Chaos' Heir

903  End

Hundreds of descendants had joined Baoway's tournament, and each got to prove themselves at least once in the arena. The preliminaries, multiple repechages, and final rounds entertained the audience for longer than a month, but everything eventually came to an end.

A tall, lean, black-haired young man faced a shorter, burly, brown-haired young woman at the bottom of the arena. Both contestants were second-level warriors, but their inhumane stamina had still left them exhausted after multiple tight exchanges.

The audience held their breath, inspecting that silent, tense moment with their eyes or through the stages' screens. Clearly, the two contestants only had enough energy to launch one last offensive, and no one wanted to miss the final exchange.

The same went for the towers and terraces, including Khan's. The guests at his sides retained a respectful silence while waiting for the last exchange. The tournament had finally reached its apex, and both humans and aliens wanted to see its conclusion.

The young man's arms stood firmly before his face, protecting and half-hiding it. Meanwhile, his fingers were tense, stretched toward his opponent, seemingly ready to grab her.

The man was also curled forward, with his legs half-bent. That defensive stance completely shielded him from frontal attacks, and the exhaustion conveyed by his ragged breath failed to create meaningful openings.

Meanwhile, the young woman was in far worse shape. She was half-turned, perpendicular to her opponent. Her legs were straight, and her left arm rested curled by her waist, ready to spin forward. However, her right side offered no protection. It faced the contestant with nothing but her shoulder while its limb hung limply from it.

That wasn't the woman's proper guard. At the beginning of the battle, her right arm had stood straight, lifted toward her opponent to keep some distance. Yet, the hole in her right shoulder's armor highlighted the exchanges' results. The young man had rendered her limb useless, creating an immense opening.

Usually, warriors wouldn't hesitate to exploit such a big opening, but the young man hesitated. He had seen his opponent enduring his precise blows time after time, using those opportunities to launch devastating counterattacks. The woman's left arm was deadly, and two of her punches had almost made the man faint.

The woman shared her opponent's hesitation, albeit for different reasons. Her limp right arm left her vitals unprotected, and the man would obviously target them. The armor on her torso also had many holes, and she didn't know if her muscles alone could withstand the man's unavoidable blows.

The battle seemed to have reached a stalemate. The man only exposed himself during his offensive, so he was wise to focus on defending. Meanwhile, the woman was in no condition to launch an assault or bait her opponent out. She couldn't create openings without suffering first, and limiting the damage before her eventual counterattack sounded ideal.

However, the more experienced warriors in the audience saw a different truth. That was no stalemate, or rather, one side couldn't afford it to last too long. The woman had proven herself physically superior, so her stamina and arm would recover faster, putting the man back to square one.

The man had reached the tournament's final match, so his battle instincts were no joke. He knew how troublesome his situation was. His hesitation only benefitted his opponent, and each passing second tilted the scale in her favor.

Determination invaded the man's brown eyes as he took a series of deep breaths. He gathered his remaining forces to pursue the only path toward victory. He had to launch an attack and defeat his opponent with it. He would lose the match otherwise.

The woman noticed her opponent's resolve and a similar feeling invaded her. She steeled her mind, preparing herself for the imminent clash and the unavoidable pain it would bring. Her body's resilience would decide the match's outcome, and she didn't want her exhaustion or hesitation to get in its way.

The two warriors reached their peak concentration simultaneously, and the man dashed forward. His body almost became horizontal as he achieved his top speed in a couple of swift steps, slowing down only when the woman entered his arms' range.

The man suddenly stomped his left foot to the floor, dashing to his right to expose the woman's torso. However, the latter was ready for that and followed the abrupt change in direction. She actually ended up being faster than her opponent, filling his vision with her shoulder.

The young man's speed prevented him from stopping. He could still push himself away or continue running sideways to escape the unfavorable position. Yet, he pressed on, and his chest slammed on the woman's shoulder while his arms rose to deliver his offensive.

The woman remained unfazed by the impact. Her defensive stance didn't falter under the violent crash, and she even heard her opponent gasp, unable to hold on to the remaining air in his lungs. That had almost been a suicide attack, but the woman didn't underestimate the man's resolve.

The woman's shoulder, chest, and neck muscles tensed up, knowing the crash wouldn't stop her opponent. As expected, the man's arms quickly closed on her, and his stretched fingers hit specific spots on her neck and rib cage.

A lightning bolt ran through the woman. She felt frozen, with no control over her body. She couldn't move or breathe, and her vision grew blurry. Yet, she remained aware enough to know she had to act. Her opponent would overwhelm her otherwise.

The woman screamed, but only a grunt escaped her mouth as she forced her body into action. Her left leg didn't move, and her right foot seemed stuck to the floor, but she attacked anyway. Her torso spun, and her left arm shot forward, carrying all the strength she could muster.

The counterattack had almost been immediate. The punch arrived while the man was still catching his breath and had just retracted his arms. He couldn't dodge it, and jumping back wouldn't put him outside its range. Yet, he had expected as much.

The man pushed away any idea of escaping the attack and focused on the incoming punch. Calculations quickly happened inside his mind, telling him which spots he could target and the effectiveness of those blows. His arms rose before he could make a decision, but he still put as much strength as possible into them, trusting his battle instinct.

The man's stretched fingers hit the woman's elbow and wrist before her punch landed. The attack crashed on his chest armor, sending an earthquake to his rib cage, lungs, and heart. His body lost strength as his throat convulsed, but he stomped his feet to the floor, preventing that power from pushing him away.

The woman's eyes widened in surprise, but it was too late. The man launched a battle cry as his arms rose once again, converging on her left shoulder. His stretched finger pierced her armor, hitting specific spots underneath, and her left arm suddenly went limp. n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

The woman tried to jump backward, but the man didn't let her. As soon as her last defense fell, the man leaped forward, his left arm turning into a spear aimed at her forehead. His fingers hit, releasing his remaining strength, and the woman's vision went dark.

The audience on the stage held their breath. The man didn't attack anymore and leaned forward, coughing as his throat reminded him of the blow he had just suffered.

However, the woman also stood still, remaining on her feet before her exposed and exhausted opponent. That was the perfect chance for a finishing blow, but her body didn't move.

One second had to pass for the situation to become clear. The woman had never stood still. Her body had continuously tilted forward, albeit unnoticeably. Yet, that trend quickly picked up speed until she fell headfirst onto the floor.

A green glow shone on the man's lowered face. The floor lit up to announce the match's end, and the name on it confirmed the man's victory. Happiness invaded him, but he was too tired to straighten his back or shout, so he only lifted an arm, triggering deafening cheers from the stages.

The arena almost exploded among the applauses, cries, and cheers. Every screen focused on the young man, and more appeared under the stages on the battlefield's walls. The long tournament had a winner, and the man took a deep breath, finally savoring the chance to relax and enjoy his achievement.

Nevertheless, the man's lungs suddenly became unable to draw air. Something heavy had fallen on him, attempting to squash him on the floor. His battle instincts didn't even try to surge as his legs gave in, but an arm promptly caught him by his chest.

"You won't get the chance to relax on a real battlefield," A whisper reached the man's ears, and its words felt like hammers on his brain. "Still, you fought well. You have great instincts."

The hand on the man's chest lifted him, straightening his back and revealing its owner. The descendant found himself before a crowned figure with glowing eyes and donning an oversized red cape. Each of those details would make his identity unmistakable, but they almost felt too much to bear together.

Khan smiled at the descendant's hanging jaw before seizing his wrist to lift his arm. He glanced at the stages afterward, focusing on the symphony inside the arena, which became part of his vocal cords when he opened his mouth.

"I present to you the winner of my first tournament," Khan calmly said, but his voice reached every corner of the arena. "Congratulations, Moses Parket."