinity and madness. The Combatants Enter From the
northern gate, Narcis stepped forward. A Light Elf, but far more than that—he was a
Martreya Buddha, a being who had transcended mortality, balancing the celestial
energies of enlightenment and battle. He wore flowing gold and white robes,
embroidered with sacred runes that shimmered in the dim arena light. His golden hair
which he on rare occasions like this one took out of his hair knot cascaded over his
shoulders, and his serene expression betrayed neither fear nor arrogance. His piercing
blue eyes radiated calm, but beneath that stillness was an unshakable resolve. He
carried no weapon, for he was the weapon—his body, his mind, and his soul honed to
perfection through centuries of training.
He exhaled softly, his breath glowing with divine energy. From the southern
gate, a presence unlike any other emerged.
The Laughing Demon.
A hulking red monstrosity, nearly nine feet tall, with massive curved horns and
razor-sharp teeth stretched into a perpetual, maniacal grin. His yellow eyes gleamed
with insanity, his clawed hands twitching as if eager to tear into flesh. His body was
adorned with crude black tribal markings, etched in what looked like dried blood, and
the very air around him distorted, rippling with chaotic energy. As he walked, he
cackled. A deep, guttural, bone-chilling laughter that echoed through the arena like the
whispers of a thousand damned souls. Even some of the most hardened warriors in the
audience shivered. Narcis simply bowed. "I see you, demon. And I pity you. You
must spend time in the Naraka (Realms of Suffering) for your soul to be purified."
The Laughing Demon tilted his head, drool dripping from his fangs. "Pity?" His
voice was like a growl laced with amusement. "How quaint. Let's see if you're still
pitying me when I'm gnawing on your spine."
The Battle Begins
The Announcer Drone hovered high above. "BEGIN!" And just like that— The
Laughing Demon vanished. In a blink, he closed the distance, his claws swiping
toward Narcis's throat— But—BOOM. An invisible force field stopped him just
inches away. A barrier of pure golden energy surrounded Narcis, glowing softly. The
Laughing Demon blinked, then grinned even wider. "Ohhh, you're one of those, huh?"
Narcis did not move. He simply stood there, hands clasped together, his breathing deep
and measured. "Violence born of rage is futile." His voice was calm. "It blinds you to
the true path." The Laughing Demon laughed harder. "Blind? Oh, little elf... I'm not
blind. I just love the screaming." And then— He unhinged his jaw. A wave of black
fire erupted from his mouth, engulfing the battlefield. The crowd gasped as the entire
arena floor cracked and melted, the black flames devouring even the energy barriers.
And yet— As the smoke cleared— Narcis still stood, untouched. The flames had simply
parted around him. The Laughing Demon snarled. "Ohhhh, you're gonna have fun
to break." The Counterattack Narcis finally moved. One step. And the entire
battlefield trembled. The Laughing Demon lunged—but suddenly froze. Not by force.
By something deeper. He could feel it—a presence inside his mind. Whispers. A
golden light bloomed from within him, as if something ancient, something holy had
reached into the core of his being. His laughter stuttered. His grin faltered. For the first
time, the Laughing Demon felt something he did not understand. "What... what are
you doing?" Narcis's voice was soft. "I am showing you the path to peace." The
Laughing Demon staggered back, clutching his head, his own mind betraying him.
Visions of tranquility, of clarity, of a life free from chaos and destruction flooded his
consciousness. The audience watched in stunned silence. This was no physical attack.
This was something far greater. A battle of the soul. The Laughing Demon roared in
agony. "GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" He swung wildly, but his movements were
erratic, sluggish. The madness, the rage that had once defined him— Was being peeled
away. Bit by bit. The crowd held their breath. Would the Laughing Demon break?
Would he change? Or would he resist? The demon let out one final scream— And
then— His body collapsed. The battlefield was silent. The Laughing Demon lay on the
ground, trembling, his eyes wide. For the first time in thousands of years— He was
afraid. Not of death. Not in pain. But of what he had seen within himself. Narcis stood
over him, his expression calm and understanding. "It is not too late to walk a new
path." The demon shook, his grin gone. He stared at his own hands. The Announcer
Drone descended.
"VICTORY: NARCIS."
The crowd exploded into cheers. But as Narcis turned away, leaving the
battlefield, the Laughing Demon remained still. His hands trembled. His breath was
ragged. And in the depths of his soul— For the first time in eternity—He felt something
unfamiliar. Doubt. The announcer said: "The last match of the primaries we'll begin
immediately after this we will draw the lottery and then take a five minute break!"
Match 8: Iron Sikh vs. Baron Lux Malakar
As the holographic display settled on the final matchup of the first round, an eager
murmur spread through the crowd.
🔹 Match 8: Iron Sikh vs. Baron Lux Malakar
The final match of the priliminaries—one that promised both brutality and elegance.
The Combatants Enter
From the eastern gate, Iron Sikh stepped forward.
A towering figure of steel and resolve, he was clad in a radiant silver-and-gold
battle suit, a fusion of traditional warrior armor and advanced technology. His
turban was woven with nanofiber threads, and the golden Khanda insignia gleamed
brightly on his chestplate. His eyes burned with an unbreakable will, and in his right
hand, he carried a massive curved kirpan, its blade humming with vibrational energy.
With each step, the ground trembled beneath his weight, his presence exuding both
discipline and unwavering righteousness. He was a warrior, a protector, a guardian of
justice. Then— From the western gate, Baron Lux Malakar made his entrance. The
contrast was striking. Draped in regal crimson and black, the Baron moved with the
grace of a nobleman, as if he were attending a ballroom gala rather than a life-or-death
battle. His sharp, aristocratic features were framed by dark curls, and his handlebar
mustache curled in immaculate perfection. A single black rose rested delicately in his
left hand, his fingers adorned with gleaming rings that shimmered with an eerie,
hypnotic glow. His deep purple cape billowed behind him, and with a theatrical twirl,
he bowed dramatically toward the audience. The crowd cheered wildly, enthralled by his
sheer charisma. But his opponent did not react.
Iron Sikh stood still, gripping his kirpan with quiet focus. Baron Lux Malakar
smirked. "Ah, my dear warrior, such a serious face! Must we be so... intense? A
duel should be an art, not a mere clash of brute force." Iron Sikh simply replied,
"There is no art in tyranny. Only justice." The Baron chuckled, twirling his black rose
between his fingers. "Ah, justice? Such a dull, predictable notion. Let's see how it
fares against... style."
The Announcer Drone hovered high above.
"BEGIN!"
And in an instant—
Baron Lux Malakar vanished.
A blur of silk and shadow, moving at inhuman speed. The crowd gasped as the
Baron reappeared behind Iron Sikh, his delicate fingers already reaching for his
opponent's back. But— CLANG! A shockwave erupted as Iron Sikh spun with
blinding speed, his kirpan meeting the Baron's extended hand. The Baron recoiled,
eyes widening. "Oh? That's unexpected." Without hesitation, Iron Sikh advanced. His
kirpan struck like lightning, each swing carrying centuries of warrior discipline.
Every strike was measured, precise, unstoppable. The Baron, however, danced
between the slashes, his movements fluid and hypnotic, as if he were waltzing through
the battlefield. Then— With a flourish, he flung his black rose forward. The moment
it touched the ground— BOOM. A pulse of dark energy exploded outward, engulfing
the battlefield in a swirling mist of violet and black.
The Baron's Illusions
The mist thickened. The arena vanished. Iron Sikh found himself standing in a
vast ballroom, its chandeliers shimmering with an eerie purple glow. Music played. A
haunting, elegant violin melody. Around him, phantom figures in masquerade masks
waltzed in perfect unison. And at the center— Baron Lux Malakar stood, a wine glass
in hand, smirking. "Welcome to my domain, dear warrior. Shall we dance?" Iron
Sikh narrowed his eyes. He knew what this was. An illusion. A test of willpower. And
willpower was something he had mastered beyond measure. Without hesitation, he
closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. And began to recite.
"Ik Onkar. Sat Nam. Karta Purakh. Nirbhao. Nirvair..."
His voice echoed through the illusion, cutting through the mist like a sword of
light. The masquerade shuddered. The violin screeched. Baron Lux Malakar's smirk
faltered. "Oh... you're one of those warriors." Then— The illusion shattered. The
mist dispersed, and they were back in the arena. Iron Sikh stood firm, his eyes blazing
with unyielding focus. Baron Lux Malakar clicked his tongue. "Hmph. No
appreciation for the arts, I see." No more tricks. No more illusions. This was now a
battle of raw skill. Iron Sikh charged forward, his kirpan burning with golden
energy— Baron Lux Malakar spun, summoning a blade of pure black void energy.
And then— Their swords clashed. The shockwave shattered the ground beneath
them. Blades moved faster than the eye could follow. Each parry, each strike was
perfectly executed.
But— Iron Sikh's resolve was unshakable. One final strike. A diagonal arc of
golden light. SLASH. Baron Lux Malakar froze. A thin line of golden energy traced
across his chest. Then—his cape split apart, fluttering into the wind. The crowd
erupted. The Baron looked down at his torn attire, then let out a soft chuckle. "Ah...
what a shame. This was my finest coat." Then he collapsed to one knee. The
Announcer Drone descended.
"VICTORY: IRON SIKH!"
Aftermath
The Baron, still kneeling, let out a soft sigh. "I must admit... you are quite the
warrior." Iron Sikh offered his hand. The Baron hesitated—then grinned and accepted
it. "Fine, fine. But next time, at least pretend to enjoy the show."
The Iron Sikh jumped off the stage and everyone most of all Daniel congratulated
him. Ungar said: "Well I guess I'm not in the finals." Zaiyal asked firmly: "So how does
this work?" Ungar responded: "Well now that the semi finals are over there will be
people drawing 8 slips of paper for the finalists and there should be half as many
matches. If one draws 1 then he'll fight 2, 3 will fight 4 and so on. So the matches will be
between the Finalists: Daniel, Zaiyal, Hermes, Talus, Rukhmar, Sarai, Narcis and the
Iron Sikh. After the slips of paper are drawn the final matches will begin immediately." 5
minutes passed in a short amount of time. The announcer said: "Everyone draw a slip."
He held out a box with a hole on the top. First Rukhmar put his hand in and pulled out a
6. "Rukhmar is Number 6." Rukhmar's name was drawn next to a number 6 on a white
board. Next up was Narcis who pulled out a Number 8. "Narcis Martreya is Number
8." Next up was Zaiyal who drew a 1. "Zaiyal is Number 1." Following Zaiyal was
Sarai who coincidentally pulled a number 2. "Sarai is Number 2." "Well I guess we'll
be fighting each other in the first round of the finals?" said Sarai. "I guess so," replied
Zaiyal. Next up unbelievably was Daniel who pulled out a Number 3. "Daniel is
Number 3." Next up Iron Sikh: Iron Sikh drew a 7. After that came Talus who pulled
his hand in and picked out a 4. He smiled with intense glee. "Look who's fighting who,"
said Talus. Daniel smiled. "Talus is Number 4." And last but not least Hermes pulled out
a 5. "Hermes is Number 5."
The announcer stated: "Alright the finals will begin in a moment the matches have
been decided:
â—Ź Match 1: Duke Zaiyal IV of Planet Solaria vs. Sarai (The Izadoran
Wolf-Alien).
â—Ź Match 2: Daniel (the Light Elf) vs. Talus (the Demon).
â—Ź Match 3: Hermes (Elf girl) vs. Rukhmar (Cyclops Intergalactic
Warlord).
â—Ź Match 4: The Iron Sikh vs. Martreya Buddha Narcis (the light elf).
The last two standing will proceed to the final round, let the finals begin!!
Match 1: Duke Zaiyal IV of Planet Solaria vs. Sarai, the Izadoran Wolf-Alien
The air inside the Grand Intergalactic Arena was thick with tension, the energy
of thousands of spectators surging like a living tide. As the Announcer Drone hovered
above, its mechanical voice boomed across the battlefield:
"MATCH 1 OF THE FINALS: DUKE ZAIYAL IV OF PLANET SOLARIA VS.
SARAI, THE IZADORAN WOLF-ALIEN!"
The crowd erupted into cheers as the two warriors stepped forward, opposites in
every sense of the word.
The Combatants Enter
From the eastern gate, Duke Zaiyal IV emerged—a warrior of noble blood, clad
in plain black fighting armor that shimmered under the artificial lights. Yet despite his
regal demeanor, Zaiyal did not underestimate his opponent. He knew him all too well, in
fact he knew him for years. He was a friend after all. This royal regalia was really
conconverntial, and something he didn't normally wear.
From the western gate, Sarai entered—a living tempest of feral energy. He was
a towering lupine warrior, his silver fur bristling in the artificial wind of the coliseum.
His razor-sharp claws gleamed like obsidian, and his piercing crimson eyes locked
onto Zaiyal with unwavering intensity. A hunter. A predator. A survivor. His body
was adorned with tribal war armor, crafted from the powerful metals, and his powerful
arms flexed, ready to launch into battle at any moment. He grinned, exposing her
razor-sharp fangs. "It's been some time since I fought Zaiyal." He growled, rolling
his shoulders. "You sure you're ready to get your hands dirty?" Zaiyal raised an
eyebrow. "Only if you make it worth my time." Sarai grinned wider. "Oh, I will."
Talus in the audience shouted: "Just make it quick. My date with destiny is right after
your little squabble."
The Announcer Drone whirred overhead.
"BEGIN!"
The Clash of Fire and Claw
The moment the signal was given, Sarai MOVED. A blur of speed and fury,
he lunged forward with inhuman agility, his claws tearing through the air toward
Zaiyal's throat. But— Zaiyal's Solar Sword met his strike, sparks flying as metal
clashed against raw ferocity. Sarai's feral strength sent Zaiyal skidding backward,
his armored boots carving trenches into the obsidian floor. The crowd gasped. "Fast,"
Zaiyal admitted, adjusting his stance. Sarai licked his fangs. "Strong, too. But let's see
if that fancy armor of yours can handle THIS!" He kicked off the ground, spinning
mid-air, and lashed out with his tail—a blur of movement too fast to follow. The
impact sent Zaiyal hurtling backward, crashing against one of the colossal arena
statues. The stone cracked from the force, dust billowing into the air. But— Before Sarai
could close in for another strike— A golden explosion of light erupted from the debris.
Zaiyal emerged, unharmed, his armor glowing with solar energy. "Impressive," he
said, raising his sword. "But now, it's my turn."
Solar Flare vs. Lunar Predator
Zaiyal raised his left hand, summoning a burning sphere of solar energy in his
palm. With a flick of his wrist— He launched it. Sarai barely had time to react. The
sphere collided with the ground, erupting into a blinding explosion of golden fire. The
sheer heat warped the air, sending shockwaves across the battlefield. But Sarai—
DIDN'T FLINCH. As the flames engulfed his position, his red eyes gleamed from
within the inferno. Then— He stepped forward. Completely unscathed. "Hate to
break it to you, Zaiyal," he snarled, cracking his neck. "But my kind evolved under a
dying sun. A little heat doesn't scare me." Zaiyal's expression remained unreadable.
"Fair enough." Sarai charged again—but this time, Zaiyal was ready. With incredible
precision, he sidestepped his claw swipe, pivoting his body to deliver a devastating
counter-slash. His Solar Edge cut across his side, golden energy searing her fur and
flesh. Sarai hissed in pain—but grinned through it. "That all you got?"
The Final Strike
The crowd was on its feet, roaring in excitement. Both warriors were panting,
battle-worn, yet still standing. But only one could emerge victorious. Zaiyal tightened
his grip on his sword. Sarai lowered her stance, preparing to pounce. Then— They
moved. A final, decisive clash. Sarai lunged, his claws aiming straight for Zaiyal's
chest. But at the very last second— Zaiyal vanished. A burst of solar energy propelled
him behind Sarai, and in a single, fluid motion— He drove the Solar Edge straight
into the ground. A shockwave of golden fire erupted outward. Sarai's eyes widened.
The explosion sent him flying, his body crashing into the arena walls. As the dust
settled— He didn't get back up. The Announcer Drone hovered over her motionless
form, scanning his vitals. Then—
It declared the winner.
"THE WINNER IS DUKE ZAIYAL IV!"
The crowd ERUPTED.
Aftermath
Zaiyal, his armor still glowing with residual heat, approached his fallen opponent.
Sarai, bruised and battered, grunted as he sat up. He looked up at Zaiyal— Then
grinned. "Damn," he laughed. "Alright, you got me." Zaiyal extended a hand. "You
fought well." Sarai hesitated for a moment—then smirked and took it. "Next time, I'm
taking that fancy sword of yours." Zaiyal chuckled. "I look forward to it." With that,
the first match of the Grand Intergalactic Finals had concluded. Zaiyal IV had
advanced. And the next battle was about to begin. Zaiyal Jr. shouted with joy that his
father won. But Hermes had a more pressing concern on her mind. "Who do you think is
gonna win Ungar, Daniel or Uncle Talus?" Ungar laughed: "That's what you're thinking
about?" Hermes was confused starring at Ungar as if something he said was off. Ungar
answered her: "This right here is the last fight of the tournament, none of the other fights
will ever take place because the entire tournament will be reduced to dust. We'll be lucky
if the majority of the people here come out of this in one piece. If we're lucky maybe
there will be a planet after this." Hermes in response giggled nervously. Ungar didn't
know how right he was, two gods were about to step onto the battlefield. This would be
the last match of the tournament, period.