Tanker, his imposing figure casting a long shadow, stepped out of the tournament ring and onto the dusty battlefield. A palpable silence still hung in the air, the shock of his swift and brutal victory over Kael clinging to the spectators like a shroud. Even Azreal, the usually unflappable announcer, seemed momentarily stunned, his composure ruffled by the sheer speed of the knockout. He stammered slightly, his professional facade momentarily cracking, before regaining his footing. The show, after all, must go on.
But before Azreal could utter a word to break the heavy silence, a wave of excited yells and impressed chants erupted from the crowd. Tanker's display of raw power had ignited a spark of awe and anticipation. Azreal, a seasoned showman, allowed a subtle smirk to play on his lips, acknowledging the crowd's reaction before projecting his voice across the arena. "With that, Tanker has secured his place in the semi-finals! And now, let the second round of the quarter-finals commence! Will Warrior Rebel and Warrior Enshou please step into the tournament ring!"
Rebel, his pent-up frustration now channeled into nervous energy, bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, swinging his cloth-wrapped, double-bladed polearm in short, sharp arcs. Tusk, standing anxiously beside him, tried to offer words of encouragement, his own anxiety bleeding into his tone. "Okay, you've got this, Rebel! It's just one old man, right? I mean, you're not fighting Zack or anything. There's no need to be scared! Calm down, will you?!" Tusk's voice cracked on the last two words, revealing his own inner turmoil.
Rebel shot Tusk a pointed look. "Says the guy who sounds like he's about to faint." A grim smile touched Rebel's lips as he strode confidently into the ring, his eyes locking onto the already positioned Enshou. A palpable bloodlust flickered in Rebel's gaze as the bell rang, unleashing another wave of cheers and roars from the divided crowd, each side vocally supporting their chosen fighter.
"You better not die on me, grandpa," Rebel taunted, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. "'Cause I'm not planning on taking it easy with you."
Enshou, his aged face creased with a calm smile, replied evenly, "I promised Zack that I'll meet him at the end of this tournament. He has an answer he owes me. If I lose to you, I won't make it that far. So, losing isn't an option for me, young man."
Rebel's grip tightened on his polearm. "It's not an option for me either," he growled, launching into his signature Windmill Defense, a rapid series of horizontal and vertical slashes designed to create an impenetrable barrier while simultaneously attacking. Enshou, however, moved with a surprising agility, his feet tracing a precise pattern on the ground, each step backwards timed perfectly to evade Rebel's relentless assault.
Rebel's frustration mounted with each missed strike. He increased his pace, pouring more energy into his whirlwind of attacks, but Enshou continued to slip through the storm of steel with effortless grace. From the sidelines, Tusk wrung his hands. "Come on, Rebel! Just land one hit!" he muttered under his breath, his worry for his brother growing with each passing moment. Tanker watched the fight in silence, his expression unreadable.
In the crowd, Rider, his eyes glued to the unfolding duel, leaned towards Aingo. "Unlike the three-on-one fight, this time Rebel can solely focus on Enshou with his impenetrable defense. That means Enshou won't have a chance to attack, right?"
Aingo, his gaze sharp as he analyzed Enshou's movements, offered a dissenting opinion. "I wouldn't quite go that far. Judging by Enshou's dodges, I can tell he's reading Rebel's style of attack. And though the Windmill Defense is near impossible to decipher, I highly doubt that the person who trained that bastard Dextin would go down this easily."
Back in the ring, Rebel unleashed another furious swing of his double-bladed polearm. Enshou took a large step back, widening the distance between them as Rebel's breath grew heavy. "Damn it! Stop running around and fight already!" Rebel's voice was thick with annoyance.
Enshou's smile widened, a deliberate attempt to provoke his younger opponent. "What's wrong, boy? Running out of steam before an old man? Don't tell me you can't even land one hit."
Rebel roared in response, charging forward with a full-force thrust of his polearm. Enshou narrowly dodged the attack, his movements economical and precise. "Don't underestimate me, you old fart!" Rebel snarled, unleashing a flurry of even faster swings, each strike costing him a significant amount of energy. Enshou, despite his age, managed to keep pace, expertly evading every blow.
Then, an opening appeared. Rebel's momentum carried him slightly off-balance, leaving a small window of opportunity on his flank. Enshou, recognizing the split-second vulnerability, knew he couldn't fully evade the next incoming strike. Bracing himself, he raised his arms, intending to absorb the impact. But Rebel, with a surprising burst of awareness, shifted the trajectory of his polearm at the last moment. The cloth-wrapped blade whipped around, aiming directly for Enshou's face, landing a clean, sharp hit. Enshou staggered backwards, a visible gash opening on his cheek as he crashed to the tournament ring floor.
A thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd. Tusk threw his hands up in triumphant excitement. He connected! he thought, a wave of relief washing over him. Rebel, panting heavily, leaned on his polearm, the exertion of that final, energy-draining attack evident in his labored breaths. A tight, almost strained smile stretched across his face. "Finally got a hit, huh? Still wanna talk big, old man?"
Enshou slowly pushed himself up, wiping the blood from the side of his lips. He looked at his bloodied hand, then fixed his gaze on Rebel. His earlier smile was gone, replaced by a disconcerting lack of emotion. "I guess I should also start taking you seriously then," Enshou said, his voice low and devoid of its previous playful tone.
Rebel instinctively took a step back, his body already coiled in a fighting stance. "Bring it on," he dared.
Enshou's lips curled into a faint smirk. "You should know, boy, I know your weakness. Better not blink." He took a slow, deliberate step closer to Rebel. Confusion flickered across Rebel's face. What did the old man mean? Lost in thought for a fraction of a second, he didn't notice the subtle shift in Enshou's stance. The second step Enshou took seemed to make him vanish. Rebel's eyes darted around in bewilderment, unable to locate his opponent. Then, a blur of motion. A massively fast punch slammed into Rebel's face, sending him tumbling backwards across the ring, a fresh stream of blood gushing from his nose.
"Rebel!" Tusk yelled out his brother's name in panic, instinctively taking a step towards the ring before remembering the strict rules. Tanker, who had been observing the fight with detached interest, showed a flicker of surprise at the sudden turn of events. The crowd, meanwhile, erupted in a mixture of cheers and confused murmurs.
Rider stared at Aingo, his face etched with disbelief. "Wait! Enshou just… walked up to Rebel and punched him in the nose! Why did Rebel just stand there and take it? Anyone could have dodged that!"
Aingo calmly explained, "No, Rider, you're viewing this from your own perspective. Enshou used a vanishing technique on Rebel, making himself momentarily invisible to him alone."
Rider's confusion deepened. "How is it even possible to be invisible to just one person?"
Aingo elaborated, "The technique Enshou is using is similar to what Tanker employs, but Enshou is using it at its peak. The key is to wear down your opponent, exhaust them both physically and mentally. Then, you subtly confuse their brain, disrupt their focus. Because the only way to perceive someone using this technique is to have a completely calm and one hundred percent focused mind. Rebel is short of breath, his thoughts are scattered, and Enshou's taunts are working. The tables have turned."
Back in the tournament ring, Rebel forced himself to his feet, his nose dripping blood onto the dusty ground. Enshou's expression held a hint of worry. "If I had used my sword instead of my fist, you wouldn't be standing right now. Please, I don't want to seriously hurt you. Just stay down."
Rebel burst out laughing, the sound slightly manic. "Don't… don't you dare… don't you dare fuck with me, old man! The fight… the fight is just getting started!" Even through the haze of pain and disorientation caused by Enshou's deceptive blow, Rebel's stubborn refusal to yield remained unbroken. He lunged towards Enshou, ready to attack again. Enshou sighed, a hint of resignation in his eyes, and vanished once more.
Disoriented and unable to track his opponent, Rebel instinctively spun into his Windmill Defense, but without knowing Enshou's location, the technique was useless. A sharp pain seared across his back as Enshou landed a critical blow, sending Rebel crashing to the ground. "Just… just be quiet," Enshou pleaded, his voice strained. "This isn't fun for me either. Please don't make me do this."
But Rebel remained stubbornly defiant. He tried to scramble to his feet, attempting another attack, but Enshou effortlessly dodged and vanished again. This time, Tusk, his nerves frayed beyond repair, couldn't contain himself. "Left!" he shouted, pointing towards Enshou's reappearance before clapping his hand over his mouth, realizing his fatal mistake.
Despite Tusk's clumsy intervention, Rebel reacted instantly, turning left and swinging his polearm, connecting with Enshou's side and sending the old warrior stumbling back. Enshou glared at Tusk, a deep frown creasing his brow, as Tusk instinctively hid behind Bianca, his eyes wide with fear.
Azreal's voice boomed across the arena, addressing Tusk's blatant interference. "No outside helping! I will let this slide once, because it was my oversight not to explicitly state this rule. But any further outside assistance will result in the helper's immediate elimination from the tournament! With that," Azreal continued, his gaze returning to the fighters, "let the tournament continue!" Tusk breathed a shaky sigh of relief as Enshou refocused on Rebel, who was still struggling to regain his footing.
Rebel, fueled by a desperate surge of adrenaline, charged at Enshou again, only to be met with a series of precise slices that left thin red lines blooming across his arms and legs. The crowd's initial cheers gradually faded into a hushed silence, a sense of pity creeping into their expressions as they watched Rebel's stubborn but ultimately futile resistance. Tusk squeezed his fists, his knuckles white, as he watched his brother being systematically dismantled. He fought back the urge to intervene, knowing the severe consequences.
A grim realization washed over Rebel. He was outmatched. His body screamed in protest, every movement sending jolts of pain through him. A desperate thought flickered through his mind: Just let go. Just go unconscious. "I… I can't move…" he thought, his vision blurring at the edges. "I wanted to win this… I thought I could… I…" He began to lose consciousness, his body about to succumb to the pain and exhaustion.
But then, a fleeting image flashed through his mind: Rider, during his grueling fight with Dargal, the moment where Rider had teetered on the brink of fainting but had somehow found the will to stay conscious. The memory sparked a flicker of defiance within Rebel. With a guttural grunt, he forced himself to remain upright, swaying precariously. A smattering of surprised cheers rose from the crowd, but the cheers were quickly cut short by a low, chilling laugh that echoed through the arena. It was Rebel.
The unsettling laughter confused the onlookers. Then, it escalated into a full-blown, almost manic outburst. "You… you almost had me there, old man," Rebel gasped between fits of laughter. "But… but I'm not losing this!" His words ignited a visible spark of anger in Enshou's eyes.
"You're like a one-trick pony, boy!" Enshou spat, his composure finally cracking. "You don't actually expect to beat me with just that one predictable move, do you?"
A wide, unsettling grin spread across Rebel's bloodied face. "You're right. I only know how to do one move. And I've gotten so damn good at it, I'm afraid of what I might do." A wave of confusion rippled through the crowd. What did he mean?
Then, Rebel's hands moved swiftly, deliberately unwrapping the cloth that had concealed the blades of his double-bladed polearm. Two gleaming, deadly weapons were revealed, their sharp edges glinting under the arena lights. Tanker's gaze, which had been fixed on the fight with a detached air, flickered to his side, catching Tusk's horrified expression. Tusk's eyes were wide with fear, as if he knew exactly what was about to happen. Tanker's gaze then returned to the tournament ring. Rebel stood there, his unwrapped blades held menacingly, a huge, unsettling grin plastered on his face. Enshou's brow furrowed, his earlier confidence replaced by a look of grim apprehension.