The atmosphere of the Red Arena had long ceased being anything natural. The ground itself trembled beneath the weight of the impending clash, as though the earth was terrified of what was about to unfold. The air, thick and suffocating with bloodlust, quivered with an energy that clawed at the very soul of anyone watching. Yesdar and Danior stood amidst this crimson maelstrom, locked in a silent battle of wills. The sand beneath their feet swirled like dust caught in the eye of a storm, and yet, in the middle of it all, everything was still—an unsettling calm before the hurricane of chaos that was about to be unleashed.
Danior with superspeed took some steps back, evanescing into the red fog. His silhouette, barely visible through that red fog, seemed to grow more menacing with each passing second. Yesdar, his stance unwavering, kept his sword at the ready, eyes narrowing as he caught the faintest shift in Danior's aura. There was something… off. He could feel it—something dark, something that clawed at the edges of reason. This wasn't the usual persistence of a defeated warrior; this was madness incarnate, the type of insanity that fed on desperation and thrived in chaos.
Danior's low chuckle echoed through the arena, a sound that cut through the red mist like a jagged blade. It wasn't a laugh of amusement or even of defiance. No, this was something far worse. It was a laugh that resonated from a place deep within the abyss—a place where pain and death no longer mattered. His body, trembling just moments before, straightened with deliberate, eerie slowness. The ground quaked beneath him as though it, too, felt the surge of unnatural power flooding his veins.
"You think… that's all I've got?" Danior rasped, his voice like gravel scraping against steel, sharp and grating.
Yesdar's eyes remained fixed on him, unfluctuating. There are always people who refuse to fall—warriors who cling to life with every last breath, driven by pride, vengeance, or sheer willpower. But this? This was something far beyond that. This was a force that twisted the very nature of the fight, something more malevolent than mere persistence. Yesdar adjusted his grip on his sword, preparing for whatever hell Danior was about to unleash.
Danior smiled under his mask, "The question of whether a warrior should stop their attack when their opponent cannot defend is a complex one, with no universally accepted answer." Said Danior in a simple tone. "But for now… you shouldn't have stopped."
Danior's fingers twitched, curling like claws, and with a sickening snap, the air around him shifted. Yesdar felt it immediately—a pulse of raw, overwhelming energy surging from the very core of the arena. The sand beneath their feet vibrated with a life of its own, almost as if it was responding to Danior's madness. The six machetes that had once lain defeated on the ground rose as if summoned by an invisible hand. They hovered in the air, spinning slowly at first, then faster, until they whirled like a vortex of death. With a fluid, almost casual motion, Danior caught them mid-spin, the steel blades settling into his hands like extensions of his own body.
The pressure in the arena surged, the air growing heavy with power. Yesdar didn't move. His instincts had been honed by countless battles, and every fiber of his being was telling him that this wasn't just about physical strength anymore. This was the threshold of something darker, something that transcended the boundaries of mere combat. Danior's grin, visible beneath his mask, was that of a man who had surrendered to the chaos within him, fully embracing the madness that had taken hold.
"I was just warming up," Danior growled, his voice feral and unhinged. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, the six machetes spinning around him like the spokes of a deadly machine.
Time slowed.
Yesdar's reflexes were beyond his normal level, honed to a razor's edge through years of battle, training, and the harsh crucible of survival. As the first machete came crashing down in a blur of steel, Yesdar's sword met it with a deafening clang. Sparks exploded in slow motion, drifting lazily through the air like burning stars. The impact was bone-shattering, the force behind it enough to send tremors through the ground beneath their feet!!! But Yesdar held his ground, his muscles coiled like steel as he deflected the blade with effortless precision.
Danior's assault was persistent. He spun, twisting his body with unnatural grace as two more machetes sliced through the air from opposite directions. Yesdar, calm as a river in the eye of the storm, moved with fluidity that bordered on supernatural. His sword flicked out in a flash of silver, parrying both blades in a single, seamless motion. Each clash sent more sparks flying into the crimson fog, lighting up the arena like fireworks in slow motion.
But Danior wasn't stopping. His attacks came faster, each strike carrying the weight of his madness. The six machetes blurred into one continuous storm of death, a whirlwind of steel that filled the air with the sound of shrieking metal. Yesdar's coat billowed behind him, caught in the hurricane of Danior's fury, yet he moved with a ghostly calm. Every step, every turn, was calculated, each motion designed to minimize effort while maximizing defense. His sword danced through the air, deflecting each machete with pinpoint accuracy, the metallic clangs echoing like the tolling of a death knell.
Danior's eyes gleamed with wild desperation, his breath ragged as he pressed harder, faster, throwing everything he had into his attacks. But Yesdar remained untouchable, his sword an impenetrable shield of silver, cutting through the chaos like a beacon of cold, calculated destruction.
The ground beneath their feet shivered with the force of each clash. Every impact sent ripples through the sand, lifting plumes of dust and debris into the air, turning the arena into a battlefield of swirling fog and sparks again and again. The crowd, silent with anticipation, watched in awe as the two warriors danced the deadly dance of gods and demons.
And then, in an instant, Danior changed tactics.
With a primal roar that seemed to shake the very heavens!!!! Danior hurled two of his machetes directly at Yesdar's chest. The blades spun through the air with terrifying speed, their razor-sharp edges cutting through the fog like buzzsaws. Yesdar's sword flashed upward, deflecting the first blade with a brilliant shower of sparks. But the second machete was too fast, too close.
Yesdar spun his body, moving with the grace of a shadow, and narrowly dodged the second blade as it whizzed past his face. The edge of the machete sliced a single thread from his coat, the heat of its passing so close he could feel it on his skin. He didn't flinch. His focus was absolute, his eyes locked onto Danior with deadly intent.
But Danior wasn't finished.
In a fluid, savage motion, he kicked off the ground, spinning like a cyclone as the remaining four machetes in his hands struck out in every direction. It was a dizzying storm of steel, a maelstrom of destruction aimed squarely at Yesdar. Time slowed again. Yesdar's eyes narrowed, his mind calm and focused as he calculated every angle, every deadly arc of Danior's blades.
He moved like lightning, his body slipping through the gaps in the storm with impossible precision. His sword flicked upward, deflecting one blade, his feet pivoting as he ducked beneath another. The sand beneath him barely stirred as he weaved through the lethal barrage, his movements so fluid and precise that it seemed as if he was dancing through the chaos.
Yesdar spun his sword in between the gaps of his fingers, sparks exploded around them in slow motion, multicolored bursts of light that illuminated the arena in a kaleidoscope of fire as Danior's blades clashed with lightning speed. Yesdar's coat flared out behind him, a dark specter against the red mist, as he continued to evade and deflect Danior's attacks with terrifying ease. But even he could sense the desperation in Danior's strikes. The gang lord's movements were becoming more erratic, his breathing heavier, his strikes wild and unfocused.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Danior screamed in frustration, his fury boiling over as his six blades slashed wildly through the air, each one aimed with disregard. But Yesdar saw his opening. In that moment of madness, when Danior's focus wavered, Yesdar's instincts took over.
With a flash of silver, Yesdar's sword moved with blinding speed. He parried two more incoming strikes, the sound of steel meeting steel echoing through the arena like thunder!!!!!! And then, with the precision of a master swordsman, Yesdar stepped forward, his body a blur of motion.
His sword flashed once! Twice! Three times!
Each strike was precise. Each one aimed with surgical accuracy and shockwave impact!!!!!!!
Danior tried to raise his blades to defend, but it was too late. Yesdar's final strike landed with surgical precision.
The edge of his sword met Danior's final machete with a force that reverberated through the entire arena. The sound of steel cracking echoed like the snap of a spine. The machete shattered. The pieces of the broken blade spiraled through the air in slow motion, fragments catching the red light like falling stars—beautiful, deadly, and final.
Danior staggered back, his eyes wide with disbelief. He looked down at his hands—empty, trembling, and utterly defeated. His once powerful grip, the source of terror and dominance, now quivered like a leaf in the wind, helpless. Each breath he drew seemed to drain more life from his body, yet his spirit—wild, relentless—clung to the fight.
Yesdar stood tall, his sword still gleaming, untouched, as if the very concept of wear dared not approach it. His coat fluttered one final time in the wind, a symbol of calm amidst the storm of destruction. The air around him felt thick, the weight of dominance perceptible. He took a single step forward, the sound of his boot crushing the broken pieces of Danior's blades underfoot. His sword leveled at Danior's chest—an executioner's gesture, yet lacking haste, allowing the tension to simmer in the stagnant, blood-scented air.
Danior's breath was ragged, his body shaking from exhaustion, from the weight of defeat. But even in his final moments, there was no submission in his eyes—only the mad glint of a man who would never admit surrender. His lips, bloodied and torn, stretched into a grin—a mad, bloodstained grin under his mask. The kind of grin that looked out from the abyss and mocked those who tried to peer into it.
"You stopped again?… well you've already won this competition, congrats for the money, but I ain't yielding." he rasped, his voice thick with defiance. His chest heaved, every breath a battle of its own and yet there was no fear in his voice. The audacity of it lingered, hanging in the charged atmosphere like the last breath of a storm.
Yesdar's eyes narrowed. He remained composed, the earlier battle's chaos no longer reflected in his posture. His grip on the sword tightened slightly, but the fury was gone, replaced by a cold precision. "First things first, I didn't come here to kill anyone, I know I've won and that's why I don't need to kill. A friend asked me to avoid being harsh and I am a kind man. Second, I wanna ask you something," he said, his voice like the edge of a blade, sharp and direct. "Why do they call you 'The Serpent'?"
Danior chuckled again, a low, guttural sound that bubbled up through his pain. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth, staining his chin, but his laughter persisted, almost as if he relished in his own suffering. "Hahaha, you stopped for that? Don't you know the old legend?" His words came slowly, drawn out like the last embers of a dying fire, yet they carried the weight of something deeper—something lost, something that had become myth in its own right.
"What legend?" Yesdar asked, his tone unchanged, uninterested in the theatrics. His blade was still pointed at Danior's chest, as if he were deciding at what moment to end this final act but of course he wasn't going to kill him.
Danior's body slumped slightly, his knees buckling beneath him, but his gaze never wavered. He stood his ground, even if that ground was crumbling beneath his feet. "Everyone knows this in Mordul Uls and why I was named that."
"Yes." Yesdar said flatly. "But, care to elaborate?"
Danior tilted his head slightly, a mocking smile playing on his lips under the mask, though it was now twisted with the agony his body endured. "Well, you are the first person that I've ever heard, asking to narrate this story." He coughed, blood spraying lightly from his lips, painting the sand beneath him a darker shade of red. "Children learn this story in schools, but anyway. In summary, if I join that and my own story, it goes like this: once there existed a seven-headed snake called 'The Serpent.' Each head represented a different sin. They say I am a person who has done them all at an extremely abnormal level. So, they started calling me 'the serpent'."
Yesdar's gaze bore into him, searching. Not for weakness, but for something unspoken—something more.
"And do you even know how this affects your sister?" Yesdar asked, the question carrying a weight beyond the battle, beyond even the blood-soaked arena they stood in.
For the first time, Danior's facade cracked. His eyes widened behind the mask, a moment of genuine surprise and horror flickering across his face, before he quickly concealed it with a sneer. But the silence that followed spoke louder than any reply he could have given. His lips parted slightly, but no words escaped. His mind reeled—searching for an answer, a retort, but nothing came.
Yesdar's words lingered in the air, slicing deeper than any sword strike ever could. The silence between them grew, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of things left unsaid. Danior's chest heaved again, his body betraying him with each ragged breath. His shoulders slumped further, and his legs wobbled as though his body had finally realized what his mind refused to accept—he was done.
And then, without warning, Danior's body collapsed, his knees buckling completely, sending him crashing to the bloodstained sand. His once proud form, now broken and defeated, lay sprawled at Yesdar's feet. The wind howled softly, blowing through the remnants of his shattered machetes, scattering them across the battlefield like fragments of his soul. His blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the earth, painting the arena with the harsh reality of his defeat. But he wasn't dead.
Yesdar stood above him, his sword lowered but still gleaming, untouched by the chaos that had raged just moments before. The weight of victory settled on his shoulders—a heavy burden, not of glory, but of finality. The battle had ended, but its echoes would remain, reverberating through the hearts and minds of everyone who witnessed it. He gazed down at Danior's fallen form, his expression unreadable, as if contemplating the cost of what had just transpired.
The crowd remained silent, unsure whether to cheer or to mourn. They had come for blood, for violence, for spectacle, but what they had witnessed was something far greater indescribable. And as Yesdar stood there, the arena bathed in the crimson glow of the noon sun, it felt as though he was not just a warrior, but a shadow cast over a world teetering on the edge of oblivion.
The weight of victory—and the cost of it—settled on his shoulders, like an invisible chain binding him to the battlefield, to the bloodshed that defined their existence.
The weight of victory, combined with Danior's haunting final moments, left Yesdar standing in the silence of triumph, burdened by the cost of another soul laid to rest at his feet.
The commentator who knew words weren't enough, slowly declared, his words careful and deliberate, "And with that, ladies, gentlemen and the mentally ill children who love violence, Jesdala triumphs as the champion of this duel competition."