Yesdar had already triumphed over 38 opponents, each one falling like brittle leaves before the wind. Small fries, all of them—hardly worthy of his attention. The duel competition had been set to continue until midday, but with his one-blow victories and other contestants dropping out either from exhaustion, injury, or sheer terror, the competition was wrapping up earlier than expected.
Some contestants had been granted extra chances to prove themselves, while others had retreated in humiliation or outright quit before their first fights, the aura of the remaining combatants overwhelming them. The tension of the arena, combined with the raw presence of certain contestants, had been enough to make lesser fighters lose the will to fight. Whispers of fear and awe swirled around One-Blow Jesdala. His score—38 wins, zero losses. His audience engagement stood at a solid 88%, high for any contest. Yet still, someone else had scored higher—94%.
As Yesdar strode out for his 39th duel, a strange sensation crept over him. His senses, finely attuned to the energy of others, detected something different—a more formidable presence.
Another fool to crush, Yesdar thought, somewhat bored by the unchanging rhythm of this competition. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword as he awaited the arrival of his next opponent. The dust clouds rolled in, carried by the wind swirling inside the arena's blood-red atmosphere. But something was different this time—the air was thick with anticipation, the atmosphere tightening around him.
Yesdar's sharp instincts flared, his eyes narrowing slightly. And then, the commentator's voice cut through the noise, a dramatic shift from the usual blathering nonsense. His tone was uncharacteristically serious.
"We welcome once again... someone who, unlike Jesdala, is not just feared inside this arena—but throughout all of Mordul Uls! His name brings terror in every corner of the territory. He has already made his presence felt, and this will be his most anticipated battle of the tournament. Introducing him once again like I have before, the gang lord of the Underworld Gambling Organization, known as The Serpent of Mordul Uls… Danior Somia!!!"
Yesdar's expression immediately sharpened. "Somia?" The name echoed in his mind. Wait... Somia? It rang a bell—he'd heard that name before, but not in the context of the underworld. His eyes narrowed in realization.
Ms. Somia's brother? It hit him like a bolt of lightning. "No way, this is confusing," he muttered under his breath. The realization tumbled through his mind rapidly. She said her brother was a fighting enthusiast, competing in this tournament to improve their financial situation... but a gang lord? He's the serpent of Mordul Uls that Vill-whatever talked about?
The more he thought about it, the stranger it seemed. The commentator had mentioned the Underworld Gambling Organization, a name notorious throughout the territory, feared even by the most hardened criminals. Could this be why she didn't tell us the truth about her brother? But if the whole territory knows about him, there's no point hiding it. Had she already known that we were not from Mordul Uls from the beginning?
But somehow, it still made sense—the way she avoided specifics, the simplicity of her rundown restaurant. Perhaps poverty wasn't the reason for her quiet life. Perhaps it was hiding from the shadow of her brother's reputation.
Whispers rippled through the audience, the murmur of unease growing louder by the second. Yesdar's lips curled into a tight smile. This just got interesting.
"Somia?…" Malaes said, her voice barely a whisper as the realization dawned on her. "So is that Ms. Somia's brother?"
Virumi, her heart as always focused on her Yesdar-sama, barely remembered the connection. "Noi? Ms. Somia? Who's that?"
"UGH!" Malaes groaned in frustration, resisting the urge to slap Virumi's back of the head. "The restaurant lady! The one who served us the pilaf! Wake up from your ridiculous daydreams! You're obsessed with 'Yesdar-sama', Griswa's asleep without a care in the world—why am I surrounded by fools?!" Sweatdrops of exasperation formed on Malaes' forehead as she looked over to see Griswa chilling like he was at a beach, his foot still dangling lazily in the air.
Back in the arena, Yesdar's thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable pressure of powerful energy approaching. A silhouette began to take shape, emerging from the swirling dust clouds of the red-lit battlefield. The tension in the air thickened, the crowd silent with anticipation. Every breath seemed heavier.
The figure stepped into view—a man shrouded in a black hooded robe, his presence unsettling. He wore a irregular heptagonal war mask, its design simple yet ominous, covering most of his face except for the sides where the edges of a black-and-white beard jutted out. His dark, weathered eyes were visible through slits in the mask, cold and calculating. The embroidery on his mask and robe was minimal, but its design carried an aura of violence.
Danior Somia was unlike any opponent Yesdar had faced so far. His movements were deliberate, but they carried the lethal precision of someone well-acquainted with the art of killing. Clutched tightly in his each hand were three machetes gripped tightly between the spaces between the fingers. Their blades gleamed wickedly in the red light, the metal whispering of bloodshed. He wasn't here to show off or entertain—he was here to end his opponents.
Yesdar inhaled slowly, his breath cold as he took in the sight before him. His grip tightened around his sword hilt as he prepared for what he hoped would be a more interesting fight.
Danior's voice, gruff yet controlled, cut through the silence like a razor. "Like you, I too have been facing only weak, slow, stupid and ignorant bullshitters. Let's see if you can live up to the name you are given. You can defend yourself all you want, but can you defeat me with just one devastating blow?"
Yesdar's eyes flickered with amusement, though his face remained impassive. This is different. He was used to his opponents boasting, bragging, puffing themselves up with hollow confidence. Danior was different—calm and calculated like a predator watching his prey.
"I didn't ask for that name," Yesdar replied, his voice calm but laced with intensity. His hand drew his sword, the blade gleaming as it sliced the air with ease. "My goal is simple—to defeat you. If that takes one blow, great. If it takes more, I don't care. I'm not here to live up to a name I didn't choose, a name that was just given to me some hours ago. And anyways, people are gonna forget the name, but will remember what I did and that is defeating The Serpent of Mordul Uls."
The crowd hushed, leaning forward in anticipation. The energy in the arena shifted, the very air seeming to tense, as if even the red mist that enveloped the battlefield was holding its breath, eager to witness the clash between these two battlers.
Danior chuckled softly beneath his mask, the sound low and dangerous. "Interesting… but not very interesting," he said, his tone dismissive, as though he'd already made up his mind. With a swift movement, he swiped his machetes through the air, the sharp blades slicing through the dust clouds in front of him, clearing the view between him and Yesdar.
For the first time in this competition, Yesdar felt a rush of excitement surging through his veins. His heart raced—not with fear, but with anticipation. He was finally facing an opponent who might be worthy of his full attention. Danior Somia wasn't here to be a showman or to play games. He was here to kill, and Yesdar knew this would be his first better fight.
The air buzzed and snapped with energy, the tension looking at them face to face. Both fighters stood at the ready, their weapons gleamed. The weight of the impending battle pressed down on the arena like a maelstrom on the horizon.
The red mist hung like a curse, thickening the atmosphere with bloodlust and impending violence. The world seemed to hold its breath, every grain of sand trembling as two titans prepared to rip reality apart. Yesdar's coat swayed lightly in the wind, and even that small motion felt like a prelude to something catastrophic. His sword, sleek and impossibly sharp, hung loosely in his hand, an extension of himself, glinting silver despite the suffocating red aura around them. On the other side, Danior Somia, the feared serpent of Mordul Uls, stood motionless. His six machetes twirled almost lazily in his hands, but the tension in his body was anything but relaxed. His hooded figure emanated a sickening energy—an air of chaos barely contained.
For a moment, the universe itself paused. The deafening silence of millions of eyes locked on them; the crowd had forgotten how to breathe. Even the commentator, who had barked on endlessly, fell silent, as if the enormity of what was about to unfold was too much for his voice to carry. This was not just a battle; it was a reckoning between two forces that transcended the mere concept of "strong." The silence was absolute, and then… the world broke.
Danior moved first.
He didn't run; he launched. His feet tore into the sand with such force that it seemed the earth beneath him cracked. His six machetes blurred into existence, spinning wildly in his hands like a cyclone of jagged metal and death. Yesdar's eyes, cold and unblinking, tracked every motion. To the crowd, Danior was a blur, but to Yesdar, he was a slow-moving typhoon.
The first clash was like the shattering of a mountain. Danior's six blades collided with Yesdar's sword, and in that moment, the arena erupted in sparks. The force of the impact sent ripples through the sand, sending plumes of dust swirling in all directions. It felt as though the air had been sucked out of the world, leaving only the metallic shriek of steel grinding against steel. The ground beneath their feet cracked under the pressure, groaning in protest as if it too would break from the sheer weight of their clash.
Yesdar didn't falter. His sword, though singular, pushed back against the hurricane of blades with ease, his body became a perfect synthesis of deadly precision and overwhelming power. Each flick of his wrist sent Danior's machetes careening off course, their deadly trajectories turned into harmless arcs of light in the red mist. Danior's face twisted beneath his mask as he pressed forward, the wild energy in his machetes intensifying with every blow. He was not a man who backed down. He was chaos, destruction incarnate, and for every step Yesdar took back, Danior pushed twice as hard.
But Yesdar, cold and calculated, remained a step ahead. His blade cut through the storm of machetes with pinpoint accuracy, each parry deflecting the deadly onslaught with an almost disinterested grace. His coat billowed out behind him like a raven's wings, dark and untouchable as he spun through Danior's assault. The world around them moved in slow motion, and every second felt like an eternity.
Danior, relentless and furious, screamed through the fog. His machetes moved like whirlwinds of destruction, aiming for Yesdar's throat, his chest, his legs—anything to tear him apart. But Yesdar, ever unflinching, moved like water, slipping through the gaps between Danior's blades, his own sword flashing like a ghost. In a moment too fast for the naked eyes, Yesdar twisted, his sword sweeping upwards in a sharp arc. The clash sent a shockwave rippling through the arena, lifting the sand beneath their feet and creating a vortex of dust and sparks.
The crowd gasped, the red mist swirling as if it too was alive, hungry for blood.
Danior staggered back, his machetes trembling in his hands as he glared at Yesdar through his mask. His breath came in heavy bursts, but his eyes—those eyes gleamed with a savage hunger. He relished this. He lived for this. Yesdar, on the other hand, remained eerily calm. His face betrayed nothing, not even a flicker of amusement. His sword hung at his side, not even raised in defense. To him, this was just another obstacle to cut down. Another piece of debris in his path.
With a roar, Danior charged again, his machetes carving through the red fog like a thunderclap. He moved with wild abandon, his body a blur of motion as he swung all six blades with such force that they seemed to scream through the air. But Yesdar was ready. His sword met the first machete with a resounding clang, the force of the impact sending sparks flying in every direction. He sidestepped the second blade with the ease of a shadow, and before Danior could register the movement, Yesdar had already deflected the third, fourth, and fifth blades with a single, fluid motion.
The sixth blade came down like a guillotine, aimed straight for Yesdar's head.
In the blink of an eye, Yesdar shifted. His coat snapped in the wind as he twisted his body, his sword flashing upwards in a deadly arc. The blade met Danior's machete with such force that the shockwave from the clash sent ripples through the sand, lifting dust and debris into the air. The sound of metal grinding against metal echoed through the arena, a deafening screech that rang out like a death knell. The crowd leaned forward, their eyes wide with disbelief as they watched the two warriors locked in a deadly dance on the screens.
Danior, snarling like a beast, pressed forward, his machetes spinning in his hands as he launched a relentless barrage of attacks. But Yesdar was untouchable. His sword moved with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel, cutting through Danior's defenses with ease. Every strike, every blow, was deflected with a grace that bordered on supernatural. It was as if Yesdar wasn't even trying, as if this battle was nothing more than a fleeting annoyance in his path.
But Danior was not one to back down. His eyes burned with a fury that could set the world ablaze. With a roar that shook the very foundations of the arena, he hurled all six of his machetes at Yesdar in a final, desperate assault. The blades whistled through the air, spinning like deadly projectiles as they converged on Yesdar from all sides. But Yesdar… he didn't even flinch.
With a flick of his wrist, his sword cut through the air like lightning. In a single, fluid motion, he deflected all six machetes, sending them spiraling into the sand with a dull thud. The crowd gasped in unison, their eyes wide with disbelief as they watched the scene unfold in slow motion. Yesdar stood tall, his sword gleaming in the dim light, his coat billowing dramatically in the wind.
Danior, unarmed and panting heavily, stared at the man before him with a mixture of awe and rage. His chest heaved with every breath, his body trembling from the sheer exertion of the battle. But Yesdar… Yesdar was untouched. His sword remained steady in his hand, not a single scratch marring its surface. His eyes remained cold and unfeeling because of the intensity of the moment. Yesdar locked his eyes onto Danior that sent a shiver down the gang lord's spine.
For a brief moment, the world seemed to stop. The red fog swirled around them like a living entity, and in that silence, the weight of the duel pressed down on the entire arena. It was as if the very metaverse had bent to witness this clash, this moment where gods as men and men as gods met in a test of wills.
And then, without warning, Yesdar moved.
He was a blur, a shadow, a specter in the wind. In an instant, he was upon Danior, his sword flashing through the air with a deadly precision that left no room for error. Danior barely had time to react before Yesdar's blade sliced through the space between them, cutting through the red fog like a knife through flesh. The world around held its breath as Yesdar's sword came to a halt, its tip resting inches from Danior's chest.
The greatest duel of the arena had just begun.
Pronunciations:
Danior Somia: [DAN]+[EE]+[AHR]