The soldiers remained silent, their earlier bravado replaced by quiet awe. Even Olin, though still aching from his defeat, could no longer deny the power behind Zarkus's words.
Olin raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but didn't push for more. The soldiers shifted, leaning in, anticipation thick in the air, but Zarkus kept his secrets guarded. The subtle tension of mystery clung to the moment like fog.
"You're full of surprises," Olin said, wiping his lip, his curiosity barely masked. "Can I at least get a hint about this secret reason?"
Zarkus tilted his head slightly, meeting Olin's gaze with a knowing look. "I suppose I've already given a little away," he replied, his tone almost playful. "But just know, these Low-Level Fist Techniques aren't the only tools I've got. There's more to me than you think."
The soldiers exchanged murmurs, their intrigue deepening, while Olin, despite his exhaustion, couldn't hide the glimmer of fascination in his eyes. "More tricks, huh?" he mused aloud, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've got a way of keeping people on their toes."
A smirk tugged at the corner of Zarkus's mouth, his gaze sharpening as the tension between them thickened. The battlefield felt smaller, the air almost suffocating with anticipation. His tone dropped, laced with impatience. "Enough talk," he growled, eyes narrowing. "Are we finishing this fight, or are we going to stand around chatting like old friends?"
Olin's grin widened, though a glimmer of unease flickered behind his confidence. His muscles coiled as he raised his sword once more, the faint hum of crackling energy radiating from the blade. "You're right," he replied, the competition lighting up his weary features. His voice deepened, rough with renewed determination. "Let's get back to it."
The fire in Olin's eyes blazed brighter, though Zarkus could see the shadow of fear lurking beneath his bravado. His grip tightened around the hilt, and electricity sparked along the edge of the blade, charging the very air between them. The watching soldiers fell silent, their breaths held in awe as the tension swelled like a storm about to break.
Without warning, Olin surged forward, his movements quick, fueled by desperation and adrenaline.
"Sword Technique: Lightning Slash!"
The blade flashed with a dazzling aura of electric energy, slicing through the air with deadly precision. The sheer force of it split the air like thunder, a streak of white-hot lightning aimed directly at Zarkus.
But Zarkus was faster. His reflexes, honed by both life and undeath, kicked in. He sidestepped the blade just as it cut past, the sharp edge so close it brushed the air against his cheek. Too close. His heart raced, adrenaline coursing through his veins, but his focus remained sharp.
"Earth's Embrace: Seismic Blast!"
With a forceful stomp, Zarkus unleashed shockwaves through the ground, the earth trembling beneath him. The energy roared toward Olin, seeking to unbalance him. For a moment, Olin wavered, his footing faltering. But just as quickly, he recovered, the flames of his resolve burning hotter. He pushed forward with a bellowing cry, refusing to back down.
"Kick Technique: Thunderous Blow!"
Electricity surged through his leg as he leaped toward Zarkus, his body glowing with power. The energy crackled wildly in the air as his electrified kick streaked toward Zarkus's chest, aiming to deliver a devastating blow.
Their attacks collided with a deafening impact.
The earth shook beneath the force of their clash, the raw power of their strikes sending shockwaves through the battlefield. Energy crackled violently in the air, swirling between them as they struggled for dominance. The collision forced them both back, skidding across the dirt as dust rose around their feet.
The battle wasn't over, but the next move could easily decide it all. Both combatants knew it.
A faint smile crept onto Zarkus's face as he watched Olin, still standing, his body coiled with tension. "He's not holding back anymore," Zarkus thought, feeling the rush of adrenaline flooding his veins. He took a half-step back, his eyes locked on Olin, reading the faint tremors in his opponent's movements. The tempo of the fight had shifted, Olin's strikes now relentless, each one faster, more precise, more dangerous than before.
Olin roared, his voice filled with desperation. "Sword Technique: Thunder Flash!"
His sword blurred, a jagged streak of lightning arcing toward Zarkus's chest. It was a deadly, pinpoint strike, and the energy surging along the blade was enough to scorch the very air around it. Zarkus had only moments to react.
With a burst of speed, Zarkus dodged to the side, his body instinctively evading the deadly strike. The blade passed so close he could feel the rush of displaced air as it narrowly missed him. His heart hammered in his chest, but he didn't hesitate.
"Earth's Embrace: Quake Wave!"
Zarkus's fist slammed into the earth with tremendous force, the ground buckling beneath him as another violent shockwave tore through the battlefield. The destructive wave raced toward Olin, striking him with bone-rattling intensity. Olin's body was hurled into the air, his sword slipping from his grasp as he tumbled back, crashing into the ground with a sickening thud.
A pained groan escaped Olin's lips as he lay sprawled in the dirt, his chest heaving with labored breaths. His eyes, wide with disbelief, flickered with the realization that he had been outmatched. He struggled to push himself up, his voice ragged. "How... how did you counter that?"
Zarkus wasn't about to let him recover. In a single fluid movement, he closed the distance, standing over Olin's crumpled form like a predator poised for the kill. Victory was already his.
"I could've ended this just now," Zarkus said coldly, his voice cutting through the air like steel. His gaze was unflinching, his expression void of mercy. "That was your lucky break. Don't expect mercy next time."
Olin's eyes flickered with a dangerous mixture of fear and anger, his hands trembling as he forced himself to his knees. Every breath was labored, his once fierce confidence now reduced to ashes. He looked up at Zarkus, his voice a low rasp. "You're... too strong."
For a brief moment, Zarkus considered finishing the fight, putting an end to it with one final, decisive blow. It would be easy. He had already won. But as he looked down at Olin, battered and beaten, something inside him hesitated. Pity? No—this was something else. He realized this battle wasn't about proving his strength, not anymore.
Zarkus straightened, his eyes shifting away from Olin to the general who had been silently observing the entire time. The reason for this fight clicked into place, crystal clear in Zarkus's mind.
"This isn't about proving anything," Zarkus declared, his voice ringing out across the battlefield, loud enough for all to hear. His eyes remained fixed on the general. "I'm just doing my job. And right now, that job is showing the general exactly what I'm capable of."
Olin, though still breathing heavily, looked up at Zarkus, his face a mix of defeat and understanding. The realization hit him—this fight wasn't personal. It was a demonstration. Zarkus stepped back, allowing Olin the space to recover. The fight, at least for now, had reached its end.
As Zarkus turned to walk away, his mocking voice echoed back over his shoulder, dripping with cold amusement. "Come on, Olin. Get up. You can't seriously be giving up this easily. The previous soldiers didn't even make me break a sweat."
The words struck deep. Olin's pride flared, his jaw clenched as pain shot through his aching body. Despite the exhaustion weighing on his limbs, a spark of defiance lit in his chest. Slowly, agonizingly, he forced himself to rise, his muscles trembling under the strain. His strength was nearly depleted, but his spirit, that unyielding fire, refused to be snuffed out.
"You may have the upper hand now," Olin growled, the edges of his voice strained but firm. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white with the pressure. "But I won't go down that easily."
Zarkus turned slightly, catching the look in Olin's eyes—a burning determination, an unspoken vow that he wasn't finished. Not yet. Zarkus smirked, pleased. Good, he thought. It wouldn't be as satisfying if he gave up now.
The fight resumed with a renewed intensity, each combatant driving themselves past their limits. Zarkus moved with effortless precision, his attacks sharp and calculated, but there was something in Olin's defiance that made the battle different. Each blow was met with a counter, every strike blocked or evaded by sheer willpower. Olin's body was running on fumes, but his spirit? Unshaken.
Zarkus could see it in every movement—Olin was fighting as if his very soul was on the line. Despite the pain, despite the crushing force of Zarkus's earlier counters, Olin stood tall, his posture rigid, his eyes filled with a burning refusal to surrender. His attacks weren't as fast as before, and his strength had waned, but every move carried the weight of someone unwilling to yield.
They exchanged blows again, their movements blending into a fierce, almost graceful choreography. Each swing of the blade, each punch or kick, was part of a deadly dance of survival and dominance. Zarkus admired Olin's stubborn resolve, even as he saw the cracks in his defenses widening with every second.
"You're strong," Olin muttered through clenched teeth, frustration and respect warring in his voice. Sweat beaded on his brow, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "But I'm not giving up yet."
Zarkus's eyes narrowed, the edges of his lips pulling into a smirk. He wouldn't have it any other way.
The battle escalated, each movement more precise, more intense. Zarkus and Olin circled each other like predators, their strikes growing more brutal with every second. The soldiers who watched were utterly captivated, their gazes locked on the two warriors, eyes wide with awe. No one dared speak, not even to whisper. They were witnessing a clash of wills, not just a contest of strength.
For Zarkus, the thrill of the fight surged through his veins like wildfire. Every blocked strike, every evasive step, filled him with a rush of adrenaline. Olin's attacks were wild and desperate now, his strength fading, but the force behind them was still enough to keep Zarkus on his toes. The sweat on Zarkus's brow trickled down, mixing with the dirt and blood of the battlefield, but his mind remained cold and calculating.
"Do you really think you can win this?" Zarkus taunted, his voice steady amidst the chaos. "You're just wasting your energy."
Olin growled, his frustration visible in the way his attacks became more erratic, his composure cracking. Zarkus saw the opening—an ever-so-slight lapse in Olin's form, the moment he had been waiting for. His instincts flared, his muscles coiling in anticipation. Now.
Without hesitation, Zarkus moved like a blur, every muscle focused and precise. He raised his fist, channeling the raw, elemental force he had mastered through countless battles.
"Earth's Embrace: Titanic Crash!"
Zarkus's fist plummeted forward, carrying the force of the earth itself. The ground beneath him trembled, cracks splintering outward from the sheer power behind his blow. A shockwave tore through the air, a devastating roar of energy aimed directly at Olin. His eyes widened in shock, barely able to react before the strike hit.
The impact was catastrophic.
Olin's body was lifted clean off the ground, his frame flung like a ragdoll through the air. He slammed into a nearby stone wall with such force that the surrounding ground shuddered, cracks spiderwebbing through the stone as the earth groaned beneath the weight of the blow. The deafening sound of the collision echoed across the battlefield, followed by an eerie silence.
For a moment, no one moved. The soldiers, who had been silently watching, stood frozen, their faces reflecting disbelief and shock. The power Zarkus had just unleashed—what they had once mocked as a "low-level" technique—left them speechless. Their skepticism vanished in an instant, replaced with an overwhelming sense of respect. The raw, undeniable power of Zarkus's mastery silenced any doubts they might have had.
Olin lay sprawled in the dirt, bruised and bloodied. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his body trembling as he struggled to move. His once fierce defiance was now tempered by the weight of defeat. He looked up at Zarkus, his eyes clouded with pain and disbelief.
"How...?" Olin gasped, his voice barely a whisper, the words hanging in the air unfinished.
Zarkus stepped closer, his shadow falling over Olin's crumpled form. He watched as Olin fought to remain conscious, his once unshakable pride now shattered. It was over, and both of them knew it. Zarkus had won, but the thrill of victory was fleeting.
The soldiers, snapping out of their stunned silence, began to clap. Slowly at first, the sound hesitant, unsure. But as the reality of what they had witnessed sank in, the applause grew louder, swelling into a chorus of cheers. Their admiration for Zarkus was palpable now, their eyes filled with respect.
Even Olin, beaten and bruised, looked up at Zarkus with a newfound awe. Though he had lost, the respect he felt was undeniable. Zarkus had proven his mastery in a way that none of them could dispute.
But for Zarkus, the battle was already forgotten. His gaze shifted to the soldiers, their cheers echoing in his ears. The fight had ended, but for him, this was only the beginning.
On the side, Zaken, the soldier Zarkus had defeated earlier, stood at the edge of the circle, his earlier confidence and arrogance now replaced by a quiet humility. He had watched Zarkus fight with an intensity that left him speechless, the sheer power of those Low Level Fist Techniques far beyond anything he had anticipated. His thoughts raced as he watched Zarkus easily defeat Olin, a fighter Zaken had once considered an equal.
"He's incredible..." Zaken thought, eyes wide in disbelief. "That Low Level Fist Technique is far stronger than I anticipated. And I thought I was strong..."
The sting of his own defeat was still fresh, but along with the bitterness came an unexpected feeling—reverence. He couldn't deny the respect that was growing within him for Zarkus, a respect not just for his power but for the skill and precision with which he had wielded it.