The crowd was a roaring tempest, their cheers and gasps echoing like thunder, but beneath the surface of their excitement, a ripple of unease began to stir among the onlookers.
Among the spectators, the other participants of the tournament watched with wide eyes, their faces a mixture of awe, fear, and disbelief. The display of power before them was unlike anything they had ever witnessed—a clash of titans that seemed to defy the limits of human capability. Sarumi Detso, her lavender eyes reflecting the flickering light of the arena, gripped the railing in front of her, her knuckles white. "This… this is insane," she whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of awe and apprehension. "They're both Dronogas, but I've never seen anything like this."
Beside her, Shiro Nishimura crossed his arms, his usual smirk replaced by a furrowed brow. "Hiroko, you idiot," he muttered under his breath, his tone a blend of frustration and grudging respect. "You're pushing yourself too far… but damn, you're making Zai work for it." He glanced at Zai, noting the faint tension in the other Dronoga's posture. "And you… you're not even breaking a sweat. What are you hiding?"
In the stands, a group of Royal bloods—Drakiens descended from the Dronoga lineage—watched with barely concealed fury. Their sharp features were twisted with indignation, their voices low but seething as they whispered among themselves. "How dare they?" one of them, a tall girl with silver hair and piercing green eyes, hissed. "Two low-blood Dronogas, showing off like this in front of us? They should know their place!" Her companion, a broad-shouldered boy with a scar across his cheek, clenched his fists, his voice dripping with venom. "They're a disgrace to the Dronoga name. Their power is nothing compared to what a true Royal blood can achieve. They're just… freaks."
The anger of the Royal bloods simmered like a storm on the horizon; their pride wounded by the spectacle unfolding before them. They had always viewed themselves as the rightful heirs to the Dronoga legacy, their lineage a mark of superiority over the Kaigens and low bloods. To see two Dronogas—Hiroko, a boy from humble origins, and Zai, a mysterious outsider—steal the spotlight in such a dramatic fashion was an affront they could not stomach. Their whispers grew louder, their glares sharper, but their voices were drowned out by the roar of the crowd, who remained captivated by the battle below.
High above the fray, on the balcony overlooking the arena, Grand Master Hirorama Wulto stood alone, his arms crossed, his long white hair flowing down his back like a cascade of snow. His traditional robe, adorned with three stars on the shoulder, fluttered faintly in the breeze, but his weathered face was etched with a deep, unspoken worry. The other captains around him were visibly stunned, their eyes wide as they watched the two Dronogas clash, but Hirorama did not share their outward awe. His sharp eyes, honed by decades of experience, saw something the others did not. He leaned forward slightly, his hands tightening on the railing as he whispered to himself, his voice low and grave, meant for no one else to hear. "This is amazing… truly amazing. But their energy levels…"
He paused, his brow furrowing deeper as he focused on the invisible currents of Reiki emanating from Hiroko and Zai. "It's not enough," he murmured, his tone heavy with concern. "Their Dronoga energy… it isn't as powerful as it should be." His mind drifted back to the ancient tales of the Dronogas, to the Heaven and Hell dragons, and to the cataclysmic battles that had shaped the world. He had felt the power of a true Dronoga once, decades ago, when he was a young warrior—a power so immense it had felt like the earth itself was bowing in reverence. "Many here haven't felt the strength of a Dronoga at this age, but I have," he continued, his voice barely a breath as he spoke to himself. "From my experience, I know… their strength feels like it's almost half of what a Dronoga should be at their age."
Hirorama's eyes narrowed, his mind racing as he analysed the energy signatures more closely. "And it's not just one of them," he whispered, a chill creeping into his voice. "It's both of them. Hiroko and Zai… their Dronoga energy is incomplete. It's as if this is all they have and nothing more. And that… that is not right." He stood straighter, his gaze sweeping across the arena, taking in the faces of the spectators, the Royal bloods, the other participants, but he kept his thoughts to himself, his expression a mask of stoic concern.
What he sensed from Hiroko and Zai now was a mere shadow of the power he had once felt—a flicker where there should have been a blaze. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a gnawing suspicion taking root in his mind. Was this a natural limitation, or was there a darker force at play—something, or someone, deliberately stifling the true potential of these two young Dronogas? The implications were catastrophic, not just for Hiroko and Zai, but for the entire world. Hirorama's grip on the railing tightened, his weathered hands trembling slightly as he wrestled with the weight of his realization.
A Royal blood with a scar across his cheek shook his head, his fists clenched tightly as he added. "Maybe they're Royal bloods in disguise," he proposed, his voice tinged with desperate hope. "There's no way."
Another Royal blood, a girl with jet-black hair and a sharp jawline, countered immediately, her voice cold and factual. "We checked the lineage history. Both of them—Hiroko Tatsuya and Zai Stone—are definitely low-bloods. There's no trace of Royal blood in their heritage. I went through the records myself. They're Kaigens, nothing more."
The group fell silent for a moment, the weight of her words sinking in, until a younger Royal blood, his eyes wide with sudden realization, turned his gaze to Zai. His voice trembled with shock as he spoke. "Wait… Zai Stone. He bears the name Stone. Could he be… the son of Hashimura Stone?"
The revelation struck the group like a thunderbolt. The older Royal blood, a stern man with greying hair and a commanding presence, froze, his eyes narrowing as he processed the implications. Hashimura Stone—a name that carried weight in their world, a Kaigen who had risen to become one of the strongest warriors of his time, despite his low-blood status. The older Royal blood turned sharply to the balcony, his gaze locking onto Grand Master Hirorama Wulto. "Is this true?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the noise of the crowd. "Is that boy the son of Hashimura Stone? As far as I know the son of Hashimura died along with him, their whole family was pronounced dead."
Hirorama, his long white hair flowing down his back, stood with his arms crossed, his weathered face etched with quiet concern. He met the older Royal blood's gaze for a moment, his sharp eyes unreadable, then turned his attention back to the arena. Closing his eyes briefly, he uttered, his voice low but firm. "Yes, he is the son of late Hashimura Stone."
The Royal bloods exchanged stunned glances, their shock palpable, but the older Royal blood quickly regained his composure, his expression hardening. "That still doesn't prove anything," he said, his tone dismissive. "The boy may be the son of Hashimura Stone, but Hashimura himself, despite being one of the strongest, was still a low-blood—a Kaigen. We all know his lineage. There's no way that boy has any Royal blood in his body."
The others nodded in agreement, their murmurs of discontent continuing, but Hirorama paid them no mind. His focus remained on the arena, where Hiroko and Zai were locked in a relentless display of martial prowess. The two Dronogas had disengaged from their elbow lock, now circling each other with the precision of seasoned fighters, their stances low and ready. Their clash of martial arts-based combat demonstrated that they were on near-equal terms, each movement a testament to their skill and training.
Zai struck first, stepping forward with a quick jab aimed at Hiroko's chest, his right fist snapping out in a straight line with textbook form. Hiroko parried the strike with his left forearm, redirecting the blow outward while countering with a right hook toward Zai's jaw. Zai leaned back just enough to avoid the punch, his balance impeccable, and retaliated with a left roundhouse kick aimed at Hiroko's midsection. Hiroko blocked the kick with both forearms in a cross-guard, absorbing the impact with a slight grunt, then pushed forward with a front snap kick to Zai's stomach. Zai twisted his torso to the side, letting the kick graze past him, and answered with a swift elbow strike to Hiroko's shoulder, forcing him to step back.
The exchange continued at a blistering pace, each fighter showcasing their mastery of martial arts. Hiroko advanced with a combination of strikes—a left jab to Zai's face, followed by a right cross to his chest, and a spinning back kick aimed at his ribs. Zai deflected the jab with a downward block, sidestepped the cross, and caught the spinning kick under his arm, trapping Hiroko's leg momentarily before shoving him back with a palm strike to the chest. Hiroko stumbled but recovered quickly, launching into a flurry of punches—left jab, right jab, left uppercut—each strike aimed with precision. Zai countered with equal skill, weaving through the punches with subtle head movements, then delivered a sharp side kick to Hiroko's thigh, aiming to disrupt his balance.
After a few more exchanges, Zai shifted tactics, his dark eyes glinting with intent. He raised his right hand, flames erupting around his palm as he unleashed his Fire Flash. A torrent of fire roared toward Hiroko; the heat intense enough to make the air shimmer. Hiroko reacted instantly, leaping high into the air to evade the fiery assault, his body soaring nearly ten feet off the ground. Mid-air, he extended both hands forward, lightning crackling between his fingers as he channelled his Reiki. "Lightning Stream!" he shouted, his voice ringing with determination. A jagged bolt of electricity shot downward, streaking toward Zai with lethal precision.
Zai brought both hands forward, palms out, to intercept the lightning attack. The electric stream collided with his hands, the impact sending sparks flying as he struggled to hold it back. His arms trembled under the strain, the lightning's raw power pushing against his defenses, and despite his efforts, the attack broke through. The bolt struck Zai's chest, the force knocking him back several steps as electricity coursed through him, leaving scorch marks on his coat and a grimace of pain on his face.
But Zai was far from defeated. Gritting his teeth, he surged forward, closing the distance with Hiroko in an instant as the latter landed from his jump. Zai's right fist shot out in a straight punch, catching Hiroko squarely on the jaw. The impact snapped Hiroko's head to the side, a sharp crack echoing through the arena. Before Hiroko could recover, Zai followed with a left hook to his waist, the blow landing with a thud that made Hiroko wince. Zai pressed his advantage, stepping in close to deliver a double-fisted strike—both hands slamming into Hiroko's chest in a simultaneous push. The force sent Hiroko airborne, his body arcing backward through the air from the sheer power of the attack.
As Hiroko flew, Zai leaped after him, aiming a powerful roundhouse kick at his midsection to finish the combo. But Hiroko, even mid-air, reacted with remarkable instincts. He twisted his body, grabbing Zai's extended leg with both hands, and used his momentum to swing Zai downward. With a grunt of effort, Hiroko slammed Zai into the ground, the impact sending up a cloud of dust as the stone floor cracked beneath them. Seizing the moment, Hiroko dropped down, his right fist drawn back for a devastating downward punch aimed at Zai's face.
Zai, however, was too quick. He rolled to his left just as Hiroko's fist came down, the punch missing by inches and slamming into the ground with a thunderous crack, leaving a small crater in the stone. Both fighters scrambled to their feet, immediately engaging once more in a furious exchange of blows. Hiroko opened with a left jab to Zai's face, followed by a right cross to his chest, then a spinning heel kick aimed at his head. Zai blocked the jab with his right forearm, ducked under the cross, and leaned back to avoid the spinning kick, countering with a straight right punch to Hiroko's ribs. Hiroko absorbed the hit with a grunt, retaliating with a left hook to Zai's jaw, which Zai parried with his left hand before answering with a snap kick to Hiroko's knee.
For a full minute, the two Dronogas traded strikes with relentless intensity, their movements a blur of martial arts mastery. Hiroko delivered a series of rapid punches—left jab, right jab, left uppercut, right hook—each strike aimed to overwhelm Zai's defenses. Zai countered with precise blocks, using his forearms to deflect the punches, then responded with a combination of his own: a right elbow strike to Hiroko's chest, a left knee strike to his thigh, and a spinning back fist aimed at his temple. Hiroko blocked the elbow with a downward parry, sidestepped the knee, and ducked under the back fist, retaliating with a front kick to Zai's stomach that forced him back a step.
The exchange reached a climax when both fighters landed simultaneous blows—Hiroko with a right cross to Zai's chest, and Zai with a left hook to Hiroko's jaw. The impacts struck with equal force, the momentum pushing both Dronogas back in opposite directions. They skidded across the arena floor, their feet leaving trails in the dust as they came to a stop, breathing heavily but still poised for battle.
The arena had become a scarred battlefield, its once-smooth stone floor now a jagged mosaic of cracks and scorch marks. Dust hung in the air like smoke after a cannonade, lit from behind by the dying orange of the afternoon sun. Every breath the crowd took felt collective; thousands of hearts hammering in near-unison.
Hiroko and Zai stood perhaps fifteen paces apart. Both were breathing through open mouths now—deep, ragged pulls that showed ribs pressing against battered skin. Sweat had carved clean tracks through the grime on their faces. Bruises were already purpling along jaws and forearms; shallow cuts wept thin lines of red. Yet neither boy slumped. Spines stayed straight, chins up, feet planted in balanced stances that spoke of hours upon hours of conditioning.
Their eyes met.
Hiroko's teal irises burned with that same reckless, almost joyful fire that had carried him through every impossible moment of the tournament. Zai's gaze was darker, colder, more contained—but no less intense. There was no taunt in either look, no smirk, no posturing. Just two promises carved into the silence between them:
I will end this.
Hiroko moved first.
He exploded forward in a low, driving sprint—knees high, elbows tight, right fist chambered beside his ear like a coiled spring. Halfway across the gap he began to channel, lightning already snapping and hissing between the knuckles of his right hand. The crackle was sharp enough to make nearby spectators flinch. White-blue arcs licked up his forearm, brighter with every stride.
"Lightning Stream—!"
He planted his left foot hard, skidded half a step to kill momentum, rotated his hips, and thrust the charged fist straight ahead. A blinding spear of electricity ripped out of his knuckles, forking and snapping as it tore toward Zai's center mass. The attack was louder than it had any right to be—more like a whip-crack than a conventional spell—and left a faint ozone burn in the air behind it.
Zai read the telegraph on Hiroko's shoulder the instant it happened.
Instead of raising both hands to meet the lightning head-on, he dropped his center of gravity, left knee bending deep, right leg extending behind him. His right palm slapped the cracked stone with explosive force. Crimson fire detonated beneath his hand—not outward in a cone, but downward and inward, a shaped charge of flame that cratered the floor and turned the impact site into a momentary high-pressure furnace.
The recoil was instantaneous and violent.
Zai rocketed upward and slightly backward, body almost parallel to the ground for a heartbeat, coat flapping wildly. The Lightning Stream passed directly beneath him—close enough that the electric field made every hair on his arms stand on end and left a faint metallic taste on his tongue—but it did not touch him.
Hiroko's eyes widened a fraction. The smug certainty that had lived there a second earlier vanished, replaced by the cold realization every fighter dreads: I committed too hard and he read it perfectly.
Zai twisted in mid-air—core tight, hips snapping—he brought his right leg around in a vicious descending axe kick, heel aimed at the top of Hiroko's skull. The descent was brutally fast; flame still clung to the sole of his boot in thin, whipping tendrils.
Hiroko reacted with pure instinct. He threw both forearms up in a reinforced cross-block and dropped his hips low, trying to root himself against the coming impact. The block was technically correct—elbows tight, wrists stacked, shoulders shrugged—but physics did not care about technique.
Zai's heel slammed into the crossed forearms with a sound like a tree trunk splitting. The force drove Hiroko's own fists back into his forehead; his head snapped down, then back up as the shock traveled through his spine. His knees buckled for a fraction of a second—long enough for his balance to break.
Zai landed in a crouch half a heartbeat later, already coiling for the follow-up, but Hiroko was already moving—reeling sideways, boots scraping stone, refusing to go down. He staggered four steps before he managed to plant his left foot and pivot, right fist already chambered again.
The crowd released a collective roar that felt like it shook the sky.
Zai stared across at Hiroko. There was no smirk left on either face, no banter, no posturing. Only two pairs of eyes that had long since stopped seeing an opponent and started seeing the one thing standing between them and the absolute limit they each refused to accept.
Hiroko's internal voice was quiet, almost gentle with himself for once.
One more time. All of it. No holding back, no second thoughts. If I break here, I break. But I finish this.
Zai's mind was louder—and crueller.
A memory-voice, the same one that had haunted his nights for years, slithered up from somewhere deep.
"Zai… you're weak. Hahahaha. You can't beat anyone. Pathetic little boy playing at power."
The laughter wasn't even real anymore; it was just the echo that refused to die. But it still burned. Jaw muscles jumped under pale skin. Crimson eyes narrowed until they were almost slits. Somewhere underneath the cold mask, old grief and newer rage twisted together until they became the same fuel.
Stronger. I have to be stronger than anyone. Stronger than that voice. Stronger than him. Stronger than the memory of failing them.
Both boys exhaled at the same moment—long, controlled breaths that misted faintly in the suddenly chilled air of the arena.
Then they moved.
Hiroko erupted forward first, body wreathed in an ascending cascade of white-gold flame that shaped itself into the massive, translucent head of a dragon. Scales of light flexed and snapped; jaws of pure energy opened in a silent roar around his shoulders and head. The aura wasn't just decoration—it pressed the air outward in pulsing waves, cracking already-damaged flagstones in widening rings with every step.
Zai answered an instant later.
Dark-crimson power boiled up from the ground around his feet like spilled blood set alight. It climbed his legs, coiled around his torso, then surged forward to form the snarling, jagged head of a second dragon—black-red, eyes like molten holes, horns hooked and cruel. Where Hiroko's aura lifted and brightened the space around him, Zai's seemed to drink light, making the area immediately behind him darker by contrast.
They closed the distance in four heartbeats.
Hiroko planted his back foot and screamed into the wind—
"Heaven Dragon Rage!!"
Zai's voice cut through at the exact same instant, lower, colder, final—
"Hell Dragon Rage!!"
The dragon heads collided head-on.
White gold met black crimson.
For one surreal second the two energies refused to mix; they repelled each other in a violently bright boundary layer, light and shadow shearing against one another like tectonic plates. Then the boundary broke.
A perfect sphere of fused power ballooned outward—whitish red, veined with both colours in constant, violent motion. Hiroko and Zai vanished inside it; only the sphere remained visible, a small dying star sitting on the cracked floor of the arena.
The shockwave hit like a physical wall.
People in the front rows were lifted off their feet and slammed back into seats. Those already seated clutched armrests or each other; several screamed purely from the pressure change in their ears. Stone tiles tore free and pinwheeled through the air like playing cards. Cracks raced up the lower walls; mortar dust puffed outward in slow-motion clouds. The captains braced instinctively—knees bent, hands raised, Reiki flaring just enough to anchor themselves. Even they swayed.
Grand Master Hirorama Wulto never moved.
He stood with hands clasped behind his back, robe snapping behind him like a banner in a hurricane, face calm while debris pelted his shoulders and hair. Only the faintest tightening at the corners of his eyes betrayed that he, too, felt the pressure.
Inside the sphere nothing could be seen.
Outside, nothing could be heard over the continuous, bone-deep roar.
Then the sphere ruptured.
A sound like the sky tearing open.
Pure white-red light flashed so bright it burned afterimages into every retina in the stadium. A second shockwave—sharper, meaner—blasted outward, flattening dust clouds, snapping banners, sending a wall of wind that smelled of ozone and scorched iron. When sight returned, the arena floor was… gone. Not cracked—gone. A shallow, almost perfectly circular crater roughly forty meters across now sat where the center of the ring used to be. Jagged edges smoked. Fine grit still drifted downward like black snow.
Two figures stood at opposite rims of the crater.
Hiroko on the left, back to Zai.
Zai on the right, back to Hiroko.
Both were upright—barely.
Blood ran freely from Hiroko's nose and the corner of his mouth, dripping onto the stone in fat drops. His right arm hung limp; the sleeve of his jacket was shredded from elbow to wrist. Breathing came in wet, hitching gasps.
Zai's coat was in tatters—most of the lower half simply missing. A long, diagonal cut ran from his left collarbone down across his chest; blood soaked what remained of the fabric. His left eye was swelling shut. His right hand trembled very slightly before he forced it still.
They stood like that for almost four full seconds—backs turned, heads slightly bowed, chests heaving.
Then, at the exact same moment, both boys tilted their heads just enough to glance over their shoulders.
One teal eye met one crimson eye.
For a heartbeat neither moved.
Then—almost gently—both bodies gave out at once.
Hiroko's knees folded first; he dropped straight down, catching himself on one palm before collapsing onto his side.
Zai swayed, took one half-step to the right as if trying to correct his balance, and fell forward onto his knees, then face-first onto the stone, arms limp at his sides.
Silence.
Absolute, ringing silence.
Thousands of people forgot how to breathe.
Then a single voice—old, steady, carrying without shouting—cut through the stillness.
Grand Master Hirorama Wulto rose from his seat.
"Both Hiroko Tatsuya and Zai Stone are unable to continue."
He paused, letting the words settle.
"This match is officially declared a draw."
No one cheered.
No one booed.
They simply stared—at the crater, at the two motionless boys, at the impossible thing they had just witnessed.
Two low-blood teenagers—no older than sixteen—had turned an entire arena into a ruin and walked away from their own apocalypse still on their feet long enough to look each other in the eye.
And then they fell together.
The question no one dared speak hung in the air anyway, heavier than the dust still settling.
What happens when two Dronogas finally stop holding back… and neither is strong enough to win?