Dust still hung in the air from their first clash.
Every fighter on the field had slowed, drawn into the gravity of the center.
Only the sound of wind and heavy breathing remained.
Mahir moved first.
He didn't rush this time. He walked. Each step pressed deeper into the soil, the weight of his presence bending the moment around him.
Zain braced, blood trickling down his nose, ribs screaming.
Mahir's fist shot forward. BAM.
Zain blocked. Too slow. The impact jolted his arm numb.
Another hit. CRACK. A straight to the jaw.
Then a kick— THUD.
Zain's body slammed against the pole again; metal screeched.
Mahir grabbed him before he could slide down. One hand on his throat, the other hammering into his stomach again and again.
Each blow sounded like a drumbeat announcing war.
Zain coughed blood, tried to counter, but Mahir caught his wrist mid-swing and twisted— SNAP! —forcing him to his knees.
> "You keep standing," Mahir hissed, "but you still don't understand what it takes to lead."
He kneed Zain in the face, sending him sprawling across the dirt.
Zain rolled once, twice, finally stopping flat on his back. His vision blurred; the sky above looked cracked, the clouds bleeding orange.
He heard the echo of voices—Orion shouting his name somewhere far away—but everything felt distant.
Mahir's shadow loomed over him.
He raised his boot. Stomp.
Zain caught it with both hands, muscles shaking, dirt grinding beneath his palms.
> "I… understand," he gasped, pushing up. "That you're afraid."
Mahir froze for half a breath—long enough for Zain to twist, roll, and kick his legs out.
Both crashed into the dirt again.
Zain surged forward on instinct—driven by the memory of Din, of Rusle, of every fallen friend.
He tackled Mahir, ramming him into the ground. Fists blurred.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Mahir's head snapped side to side, blood splattering across the cracked soil.
But the grin never left his face.
He caught Zain's wrist mid-swing, forced it aside, and drove his elbow into Zain's temple.
The world flashed white.
Then came the storm.
Mahir unleashed a barrage—punches, knees, kicks—each one faster, heavier, crueler.
Zain's guard broke; his body bent and twisted under the weight.
The field shook with every strike; nearby fighters stepped back instinctively.
One final uppercut launched Zain backward.
He hit the ground hard, rolling until he lay still, dust rising around him like smoke from a dying fire.
For a moment, Mahir just stood there—chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles, the king of ruin framed by the chaos of his own making.
> "Stay down, Zain."
"You can't win this."
Zain didn't answer.
He pressed one hand to the dirt, trembling, forcing his body up inch by inch.
His rings caught the fading light—one ribbon torn clean off, the other fluttering weakly.
He spat blood, looked up, and smiled through broken teeth.
> "I'm still here."
Mahir's eyes narrowed.
He stepped forward again.
The crowd around them—both U-Force and WS—sensed it. The next exchange would decide everything.
Zain straightened, cracked his neck, and raised his fists once more.
Mahir mirrored him.
Two silhouettes in a storm of dust.
One bleeding, one burning.
Both unstoppable.
They charged—
and the field vanished in the roar of impact.
~To be continued~
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