And then, in a flash, Kimura appeared on stage. Without a word, his arm swiped downward, a gesture both sharp and commanding.
The opponents hesitated, uncertainty flickering across their faces, as though they still awaited the ceremonial call to begin.
They did not receive it.
Before comprehension could take hold, VIKTOR surged forward, an abrupt, explosive motion that propelled him across the ground with startling force.
"Damn fools. If you're waiting for a call like obedient hounds, you may as well die like them," he said, his voice harsher, colder even than Jurgen's.
His advance tore across the stage in a violent blur. Each step carried a weight that seemed to press into the ground itself, the air around him quivering in response.
The opponents reacted too late.
One staggered backward, boots scraping against the surface as dust rose in uneven bursts. Another managed to raise an arm in defense, but the impact of VIKTOR's strike reverberated through their frame, forcing a strained recoil that fell into a crouch.
Dust spiraled upward, swallowing the entire arena where their blows had struck. It hung in the air like a dense, shifting veil, blurring outlines and softening the edges of the chaos.
Jurgen's gaze sharpened, his expression tightening ever so slightly.
This guy… fights without restraint
In the same breath, BALBIN surged.
A single, precise motion, swift and deliberate, cutting past Moshi before he could so much as steady himself. The strike did not fully land, yet the air itself seemed disturbed by its passage, faint sparks of residual energy lingering.
That left only two figures amidst the fractured calm.
ANTON.
VIKTOR.
For a brief moment, neither moved.
The air between them tightened, dense, expectant, like a drawn blade suspended just before the strike.
Viktor's shoulders rolled slightly, his stance loose yet coiled with restrained violence, as though any motion from Anton would be answered without hesitation.
His voice rang out once more, cleaving through the charged silence.
"What's the matter? Fight… or surrender like the weakling you are."
A ripple passed through the crowd, low murmurs of disbelief stirred by the sheer velocity and brutality on display.
Jurgen's fists tightened at his sides, the tension coiling through him as his heartbeat aligned with the rhythm of the unfolding clash.
Focus. Watch. Learn.
His gaze remained fixed on the stage, unblinking, as the dust began to settle in slow, drifting veils, just enough for clarity to return.
A brief stillness followed.
VIKTOR stood a few paces away, unwavering, his presence heavy and unrelenting.
Opposite him, Anton remained lowered, one knee bent from the force of the earlier strike.
"Sorry about that."
His voice broke through the quiet, measured… almost disarmingly so.
He placed a hand against his knee, steadying himself, before rising with deliberate composure.
"It would seem I was… momentarily distracted. Forgive the discourtesy."
A quiet breath left him, controlled and even, as though the exchange thus far had scarcely taxed him at all.
Then,
His posture shifted.
Subtle, yet unmistakable.
The calm did not fade.
It sharpened.
"Now then… come at me with everything you have."
Anton lifted his guard, slipping fluidly into a boxer's stance, calm, measured, yet ready.
"Come at you… with all I've got?"
VIKTOR's voice cut through the suspended tension, icy and biting.
"Don't make me laugh."
Viktor launched himself into the air, a wicked, almost playful grin twisting across his face. His strike arced toward Anton, every fiber of his movement brimming with raw intent.
"Like a weakling like you can handle my full power!" he roared, voice cutting through the charged atmosphere.
But before the attack could land, Anton vanished, gone in the blink of an eye, leaving only empty space beneath Viktor's outstretched limbs.
Viktor's eyes snapped wide, scanning the arena, heart pulsing with sudden awareness. Gone.
Then,
There.
Right beside him, mid-swing, Anton twisted with impossible speed.
CRACK!
His fist slammed into VIKTOR's ribs, deep and precise. The sound cleaved the air, sharp and punishing.
Viktor's body convulsed under the impact, the force ripping through him. In the next instant, he was hurled sideways, skidding violently across the ground, carving a trail of destruction in his wake.
The arena seemed to tremble in response, dust and debris spiraling around the chaos as Anton landed, poised and unshaken, the calm eye of the storm amidst Viktor's violent tumble.
Murmurs rippled through the other participants, their voices hushed with a mix of anticipation and disbelief.
Something in the air shifted, on the other end, subtle but undeniable.
Fists collided with brutal precision as one fighter staggered backward, crimson streaking down his brow.
"You're already falling behind," his opponent intoned, calm and almost taunting, stepping in with measured ease. "If I recall correctly, your name was… A-Akasaro… Akaa… sera?…" His words dragged mockingly, deliberate in their provocation.
"Akasora Moshi!" the other snapped, lunging forward with razor-sharp intent.
He drove a leg low, aiming to sweep Balbin off his feet, but Balbin reacted instantly, springing backward before surging forward in a near-continuous motion. His fist thundered toward Moshi's face.
Moshi planted his palm firmly against the ground, twisting with fluid grace as the blow passed harmlessly. Harnessing the momentum, he swung his leg upward in a vicious arc, driving a kick straight into Balbin's face.
WHAM!
The impact rattled Balbin, his head snapping back violently.
Moshi flipped away, three precise backflips carrying him lightly across the stage, creating just enough distance to reset.
Balbin's neck jolted sharply from the strike, a flash of pain racing through his spine, but he remained unshaken.
A wicked grin spread across his face, eyes narrowing as he assumed his stance once more, each movement radiating lethal intent.
"You pack quite the punch," Balbin said, voice sharp but tinged with amusement, the pain doing little to diminish his composure.
Moshi tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"I get that quite often," he replied, calm and almost casual, as if acknowledging a compliment rather than a warning.
Without hesitation, Balbin lunged forward, twisting his body mid-step. His fist cut through the air, aimed directly at Moshi's temple with lethal intent.
Moshi drew in a slow, deliberate breath.
WHOOSH!
He vanished.
In the next heartbeat, he reappeared in front of Balbin, too fast to track, too sudden to counter mid-strike. His body dropped low, coiled like a spring primed to explode.