The roar of the crowd echoed like thunder through the arena, shaking the very ground beneath Ned's feet. He stood across from Allen, who was the embodiment of raw power. Red lightning crackled around his figure, coiling and snapping like restless serpents.
The announcer's voice rang out. "The match between Allen Forester and Ned Forester begins now!"
Allen wasted no time. In a blur of movement, he surged forward, his body trailing arcs of crimson electricity. His first strike was a hammering punch, charged with enough power to blast through stone.
Ned barely sidestepped, the shockwave from the missed blow sending him skidding backward.
"You don't belong here, Ned," Allen said, his voice as sharp as his gaze. "You should've stayed in the shadows."
Ned smirked, though his knees felt weak. "Funny. I thought the same about you at family dinners."
Allen's face remained cold. "Let's end this."
He summoned his greatsword, a massive blade of gleaming steel, streaked with glowing red veins. The sight of it drew gasps from the crowd.
"Doran's Fang," someone murmured.
Ned recognized the weapon immediately. It was a replica of the legendary blade wielded by Doran Forester. Allen wielded it with terrifying ease, lightning crackling along its edge.
From the start, Allen's attacks were relentless. He moved with precision, his strikes imbued with the ferocity of Red Thunder. Each swing of the greatsword tore through the air, the sheer force leaving trails of static in its wake.
Ned dodged, blocked, and evaded, but Allen's power was overwhelming. Every move he made seemed anticipated, countered before it even began.
"Stop running, Ned!" Allen shouted, his voice booming over the crackle of lightning. "Face me, or admit you're not worthy to stand here!"
Ned gritted his teeth. "What's the rush? Afraid I'll embarrass you in front of all these people?"
[Red Arc]
Allen's response was another devastating attack—a wide arc of the greatsword that unleashed a wave of lightning. Ned rolled under it, feeling the heat of the electricity sear the air above him.
The crowd was on edge, the tension palpable.
"He's toying with him," someone in the stands said.
"No, Allen's just proving there's no competition here," another replied.
As the battle raged on, Ned's mind raced. He was losing ground, his stamina waning. But then, amidst the chaos, he remembered.
The match he had watched in Stage 2: Doran Forester vs. Steve the Unyielding. He had studied every move, every strategy.
And suddenly, he saw it. A pattern.
Allen's movements mirrored Doran's from that fight. The arcs of his sword, the positioning of his feet—it was all there. But Ned knew how that fight had ended.
[Red Arc]
Allen swung his sword downward in a devastating arc, aiming to end the match in one blow. But Ned sidestepped, his movements deliberate.
Allen's eyes widened as his blade struck the ground, the impact sending a shockwave through the arena. Ned didn't retreat this time; he lunged forward, aiming for Allen's exposed side.
The crowd gasped as Ned landed a solid hit with his staff, forcing Allen back.
From that moment, the fight changed. Allen's strikes, though powerful, became predictable to Ned. The lessons he had absorbed from Doran's match unfolded in his mind like a playbook.
Allen growled, frustration flashing across his face. "What are you doing, Ned? How are you—"
"Spectating," Ned interrupted, dodging another strike.
Allen charged again, his movements growing erratic. But Ned was calm, calculating. He used Allen's power against him, redirecting blows, exploiting openings, and wearing him down.
With each exchange, Ned gained the upper hand, his confidence growing.
Allen raised his sword high, summoning every ounce of his power. The blade crackled with an intense, blinding light.
[Red Storm]
"This is over, Ned!" he roared.
But Ned didn't flinch. He stepped forward, his eyes locked on Allen's. He saw the move before it even happened—the slight shift in Allen's stance, the overextension in his grip.
As Allen brought the greatsword down in a thunderous strike, Ned moved. He sidestepped with perfect timing, slipping inside Allen's guard.
With a swift, decisive motion, Ned struck Allen's wrist, forcing him to drop the greatsword. In the same fluid motion, he landed a final blow to Allen's chest, sending him crashing to the ground.
The arena fell silent.
Allen lay on the ground, gasping for breath. Sparks of red lightning flickered weakly around him. He stared at Ned, disbelief and anger etched on his face.
"You… beat me," Allen said, his voice barely audible.
Ned extended a hand, his expression serious. "No, Allen. I stood up to you. And for the first time, I didn't run."
Allen hesitated, his pride warring with the truth. But finally, he took Ned's hand and let him help him up.
The crowd erupted into cheers, the noise deafening.
Allen looked at Ned, his expression softening. "You've changed. You're not the same person I used to look down on."
Ned grinned, though his legs felt like jelly. "Took you long enough to notice."
As they left the arena together, the storm that had raged between them seemed to settle. For the first time, Allen saw Ned not as a weakling, but as an equal.
And for Ned, this wasn't just a victory. It was the beginning of something much bigger.