The roar of the crowd was a deafening tide as Zack stood facing Tanker in the grand tournament ring. The air crackled with a palpable tension, a mixture of anticipation and raw power. High above them, King Neon's regal voice boomed, cutting through the din. "So, Tanker, do you still wish to quit?"
Tanker, his expression hardened by a newfound, grim resolve, slowly drew his immense sword from its sheath, the scrape of metal a harsh whisper in the charged silence. "I've already come this far," he rumbled, his voice low but carrying an undeniable weight. "The torture I put my opponents through to get here cannot be in vain. So, I will fight till the very end." His gaze, sharp and unwavering, locked onto Zack.
Zack, a faint, almost predatory smirk touching his lips, mirrored Tanker's action, his own blade sliding free with a chillingly efficient sound. "Good," he responded, his voice clear and resonant. "And I'm not like the rest, Tanker. Don't hold back on me. If I beat you, I want to beat you at your strongest, do you hear me?" He dropped into his fighting stance, a picture of cold, calculating readiness. Tanker, meanwhile, stood tall, his eyes keenly sizing up Zack, assessing the challenger before him.
Azreal, took a deep breath, his voice rising to match the arena's energy. "It is the time you all have been waiting for! Elite versus Prodigy! Swordsmen out of Xiphosia!" At his words, the entire crowd erupted, a thunderous wave of cheers and applause that shook the very foundations of the arena. Most of the girls in the stands shrieked Zack's name, their adoration almost drowning out the general roar. Azreal continued, his arm raised, preparing to signal the start. "Now, may the tournament..."
Before Azreal could even finish his declaration, a blur of motion erupted in the center of the ring. Both Zack and Tanker, driven by their individual, unyielding wills, rushed towards each other simultaneously. Their blades met with a furious CRACK!, a clash of power attacks so swift and brutal that it was almost impossible for the human eye to follow. They moved like ghosts, a whirlwind of steel and lethal intent, their speed blurring the lines of their forms.
Azreal, witnessing the sheer ferocity of their opening exchange, instinctively recoiled. The raw, untamed power unleashed before him made him flinch, and he immediately evacuated the tournament ring, moving with uncharacteristic haste. Then went to the chambers and he sank onto a chair positioned beside King Neon, a profound sigh escaping him.
King Neon, ever composed, observed Azreal with a piercing gaze. "You don't seem bothered," he stated, his voice a quiet question. "About yesterday, I mean." His gaze softened slightly. "Ever since this tournament started, you've been consumed with worry for your daughter. And now she's in the hospital, but you haven't even gone to check on her, nor do you show any sign that you're bothered."
Azreal stared back, his eyes distant, filled with a complex mix of regret and resignation. "The last person she wants by her side right now," he replied, his voice barely a whisper, "is me." King Neon looked at him with a flicker of confusion, prompting Azreal to continue. "I ended the match without her permission. Though it was understandable – if she continued, she might have been injured to a point of no return, or even died – she doesn't understand it like that. I stopped her chances to win it all for Rider. Plus, at least I won't be worried about her being in the tournament ring again, so that's good." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "But don't get it wrong. I will never forgive Tanker till I die." As Azreal spoke, King Neon could see the fierce, unyielding fire in his eyes, a glimpse into the raw protectiveness of a father. Azreal then turned his gaze back to the escalating chaos in the tournament ring.
Back in the tournament ring, the fight raged on, a heated, desperate dance of steel and resolve. The crowd stared in awe, their cheers now laced with gasps of astonishment at the sheer spectacle before them. Meanwhile, from his vantage point in the contenders' area, Rider watched with an intense focus, his earlier resolve now tinged with a growing concern. He noticed it first – a subtle fatigue in Zack's movements. It was barely perceptible at first, a fraction of a second slower here, a hint of strain there. But as the minutes dragged on, it became glaringly clear: Zack was running out of steam. His incredible power was waning, his energy reserves depleting from all the previous grueling fights and his relentless, self-destructive training. It became so apparent that even the less discerning members of the audience could perceive the change. Sweat, not just from effort but from growing exertion, beaded on Zack's forehead and trickled down his temples.
With a powerful, sweeping swing of his blade, Tanker pushed Zack aside, the force sending him stumbling back. From the pavilion, Leo's eyes widened in alarm. "This is bad," he muttered to himself, his voice strained. "I told him he should be resting, and he didn't listen to me. And now all those fights he's been in, plus his desperate training, have taken their toll on him. It's only a matter of time."
Zack, breathing heavily, found it increasingly difficult to stand upright, his muscles screaming in protest. Yet, despite the physical toll, his face remained a mask of grim determination, his eyes fixed on Tanker.
Suddenly, a voice, raw and powerful, rang out from the pavilion, cutting through the arena's noise like a whip. "ZAAAAAAAACK! BETTER KEEP IT TOGETHER! SHOW THEM WHAT YOU'RE MADE OF, OR DON'T BOTHER COMING HOOOOOOOME!!!!"
Zack's head snapped up, his cold composure momentarily shattered by a flicker of shock. His eyes landed on the figure shouting, and his already strained expression tightened further. It was his father, Bell.