Rebel gripped his double-bladed polearm tightly, showing no intent to hold back.
Enshou sighed. "Whether you expose the blade or bring out a second polearm, it won't change anything. Just give—"
He stopped mid-sentence. Rebel had already launched forward, moving faster than before.
Reacting immediately, Enshou activated his vanishing technique, aiming to reappear behind Rebel and strike. But just as he reemerged, Rebel spun his polearm in a vicious windmill motion. The blades whooshed through the air—one narrowly missing Enshou's head. The second nicked his throat, drawing blood.
Stumbling back, Enshou clutched his bleeding neck, eyes wide.
(How...? He shouldn't have seen me. The technique worked perfectly—he couldn't have known where I'd appear. Unless...)
The realization dawned. (He didn't see me. He couldn't have. But... his defense didn't change. It was the same form... just sharper. Damn it. With both blades exposed, this is going to be even harder.)
Enshou rose slowly, his gaze fixed on Rebel, who now stood still—waiting for his next move. Behind him, Tusk trembled, lost in a flood of memories.
He remembered their childhood. Tusk had been the firstborn, destined to inherit their people's sacred Windmill Defense—a technique passed down through generations. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't master it. Every failure brought tears. The pain of trying and still falling short haunted him.
Rebel, unable to watch his brother suffer, stepped forward. He offered to take Tusk's place. "You're not built for this, big brother," he said gently. "Let me carry this burden instead."
After much resistance, the family agreed. Rebel trained tirelessly. Before his first lesson, he promised Tusk, "I'll become so good, no one will ever ask you to learn it again."
And he did. Over time, Rebel mastered the technique—elevating it beyond tradition. The elders realized something shocking: if Rebel wielded a double-bladed weapon, the Windmill Defense would become a weapon of death. But to perfect it, he needed a double-bladed polearm.
There was one problem—it would be too dangerous. So, to balance it, they wrapped the blades in thick cloth, increasing the weapon's weight while reducing its reach and sharpness.
And now… that cloth was gone.
Back in the present, Rebel was now fighting someone with no handicaps. Tusk clenched his teeth, anxiety creeping in as he watched.
Meanwhile, Enshou carefully measured his steps, then disappeared using his vanishing technique once again. But this time, Rebel did something different.
He exhaled sharply, spinning his double-bladed polearm in a wide, brutal arc—just as Enshou reappeared.
The blade came inches from cleaving Enshou's skull in half. Enshou barely managed to raise his sword in time, blocking the strike and staggering backward, eyes wide with shock.
The crowd erupted with gasps and cheers, voices rising in excitement.
"WOW! That slice was fast! He could've killed Enshou with that attack—eliminating him too!" Rider exclaimed, blinking in disbelief.
"Not quite," Aingo replied calmly, standing near the edge of the tournament ring.
Rider turned to him, confused. "What do you mean 'not quite'? Killing is against the rules!"
Aingo clarified, "Yes, killing is against the rules—but if that attack had connected and Enshou died, it would've been his fault, not Rebel's. Rebel can't see him. He's not aware of Enshou's position because of the vanishing technique. That makes it a potential accident—not an intentional kill."
Rider nodded slowly as the logic sank in.
"And besides," Aingo continued, glancing up toward the royal chamber where King Neon observed the match from above, "I doubt Neon would eliminate a warrior like Rebel over an accident. Especially not someone this powerful.
Meanwhile, on the battlefield, Enshou realized he'd just survived two close calls. Breathing heavily, he made a split-second decision: forget the vanishing technique—for now, he would fight Rebel head-on until one of them fell.
He charged, sword raised, clashing steel with Rebel. The force of their collision echoed through the arena.
Rebel quickly closed the distance, landing a series of brutal, calculated blows. But Enshou refused to back down, blocking and countering, still searching for that one opening to turn the tide.
The crowd watched in confusion, murmurs rising.
"Why did Enshou abandon his vanishing technique?" someone asked. "He must know fighting Rebel up close is suicide even though the vanishing technique wasn't quite working."
But the battle pressed on—strike after strike, counter after counter—neither willing to fall. The other contenders around the field tensed, unable to tear their eyes away.
Rebel swung his polearm in a deadly arc, but Enshou leapt, spinning mid-air, flinging his sword toward Rebel in retaliation. Rebel ducked low under both attacks. Despite the blood, the pain, both wore small, excited smiles. The fight was reaching its peak.
Then it happened.
Enshou found an opening—just for a moment—and struck. His sword came down, knocking one of Rebel's blades clean off the polearm.
But Rebel didn't flinch. He instantly pivoted, raising the remaining blade on the other end of his polearm, aiming straight for Enshou's vitals.
It was the finishing blow.
Enshou froze—he knew Rebel had him.
But in a blink—Enshou vanished.
He spun mid-air, appearing behind Rebel in a seamless motion. Before Rebel could react, Enshou drove his blade into Rebel's back, piercing through him.
Blood gushed from Rebel's mouth as he staggered forward.
"I didn't want to do it," Enshou said, gripping his sword tightly. "But I had no other choice."
Aingo stood up abruptly, eyes wide in disbelief.
Tanker unfolded his arms, his expression darkening as he stared at Enshou with quiet fury.
Rider turned to Aingo. "What just happened?! What was that move?!"
Aingo answered, voice grim.
"That move Enshou just used... it's Dextin's signature technique. Betrayal."