A presence surged into his blind spot, closing the distance with ruthless speed. Jurgen twisted in a desperate attempt to dodge, but it came too late. Blackwood — the broader-shouldered one, and clearly the one with the heavier strikes, drove a fist directly into his face, a clean, devastating hit that sent him backward with merciless force.
The impact cracked sharply, reverberating through his skull as his body lifted slightly off the ground before being thrown back. He managed to regain his balance before falling flat, his arms flailing briefly to steady himself as his boots scraped harshly against the arena floor, sliding until he finally came to a stop.
For a brief moment, silence settled over the arena, thick and heavy. A single drop of red fell against the ground, stark against the dust. His gaze lowered, catching the stain. Then another.
Jurgen raised a hand to his nose, touching the warm liquid trailing down. Blood. He wiped it away with his thumb, a brief quiet following before his eyes lifted again, narrowing toward his opponents. It was clear now, he was falling behind, barely keeping up.
"Damn… the only thing keeping me alive right now is my combat skill. Without it… I'd already be finished."
His breathing evened out slowly before his expression settled, his eyes sharper now. This fight was definitely going to drag on, as he had no intention of yielding anytime soon, and it was clear they still had tricks up their sleeves.
"…Heh."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips.
"Guess I'll thank that ridiculous old man… when I see him again," he muttered to himself.
With a calm motion that suggested quiet preparedness, he adjusted his stance, the air around him shifting subtly as he readied himself again.
"L-Let me help, Jurgen-san…"
Bubbles' voice trembled from behind him. Jurgen didn't even bother to turn; clearly, he saw Bubbles as nothing more than a burden, one that would most certainly get in the way and cost them the match, and he had no intention of losing — not by a long stretch.
"…Stay back, fatty."
"You'll only get in the way."
A pause followed his words as he and the opponents before him remained locked in a tense stare. If Jurgen so much as flicked his gaze away, it felt as though they would crush him in that instant, or at least, that was what the oppressive atmosphere seemed to convey.
"The least I can do… is keep you from getting hurt."
With that single sentence, silence fell, thick and taut, as Jurgen's eyes swept over the two opponents before him. Their defensive, expectant stances faltered slightly as they straightened, subtle confusion crossing their faces, though it did little to mask the irritation beneath. The statement had landed as an insult.
Then one of them made a sound.
JIRO KUSUNOKI.
It began as something restrained, as though it might turn into laughter at any moment, drawing the attention of both Jurgen, who instinctively flicked his gaze toward him, and Blackwood, who spared him a brief glance. It wasn't surprise, it was expectation, as though he had anticipated this reaction.
Jiro pressed a hand to his mouth, struggling to contain himself, his chest rising and falling as his eyes gleamed with restrained amusement.
"Hah… hah…" he stuttered, biting his lip as the laughter began to break free.
Then it erupted.
A flood of laughter burst from him, loud and unrestrained. He wasn't angry at Jurgen's claim of protecting Bubbles while facing both of them — it simply sounded absurd to him, a bold statement that bordered on ridiculous, leaving him both bewildered and thoroughly amused. Whether it was a joke or sheer stupidity, he couldn't tell.
His laughter reverberated across the arena, wild and uncontrollable, echoing through the vast space. He doubled over, clutching his stomach, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.
"Hahaha… I can't… stop…"
"Oi… Blackwool… did he say keep him from getting hurt?"
Jiro's laughter lingered, slower now but still deliberate, curling through the air with an infectious, almost unsettling energy that was difficult to ignore — even some onlookers felt close to laughing along.
"It's Blackwood," Buckler corrected firmly, his voice edged with irritation as he turned toward Jurgen. "Hey, brat… you dare underestimate us?"
"How quite disrespectful."
"Well…" Blackwood exhaled, letting the word hang like the quiet prelude to something violent. He didn't allow his annoyance to spill into empty words; instead, he made it clear he would express it through action rather than complaints.
Every muscle tensed, not just his, but Jurgen's as well, who instinctively braced himself for what he couldn't yet anticipate. Every movement became measured, deliberate, as even Jiro's laughter faded, his face still carrying amusement that now masked a lingering irritation. The earlier statement no longer felt like an insult to him, but rather like the absurd remark of a fool.
"We'll see how well you fare."
The words left Blackwood as he suddenly dropped, lowering himself as if giving up entirely. It came with a deceptive calm that made the audience anticipate something imminent, and just as his face was about to meet the concrete — he vanished, as though the air itself had swallowed him.
In the very next heartbeat, his strike emerged from nowhere, a blur too fast for the eye to properly follow. The air tore and screamed around him, a violent distortion marking the space he had just occupied, leaving only a fleeting trace behind.
Jurgen's eyes caught it, a blur darting from the upper left of his vision.
The strike followed instantly. A fist, sharp and fast, aimed directly at him, accompanied by a grin that now revealed the irritation Blackwood had concealed until now.
Jurgen leaned back just in time to avoid the full impact, but the speed still overwhelmed him slightly, the strike grazing past with a violent hiss. Before he could fully recover, Blackwood followed through, driving his other hand forward, open, aiming to clamp down on Jurgen's face after closing the distance. Jurgen, still staggering from the near miss, reacted quickly, catching the incoming hand with his own.
He interlocked their hands, using the grip as an anchor to steady himself, preventing his fall. Without hesitation, he threw a punch with his free hand, which Blackwood met with his own, aiming to catch it cleanly. But Jurgen adapted mid-motion, diverting the strike and shifting tactics entirely as he dropped low, tackling Blackwood at the chest while their other hands remained locked together.
Having watched the earlier fight involving the boy with the lava arm, Jurgen had learned enough not to risk locking both arms against someone like Blackwood, especially after feeling the sheer force behind his punches. He pushed forward with raw strength, driving Blackwood back, though in doing so he momentarily forgot the obvious vulnerability it created.
The realization came too late.
Blackwood's elbow drove sharply into his spine. The pain flared instantly, forcing a muffled sound from Jurgen as the impact reverberated through him, his strategy had not been fully thought through.
Blackwood continued relentlessly, hammering elbow after elbow into his back while simultaneously trying to overpower the arm Jurgen still had locked with his, pressing forward with brute force. Jurgen, unable to endure it passively, responded in the most unorthodox way possible — he bit down hard into Blackwood's chest, turning the situation into something almost absurd.
"You bastard!"
A sharp cry tore from Blackwood as he slammed his free hand into Jurgen's head, trying to force him off, striking repeatedly in rapid succession, each impact echoing loudly through the arena. It became a chaotic struggle, Jurgen pushing forward relentlessly while Blackwood fought to break free.
Despite the discomfort Jurgen chose to ignore, something felt wrong. His teeth remained clamped down, but the resistance wasn't what he expected. By now, he should have been struggling far more — not because Blackwood was stronger, but because this had been a two-on-one from the start, and yet the second opponent was nowhere to be seen.
"Let go! You bastard!"
Blackwood shouted, continuing his barrage, elbows crashing into Jurgen's back and head, each blow heavy and persistent, trying to force him to release his grip, but Jurgen held firm. He had endured far worse.
Even through the pain, his eyes scanned the battlefield, searching for Jiro. His gaze shifted, landing briefly on Bubbles. If Jiro wasn't targeting him, then he should have been going after Bubbles, but that wasn't the case. Bubbles still stood there, frozen in fear, untouched.
Which meant one thing.
'Where the hell is Jiro'