saudade; raiden ei

xʟɪ. prize

Match four was the semi-final. As fast as it came, it was over quicker. Carlos was awarded another astounding win. Y/n's contribution to the tournament was minimal, his capabilities and the speed at which he'd grasped her techniques having surpassed the soldier's expectations. Natlan shared this sentiment, astounded by the coward-turned-hero. So much so that he'd turned the atmosphere itself, broken chants of his name spurring every so often. It was only by the final that this evaporated, as the appearance of Gonzales invigorated them anew: the nation promoted its recurring champion.

The contestants stood parallel, separated by only ten metres of ground that was more perceived as a mile. Every soul within the arena itched with anticipation. Gonzales cut the air with a sneer: "What a joke. Do you think you have what it takes? Just look at you. I'll pulverize you with a flick of my thumb. Run, run, little boy; your head will be mine once I tear you apart, limb from limb."

A response wasn't given, but the panic that struck her student's eyes was clear as ice. His pupils darted from side to side, disorientating him when the battle began. Gonzales was everything you'd expect from a fighter: heavy, bulky and potent. The ground shook with the roar of his steps as he bounded towards the boy, an axe- his weapon of choice- swinging a wide arc straight into his stomach. Carlos ingested a sharp breath, his hands shaking with effort as his sword rose against his abdomen at a ninety-degree angle, barely rescuing him from death and clashing with the axe's haft.

Gonzales didn't halt his assault, burying the boy beneath his weight and pressing back his blade with minimal exertion. Carlos adjusted his grip and fell with the movement, steadying his anxiety and recalling his teacher's words.

'"Be quick and clever. Don't try to subdue your opponent with brute force. You won't."'

His muscles relaxed; Carlos succumbed to the attack and rocked back with his sword. He tilted his body as he moved, throwing Gonzales into imbalance under his maximum weight. Carlos used the moment's pause to collect his footing, prepared for his opponent's return. Gonzales struck a sequence of strikes at varied angles. Carlos was forced to adapt. Not only was this round a test of his ability, but a test of the mind.

With each attack halted, the next grew quicker until both contestants became an intangible flurry. The clang of metal as one blade parried the other reverberated throughout the scene, soft shades of blue and grey accompanying Carlos's every act. When their moves finally slowed, even Y/n was glazed with sweat.

But Gonzales's eyes burned bright with murderous intent, and on his next hit, her student's sword mounted the air in a spiral to conclude with a clatter. Carlos uncertainly rolled his fingers into his palm. He raised his fists, silencing the crowd.

Mercy was not an option.

The champion sneered at his vulnerable form, his ego immeasurable. He discarded his weapon, believing certain victory was in his hands. Excitement struck the onlookers in a rush. What they thought was over was instead prolonged on even ground; a refined art turned to a barbarian brawl as Gonzales made Carlos his toy.

Punches were thrown in endless aggression, a mirror to the previous dance of their blades. A heavy fist socked Carlos's jaw, pushing him back by at least a few paces and forcing coppery liquid through his lips. It accompanied a growing sensation of bile; his head swooned as he threw one straight back into his opponent's stomach. Gonzales doubled over, where a knee waited eagerly to meet his grotesque features. Ice coated the boy's joints like armour, sharp edges cutting effortlessly into the champion's skin.

It was to his horror that Gonzales finally found himself unable to stand.

The crowd erupted in an invigorated roar, a moment of stunned stupor at the loss of their beloved conqueror giving way to sheer amazement and ecstasy. They laughed with a new high, shaking each other and grinning wildly as if to confirm the reality of an impossible result to have witnessed. This tournament was at a clear end; it had been the best in Natlan's history. Only the Archon could silence a storm, her voice smoothing over their ecstatic voices like a stream over stone.