The arena reverberated with clashing sounds—shattering, grinding, and rumbling—producing a cacophony that rendered IQ120's hearing irrelevant. His only reliable sense now was his vision.
"Shshhkkk." A scraping sound echoed, akin to a blade dragged across a metal floor.
"Shshkk." IQ120's claws slowly slid down the wall to which he clung.
"Shsk." The pain was too intense to maintain his grip, and he wondered if Miret would ever emerge.
"Haaa haaa haa." He was breathing heavily.
Despite appearances, IQ120 was exhausted. Causing the arena to collapse had taken a toll. Each punch he threw carried his full strength and speed, damaging his whole arm. Blood dripped slowly from his injured hands, threatening his hold on the wall.
Then, a deafening "Booooommm!" Rocks, stones, and dust erupted, revealing Miret at the center. Miret landed awkwardly, clearly fatigued.
"Finally," IQ120 muttered. He detached his claws and dropped to the floor. Standing up straight, he took one last look at his damaged hands before inhaling deeply. With resolve, he stepped forward, enduring the pain, ready to end it all.
…
Miret didn't know he could be so happy to see the observer's face, and the unbelievable happened—for a few seconds, a smile of relief hung on his observer's face. Even through all the dust, the smile seemed to shine through before he reverted to the emotionless expression he always carried.
This was the end. His arm hung lifeless beside his body, his legs on the brink of collapse. He found a small rock and sank onto it. Despite not being as close to the surface as he had hoped' it hardly mattered. The thought was only there to encourage himself to keep going… keep striking. And striking still, he got out, and now his arm, in fact, his whole body was utterly useless. He felt like he couldn't even stand on his two feet anymore.
As the dust settled, Miret discerned the outline of IQ120 drawing nearer through his hazy vision. He was such a disappointment; he couldn't even do any significant damage to IQ120. Yet his observer smiled at him, and with that, he knew he had at least done enough—no more than enough. He had impressed his monstrous masters. A hint of pride crept over him, and he closed his eyes, their weight too much to bear, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"I gave up," Miret whispered.
IQ120's claws halted, mere millimeters from piercing his throat. The tension hung in the air.
"Huuff," IQ120 took a deep breath.
"Haaa," he exhaled.
"This was a good fight," IQ120 acknowledged.
"Don't praise me. I failed… now I just want to rest… will I get to rest?" Miret's voice wavered.
"Yes, you will," IQ120 replied, retracting his bloody hand. The blood staining it wasn't Miret's; it was IQ120's own. Miret had either fainted or fallen asleep upon hearing the answer. His fate now rested in IQ120's hands—to spare him or end him here.
Fortunately, IQ120 had no intention of killing Miret. He wanted to witness Miret's strength, something he sufficiently did, though he did fail to kill him. That was okay; he was more than happy to be a part of this battle, witness it, and also win at last. This was the first time in a long time he had felt joy from his battle and not pity, disappointment, or hate.
His combat-ready stance was a bluff. Unlike Miret, he never had time to rest through most of the fight. The entire seven hours while Miret was unground, he was extremely cautious and active, not to be attacked like Miret had done before when he dropped his guard.
With a soft "thud," IQ120 settled on another small rock opposite Miret. Exhaustion washed over him, and he welcomed the end.
"That was more than praise, Miret," IQ120 murmured. "Truly, a great fight."
And then, sleep claimed him.