Instantly, the barrel surged outward, shadow-imbued embers streaming from its form like black flames. The Reira within it shrieked and convulsed, destabilized beyond control, as the weapon locked onto Anton's arm from a distance like a homing missile with relentless precision. There was no tether, no tendril, no stretching of any kind — just an invisible, merciless pull of focused, absolute absorption, an inescapable force of consumption. Yamikui swallows all that it touches, no matter the distance, no matter the resistance.
Anton's fingers clawed desperately toward the void, his muscles straining, but it was futile. The barrel slowly devoured his arm, peeling the flesh off it as it pulled harder, focused on nothing else but the arm, his flesh tearing away completely from his hand as blood spilled continuously while it kept pulling; every nerve, every flow of Reira, was obliterated beyond repair, leaving nothing but ruin in its wake.
"I want to hear it… give up!" Viktor's voice rang, calm, absolute, and unyielding, threaded with the faintest glimmer of amusement, his other hand bracing the working arm for additional support and stability. Anton gasped, blood streaking his pallid face, his body trembling from head to toe as his legs shook under the sheer, unbearable pain, until at long last, in a broken whisper, he forced the words out:
"I… surrender…"
Viktor lowered Yamikui after a brief moment of torment, a subtle disappointment lingering as, deep down, he had hoped Anton would resist more. The black tentacles retracted, the mechanical engine winding down into silence before the darkness dispersed entirely, the barrel vanishing from his arm, leaving Anton crumpled and trembling, his arm destroyed, a stark testament to the weapon's ruthless precision.
Jurgen stood frozen, eyes wide, fully aware this was no ordinary confrontation. Viktor's power was on an entirely different level, something deeply disquieting, something that made underestimation not just foolish but fatal. Viktor turned and walked away from the arena with deliberate calm, leaving a tense silence in his wake, saying nothing, for he had already acknowledged Anton, the only one who had made him use Yamikui in a long time, while Jurgen's gaze remained fixed on him, unblinking, a single bead of sweat tracing slowly down his temple.
The healers moved swiftly to Anton's side, their hands glowing as they worked, channeling their restorative arts with practiced precision. The torn flesh along Anton's arm slowly knit together, the jagged damage closing under their careful ministrations; the mark and lingering pain remained, but the arm was spared from complete destruction. They transitioned seamlessly to the other injured participant, Balbin, tending to his wounds in a continuous, disciplined rhythm, ensuring both were stabilized before the next challengers could proceed, as the arena's tension gradually eased, settling like dust after a violent upheaval, blood still staining the ground as a grim reminder of what had transpired.
And yet, the flow of combat could not be paused for long.
The next matches were already beginning, each step onto the stage carrying anticipation, fear, and the inevitable promise of violence. The next opponents stepped into the arena: a tall-looking figure rolled his broad shoulders, his braided hair shifting with the motion, Reira crackling faintly around him like restrained lightning, accompanied by a wild grin, while another stood silent beside him, hands buried in his pockets, a child, unmistakably the youngest among the participants, yet his presence felt profoundly out of place, as though he did not belong here at all, as though he was far too strong to even participate, his gaze sharp and unreadable, an unyielding calm that unsettled all who met it.
The braided one laughed, too loudly and too freely, an unsettling sound that cut through the air, carrying the implication that he need not exert himself, that he could simply relax while the boy handled everything — and he was not wrong. The moment Kimura's arm sliced through the air, the boy moved, leaving the braided man behind instantly as blurs of motion, monstrous in speed, tore across the stage with overwhelming force. Dust erupted in jagged clouds, swallowing the arena in chaos, visibility reduced to shadows and fragmented motion alone, as the single figure surged forward, a shadow among shadows, targeting the other two with terrifying efficiency.
SWOOOSH!
Jurgen's eyes strained, his pupils darting frantically as he attempted to track the impossible, but he could not, and the realization struck him with startling clarity. Even back at the ridge, when he couldn't fully track those figures, he could at least comprehend their movement, but this — this was something else entirely, something far beyond his perception. Slowly, the dust began to settle, and as he had anticipated, there he stood, the two opponents lying motionless at each of his sides, blood pooling beneath them, the outcome undeniable despite no one seeing what had actually occurred, as the dust had concealed everything; the fight had ended too quickly, leaving the arena in an eerie, oppressive silence.
Kimura's gaze lingered, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as he realized he had followed the boy's movement but not the action itself, and despite possessing perhaps the sharpest vision in all of Mercedes, he could not discern what had transpired within the dust; his surprise shifted swiftly into concern as it became evident the fight had ended before it had even begun, the two fighters completely overwhelmed, blitzed without resistance or even the opportunity to react.
Healers rushed onto the stage once more, kneeling beside the fallen fighters, their hands glowing as they worked efficiently before lifting their battered bodies and carrying them away.
Jurgen remained frozen, a cold weight settling deep within his chest, the kind that made him instinctively hope he would never have to face someone like that.
Impossible… I have to fight monsters like this…?
What will my next opponent be like…?
Can I even defeat them…? What if I end up like that…?
My revenge… this anger burning in me…
A sharp exhale escaped him, "Tch—" just as a call rang out, sudden and commanding, signaling his turn to step onto the stage.
"…JURGEN EINZELBERHT! AND BUBBLES WILKES BOOTH!"
"JIRO KUSUNOKI AND BUCKLER BLACKWOOD"
Jurgen flinched as reality snapped back into place, his pupils quivering with apprehension at the thought of who he would face, as eyes from all around fixed onto him, even those monsters who had already fought, while he walked toward the concrete arena with controlled composure, though fear still washed over him, his gaze briefly locking onto Viktor's before instinctively diverting. His fists clenched at his sides, his breath uneven as his focus faltered, prompting him to search desperately for a competent teammate, only for that hope to collapse the moment a heavyset boy stepped onto the stage, his hands trembling, his round, unsteady form immediately diminishing any confidence Jurgen had, while the boy's anxious gaze swept across the arena in the same uncertain manner.
Jurgen's expression darkened, shadows gathering beneath his brow as he advanced slowly, almost soundlessly, as though the fight was already decided, like a man resigned to defeat, left only with the faint hope that his opponent might at least be manageable.
"U-um… hi… I'm Bubbles…" the boy stammered, his voice unsteady, "L-let's… do our best."
"I don't care," Jurgen muttered, his voice low and icily detached, the disdain unmistakable. "…fatty."
The word cut sharply through the stagnant air, leaving Bubbles momentarily paralyzed as Jurgen lowered his stance slightly, his attention shifting fully to the two opponents ahead, both carrying the presence of those who had endured relentless battles before stepping into this arena.
Kimura's gaze flicked toward Jurgen once more, calculating and appraising as recognition settled in, this was the boy from the ridge, the one who had not only survived but dodged, even diverted, an attack from a serious Blut, something that defied all reasonable expectation. No matter how he attempted to rationalize it, the fact remained undeniable, and as the arena fell into a near tangible silence, Nemesio leaned forward from above, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on Jurgen, unwilling to miss what was about to unfold.
"I see you've taken interest in that one as well," Leonidas remarked, adjusting his glasses with deliberate precision.
Nemesio did not waver. "I suspect there's more to him." After a brief pause, his voice softened slightly. "I met him a few days ago… he was… remarkable."
Kimura's arm hovered midair, his thoughts momentarily unsettled as anticipation built, his gaze locked onto Jurgen like a man awaiting something significant, while a gentle breeze brushed against Jurgen's temple, mixing with the sweat on his skin, the air carrying a faint chill. His gaze fixed forward, then flicked sideways toward his teammate, irritation evident as his thoughts settled into a harsh conclusion.
Of all the teammates… it had to be him… this guy…
so it's a two-on-one…
"I won't be held back," Jurgen muttered, his voice low and resolute. After a brief pause, he added, "…not by you, fatty."
Kimura's arm descended slowly, his eyes lingering solely on Jurgen as it dropped.
And with that, the most anticipated match began, its outcome resting entirely on what would unfold next.