Rin's arms locked around the Matador's neck like steel shackles, the force of the rear-naked choke tightening continuously, his knuckles turning pale from the strain.
A choking "huff, huff" sound escaped the Cursed Spirit's throat. His once upright physique was now as limp as if he had no bones, his golden dress suit stained with dust and blood—where was the high-spirited air he had possessed just moments ago?
The twisted angle of his wrist was shocking to behold; every struggle tugged at the wound, leaving him looking as wretched as a stray dog.
Yet, the audience in the arena was far from dejected; instead, they erupted into roars more fanatical than before.
They waved colorful flags, their faces flushed red, their eyes filled with a thirst for blood. Who won or lost was entirely irrelevant; what they craved was a fight to the death, blood splattered across the stone floor, and for this "performance" to continue indefinitely.
The shouting drowned out the entire arena like a tide, making even the air feel scalding hot.
Rin felt the Cursed Spirit's struggles in his arms gradually weaken, his fingertips even able to touch the opponent's heart, which was beating violently due to asphyxiation.
He did not use the illusion of the Sharingan, nor did he waste any unnecessary strength; relying solely on his physical power, he was sufficient to end this battle.
The shadow of death had already loomed over the Matador's head, and the Cursed Spirit's body began to tremble slightly, clearly having sensed the impending doom.
But just then, the corner of the Matador's mouth suddenly curled into an eerie arc.
The next second, the bright red cape hanging at their sides suddenly came to life!
The fabric, like living vines, twisted and coiled frantically, instantly wrapping Rin and the Cursed Spirit into a blood-red cocoon.
A powerful pulling force came from the cape, lifting both of them into the air and spinning them in the middle of the arena.
Rin instinctively tightened his arms, only to feel the weight in his embrace suddenly lighten. The cape snapped open like a blooming blood-colored flower, flinging him away violently!
"Bang!"
Rin crashed heavily onto the stone floor.
When he propped himself up and looked up, he saw that the Matador's figure had already landed ten meters away, the sound of the cape tearing still echoing in the air.
On that bright red fabric, a half-meter-long tear had clearly opened up, revealing the Cursed Spirit's body.
Clearly, this escape method, which came at the cost of damaging the cape, had strict limitations.
The Matador stood in place, his body trembling slightly from the pain.
He looked down at his twisted wrist, then suddenly raised his hand and forcibly snapped the broken bone back into place!
With a crisp "crack" that set one's teeth on edge, mist of Cursed Energy overflowed from his wrist, yet there was no sign of healing.
He had no ability to repair his injuries; he was merely relying on brute force to forcibly reset the bone to maintain a combat stance.
The longsword on the ground suddenly began to hum, as if pulled by an invisible force, flying back into the Cursed Spirit's hand automatically.
The Matador's movement to grasp the hilt was somewhat stiff, and the excruciating pain in his wrist made cold sweat seep from his forehead, yet he still bowed slightly toward Rin, a look of apology even appearing on his face:
"My apologies, great warrior. I still underestimated you; I am deeply sorry for my carelessness just now."
After these words, he resumed his combat stance.
The damaged cape blocked his front, but because of that tear, it could not fully shield his body. His broken wrist, holding the longsword, was hidden behind him, and every slight movement betrayed an impossible-to-conceal pain.
Rin slowly stood up and looked down at his bleeding palm.
The wound cut by the blade when he caught the sword with his bare hand was still oozing blood, and the warm liquid dripped down between his fingers, blooming into tiny bloodstains on the stone floor.
He tried to mobilize Reverse Cursed Technique, only to discover that the Cursed Energy within his body was still imprisoned by the domain, unable to even perform the most basic healing.
So this battle was even more "fair" than he had imagined; both sides were unable to repair their injuries, both had lost part of their reliance, and the only things they could depend on were pure will and physical strength.
Rin flexed his wrist; the pain from the wound made his eyes shine even brighter.
He looked at the Matador not far away, the corner of his mouth curling into a cold arc, and slowly assumed a fighting stance:
"No need to apologize. The real battle is only just beginning."
The audience in the arena boiled over once more, their cheers shaking the stone floor slightly.
They watched the two injured figures in the arena, the fanaticism in their eyes almost overflowing.
This was the performance they wanted; this was the fight to the death!
The apology in the Matador's eyes faded, replaced by a resolute intent to kill.
He kicked off the ground violently, his damaged cape tracing an incomplete arc behind him. Although the hand holding the longsword trembled, it still carried a biting cold light as he charged toward Rin.
Rin did not dodge; instead, he took the initiative to meet him head-on.
The injured palm and the imprisoned Cursed Energy could not make him shrink back in the slightest; in the face of absolute will, these were merely stepping stones to victory.
The two figures collided once again, the cold light of the longsword intertwining with the fierce wind of fists, blood dripping onto the stone floor and splashing into tiny droplets.
This deathmatch, held in the name of "fairness," finally entered its most tragic and brutal stage.
The Matador had clearly learned his lesson from before, and this time, he gave Rin no chance to get close.
Although his hand holding the longsword was still trembling, his footsteps had become exceptionally light, as if treading an invisible dance step, each movement precisely maintaining a half-meter distance from Rin.
That was the safe range that could just barely avoid the fists while allowing the longsword to reach him.
The damaged cape traced fragmented arcs in front of him; although there were gaps exposing openings, he could always use the intact fabric to just barely block the path of attack whenever Rin launched a surprise assault.
Rin's movements, however, became increasingly violent.
He was like a crazed bull, his shoulders tensed like anvils ready to strike; every charge carried the force of breaking wind as he slammed toward the Matador.
The wound on his palm was soaked in sweat, and the stinging pain spread from his arm throughout his entire body, yet it only made his eyes shine brighter.
His Sharingan stared fixedly at the gap in the cape; that half-meter-long tear had become his only breakthrough point.
"Bang!"
Rin's fist grazed the edge of the cape and slammed into the stone floor; amidst the flying gravel, the Matador had already retreated three meters away with elegant, mincing steps.
The longsword in his hand, like a viper flicking its tongue, took advantage of the momentum of his retreat to slice a shallow cut on Rin's forearm, blood instantly seeping out and trickling down the muscle grain.
"Warrior, haste makes waste."
The Matador's voice was breathless, yet he still maintained an elegant tone.
His feet did not stop, his body like a willow branch in the wind, dodging and weaving through Rin's frenzied attacks.
Sometimes he would slide sideways to avoid a straight punch, other times he would stand on tiptoe to dodge a sweeping kick, and even in the moment Rin lunged and missed, he stepped on the opponent's knee to leap up, adding another wound to Rin's back with his longsword.
The audience in the arena had gone completely mad, their cheers almost lifting the dome.
They watched the Matador like a dancer dancing on the tip of a blade, every evasion perilous and precarious.
Rin's fist grazed past his dress suit, tearing off a strand of gold thread; the longsword swept past Rin's throat, leaving a trace of chill.
This "performance" on the line between life and death made them more fanatical than any bloody massacre.
Rin's breathing became increasingly heavy, and there were no fewer than ten wounds on his body; blood had soaked his clothes, sticking to his skin, feeling uncomfortably clammy.
But his charges did not weaken in the slightest; on the contrary, they became even more violent.
He deliberately slowed the rhythm of his punches, pretending to be blinded by rage, while actually locking onto the gap in the cape with his peripheral vision.
Sure enough, the Matador was attracted by his "opening," and the longsword thrust toward his chest. The cape instinctively shifted to one side, and that gap was instantly exposed before Rin's eyes.
"Now!"
Rin suddenly dropped his shoulder, forcibly dodging the sword tip, while simultaneously shooting out his left hand like lightning to accurately grab the edge of the cape's gap.
The rough texture of the fabric came through; he exerted force from his wrist, yanking the cape toward himself violently.
The Matador had not expected him to suddenly change tactics, and his body staggered forward half a step involuntarily.
This half-step was exactly what gave Rin's right fist an opportunity.
"Thud!"
The fist smashed solidly into the Matador's ribs, and blood sprayed from his mouth.
The Matador's face turned deathly pale instantly, yet in the midst of the excruciating pain, he swung his sword violently, the longsword thrusting toward Rin's lower abdomen.
He would rather take a punch than let go of his bottom line of "no close combat."
Rin had long anticipated this; using the momentum of his punch, he rolled backward, avoiding the longsword while simultaneously kicking the Matador in the ankle.