"Hey! Messy hair!" the taunt rang out, sharp and derisive. "Already struggling after all that bravado?"
A brief pause, then, with a mocking edge:
"Come on, finish it. I'd hate to see an all bark, no bite duo."
A heavy impact thundered across the arena.
Viktor was driven backward, his boots grinding harshly against the stone as he skidded to a halt. Blood trailed from his forehead in a thin, steady line, and his chest rose and fell in uneven bursts as he fought to regain control of his breathing.
Opposite him, Anton stood unshaken.
Composed.
Dominant.
The advantage was unmistakably his.
His eyes shifted with quiet precision, surveying the battlefield as his Reira flowed outward in faint, sweeping arcs. It moved like a living current, fluid, responsive, granting him seamless avenues of movement, an ever-present means of evasion.
A safety net that never faltered.
Viktor's elbow gave a sharp hiss.
From it, black tendrils unfurled, slick, sinuous, coiling along his arm before converging into form. They thickened, hardened, shaping themselves into a dense, pitch-black barrel that encased his forearm and palm alike. Within it, a low mechanical hum stirred to life, steady and ominous.
It seems I have no alternative.
Yamishoku.
The Dark Barrel activated.
The construct rotated slowly, its surface alive with shifting shadows, tendrils binding elbow to fist like living circuitry.
"I don't need commentary from you," Viktor said, his voice low, edged with quiet hostility.
Anton's expression flickered, only briefly, but it was enough. Recognition. Caution.
He adjusted his stance.
Prepared.
Viktor's gaze sharpened, his tone dropping further, almost glacial.
"I still can't discern how he moves that quickly…"
Then, aloud.
"Run if you like, weakling. It seems to be the only thing you excel at."
With a sudden surge, Viktor propelled himself forward, fist leading, the spinning black barrel gleaming with a malevolent sheen.
He moved with predatory speed, slicing the space between them in an instant, a shadow manifest in motion.
Anton leapt, expecting to teleport through the undulating waves of his Reira, but something was amiss. The currents twisted unnaturally, fluctuating in violent, unpredictable arcs.
He tried again. The Reira shuddered, faltering, caught in a suffocating web of disruption. Horror dawned as realization struck, he could no longer vanish, no longer escape. Viktor's barrel was more than a weapon; it scrambled the very energy he relied upon.
"Impossible…" Anton whispered, his voice tight with panic.
Viktor's fist struck, the impact meeting Anton's arm with a sickening CRACK.
"Give up!" Viktor's words rang sharp, unyielding.
Anton sprang back, muscles straining, his Reira flaring in chaotic bursts, uncontrolled and scattered by the mechanical force embedded within Viktor's barrel. Each movement sparked, unstable, as if the energy itself resisted him.
Viktor did not pause. The barrel accelerated, tendrils writhing and coiling, black as midnight, alive in their sinuous motion.
Across the arena, the two emperors observed intently.
"Hey… Nemey, what is that?" Leonidas asked, his gaze locked on the unfolding battle.
"That," Nemey replied, eyes narrowing with focus, "is a terrifying ability. To think someone of his age could awaken power so ominous…" His voice trailed, the weight of unease unmistakable. Such a presence… who is this child?
Viktor's barrel continued to twist and coil, shadows alive around his arm. He straightened, the mechanical whirring escalating into a resonant hum, and his eyes fixed upon Anton with relentless precision.
"Give up."
The words cut through the arena, cold, decisive, an unyielding command that left no space for doubt.
Anton's chest heaved violently, each breath ragged, pride struggling against the pain that threatened to undo him.
"I… I refuse!" he rasped, voice barely audible over the chaos, though every word carried the strain of agony. His arm was shattered, his Reira disrupted, and as if that were not enough, a sharp, unrelenting pain lanced through him, stabbing like a knife with cruel precision.
Viktor still a few feet from Anton, unwavering. Without advancing, he simply raised his weapon, the black barrel ominously aligned with Anton's arm.
The mechanical engine within whirred to life, low and relentless, a predatory hum that filled the space between them. The barrel's dark surface shimmered, the tendrils writhing like living shadows, alive with intent.
Then, as if obeying Viktor's will alone, the barrel activated. Yamishoku.
"…Nomu… Yamikui! (Swallow… barrel of darkness)"
Instantly, the barrel surged outward, shadow-imbued embers streaming from its form like black flames. The Reira within it shrieked and convulsed, destabilized beyond control, as the weapon locked onto Anton's arm with relentless precision. There was no tether, no tendril, only the merciless pull of focused, absolute absorption.
Anton's arm was drawn toward it, not by tendrils, not by ropes of energy, but by the sheer, inescapable pull of the weapon itself. Distance meant nothing. Resistance was irrelevant. The barrel devoured what it touched, and Anton's arm was being peeled, absorbed, and disrupted, every nerve and flow of Reira obliterated under its merciless force.
Yamikui swallows all that it touches, no matter the distance, no matter the resistance.
Anton's fingers clawed desperately toward the void, muscles straining, but it was futile. The barrel devoured his arm, peeling it slowly as every nerve, every flow of Reira, was obliterated beyond repair.
"I want to hear it… give up!" Viktor's voice rang, calm, absolute, unstoppable, threaded with the faintest glimmer of amusement.
Anton gasped, blood streaking his pallid face, body trembling from head to toe. At last, in a broken whisper:
"I… surrender…"
Yet Viktor did not immediately relent. The black barrel of Yamishoku continued its merciless pull, peeling Anton's arm slowly, inexorably. Blood welled, dark and hot, and tears of torn flesh began to show along the surface, glistening as they were dragged toward the void.
A loud, ragged scream tore from Anton's lungs, raw and unrestrained, echoing through the arena. The sound was a primal testament to the agony that surged through every nerve, every tendon, every shard of muscle being shredded. His body convulsed violently, powerless under the weapon's relentless force.
It was only when the arm teetered on the brink, nearly severed, almost fully consumed by Yamishoku that Viktor finally eased his hold.
With a faint mechanical sigh, the tendrils retracted, the engine winding down, leaving Anton broken, bloodied, trembling, and gasping for breath.
Anton remained crumpled, trembling, his arm almost destroyed, a stark testament to the weapon's merciless precision.
Jurgen stood frozen, eyes wide. This was no ordinary confrontation. Viktor's power was unlike anything he had encountered. To underestimate him now would be fatal.
He turned, walking away from the arena with deliberate calm, leaving a tense silence in his wake. Jurgen's eyes remained fixed on him, wide and unblinking, a single bead of sweat tracing a slow line down his temple.
The healers moved swiftly to Anton's side, their hands glowing as they worked, channeling their restorative arts. The torn flesh along Anton's arm slowly knit together, the jagged tears closing under their careful ministrations. The mark and lingering pain remained, but the arm was spared from complete destruction.
They moved seamlessly from Anton to the other injured participant, Balbin, tending to his wounds in a continuous, practiced rhythm, ensuring both were stabilized before the next challengers could step forward.
The arena's tension gradually eased, settling like dust after a storm. Blood still stained the stone where Anton had fallen, a grim reminder of the power displayed.
And yet, the flow of combat could not be paused for long, the next matches were already beginning, each step onto the stage carrying the weight of anticipation, fear, and the promise of violence.