After four days of a physical martyrdom that defied the very logic of human survival, the final tournament loomed on the horizon like a death sentence or a throne of glory. Yasoke, the youth whose limits had been shattered hour after hour, was visibly more robust. His muscle fibers, torn and rebuilt by Yuji's dubious magic syringes, now possessed an almost stone-like density. However, his pure Macogo remained dormant, buried under layers of an exhaustion so profound it seemed to have reached his very soul. He was an extinguished furnace—filled with fuel, but lacking the spark necessary for ignition.
In the funereal silence of the final night, Yuji acted. With the fluid movements of a specter, the master carried his sleeping pupil outside. Under the pale moonlight bathing the region, Yuji used a rope of strange fibers, a dark violet hue that seemed to pulse faintly. He hoisted Yasoke by his ankles and wrists, leaving him hanging upside down from the highest and most unstable branch of the neighboring tree, where the wind blew strongest. On the damp ground directly beneath the youth, Yuji placed the new attire that would symbolize his entry into the arena: an immaculate white tank top, a red jacket as vibrant as blood, reinforced jeans, and... a pair of ballet slippers. Yuji stared at the satin shoes with a brief and genuine sense of bewilderment, but with his characteristic nonchalance, he shrugged and vanished into the darkness of the house, leaving the silence to be filled only by the rustling of leaves.
Meanwhile, miles away on the outskirts of the technological metropolis of Lutherking, Jhony faced his own personal hell. The setting was a hidden grotto behind a curtain of water that, by Neshin Osipov's hand, was not composed of ordinary liquid, but of a waterfall of black lightning. Jhony meditated under the constant impact of this cascade of pure, chaotic energy. The effort to keep his aura concentrated and avoid being reduced to ash was Herculean; every nerve in his body screamed in agony, and the smell of burnt ozone filled his lungs.
Neshin broke through the energy curtain with a gelid gaze, the reflection of the black lightning dancing in his bristly beard. — Enough meditating, boy. Your opponents will have no mercy, and neither will I. As a final test, you will have to survive me!
Jhony wiped the blood trickling from his brow and smirked—a gesture of audacity that masked his absolute exhaustion. The master accepted the challenge promptly, assuming an ancestral Northrain combat stance: his left arm extended with an open palm, his right retracted in a spear-like form at the level of the abdomen. It was a base of iron, as immovable as a mountain. Jhony, on the other hand, tightened his guard like a boxing slugger, his muscles tensed and his center of gravity low. The sky of Lutherking responded to that murderous tension, collapsing into a sudden storm that transformed the battlefield into a quagmire.
— With the first strike of lightning, death comes — Neshin warned, his voice cutting through the roll of thunder.
The wind howled between the two warriors, carrying raindrops that felt like icy needles. CABRUM!!! A cataclysmic bolt of lightning incinerated a nearby tree, illuminating the silhouettes of the combatants for a brief instant. It was the signal.
Neshin did not run; he simply vanished from the human visual spectrum. Jhony spun his torso quickly, his eyes frantically hunting for the master, but Neshin was already at his flank, moving with the speed of electricity itself. A spear of black lightning materialized in the old man's hand, hissing with an unbearable frequency. He fired it at point-blank range. Jhony jumped at the last millisecond, feeling the residual heat graze his ribs and singe his new garment. The projectile pierced the ground like a hot needle through butter, leaving a black, glassy, and seemingly infinite tunnel in the earth.
Jhony barely had time to touch the muddy ground before Neshin's boot appeared out of nowhere, aimed at his face. The youth staggered, the impact making his ears ring, but he attempted a desperate counterattack. The old man, however, was like a shadow; he repositioned with supernatural fluidity and buried an electrified punch into Jhony's abdomen. The youth tried to reinforce the area at the last second, but the force was overwhelming. He flew like a human projectile, shattering the trunk of a centennial oak as he collided violently with his back.
Neshin did not stop to observe the damage. He raised his hands to the firmament, and the ground around Jhony began to expel spears of black lightning that sprouted like thorns from the earth. The youth serpentined through the discharges, the dust and water vapor blinding his vision, but a white and black glow grew before him—a singularity of energy that seemed to devour the surrounding light. He tried to retreat, but Neshin was already crouching in his blind spot, his right palm charged with a voltage capable of incinerating tungsten. — You fled too soon, boy!
The discharge exploded directly against Jhony's chest. He felt every muscle fiber contort in indescribable electrical agony before collapsing heavily into the cold mud. Neshin approached with slow steps, kicking the fallen body with an expression of cold contempt. — GET UP! I know that "half-baked" attack wouldn't stop you!
Something inside Jhony snapped. It wasn't just pride, but the accumulated fury of one who had been humiliated for days. His aura exploded. In a blur of speed that surprised even the master himself, he vanished from the mud and reappeared exactly behind Neshin. He threw the punch of his life, channeling all his frustration and the weight of his journey into that right fist. But there was no sound of breaking bones. There was no resistance.
His hand passed right through Neshin's face, which had transformed into pure electricity at the moment of contact. Terror chilled Jhony's blood as he saw the old man's lightning eyes staring back at him. — Lahalahalaha! — Neshin cackled while his elemental form oscillated between matter and plasma. — I forgot to mention: against energy beings, concentrate your pure Macogo in your fist, or you'll just be punching the air!
The old man declared the fight over, returning to his human form with a sigh of satisfaction, and walked toward the cabin. Jhony, trembling from the excessive effort, tried to follow him. He took one stumbling step, two, three... On the fifth, his legs gave way as if they were made of jelly. Systemic collapse came before he could reach the door. — Master Neshin... I used everything in that rush... carry me... — Jhony murmured, his vision darkening before exhaustion finally claimed him. With a corner-smile, proud of the "kid's" evolution, the elder threw the boy over his shoulders and took him into the warmth of the fireplace, where the tea was still hot.
Meanwhile, in the clearing where Yasoke was exiled, the sun began to rise, but it brought no relief; it brought only the visibility of his own misfortune. The torrential rain of the early morning still lashed his hanging body. Drenched, dizzy, and with blood pooling in his head—generating a throbbing intracranial pressure—he opened his eyes to see the world upside down. The first thing his dilated pupils focused on were the clothes: the red jacket, the white tank top, the jeans, and those cursed ballet slippers, swaying slightly in the wind.
— YUJI, YOU BASTARD! GET ME OUT OF HERE! — he screamed, his voice hoarse from effort, but the only response was the distant echo of thunder and the sound of raindrops hitting the leaves.
Yasoke quickly realized the ropes were not made of hemp or nylon. They were sensitive organic fibers that seemed to feed on his physical strength; the more he tried to struggle using only his muscles, the tighter the ropes squeezed, cutting off his circulation. Cold water droplets ran from his heels, down his legs, and into his nostrils, creating a sensation of constant, inverted drowning. It was a night of delirium, where he saw ghosts and heard voices that did not exist, all fueled by a rage that burned hotter than the cold itself.
At dawn, as the mist began to dissipate, Yuji emerged from the house, picking his teeth with an irritating tranquility. He walked to the base of the tree and looked up as if observing the weather. — It's seven-thirty, Yasoke. The tournament starts at noon. I suggest you hurry. — LET ME GO, YUJI! THIS ISN'T TRAINING! — the youth bellowed, the veins in his neck bulging from the pressure. — To free yourself, you only need one thing: pure Macogo. When you concentrate enough energy, the rope—which is indestructible to mere mortals—will snap like sewing thread. Good luck!
Yuji turned his back without looking back, whistling a random tune as he returned to have his tea with Miguel and Zilmar, who watched from the porch. Yasoke, possessed by a visceral hatred that transcended fatigue, closed his eyes tightly. He no longer thought of the tournament, nor of glory; he thought only of destroying that rope and, perhaps, Yuji's face. He searched for that energy within himself, scouring every corner of his circulatory system, but the pure Macogo remained an empty promise. The rope stayed intact, mocking his impotence. He gasped, thrashing like a caged animal about to be sacrificed, and felt his heart begin to beat at a different rhythm. Time wasn't just running; it was running out. And if Yasoke did not awaken now, he would not only lose the tournament; he would die hanging from that tree, a victim of his own weakness.