The roar of the crowd still thundered in my ears, but I barely noticed. Kane's body was being dragged from the pit, his unconscious form limp in the hands of the medics. My knuckles ached from the repeated impacts, my breath steady but controlled. The fight was over, yet I hadn't moved an inch from where I stood.
Because I knew what came next.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, almost drowned by the deafening cheers. "It's time for our grand finale! Our last two warriors stand before us, ready to prove who is the ultimate champion of the tournament!"
I felt the eyes on me—Sienna's, Camille's, Alexis's. Worry. Concern. I could imagine Sienna clutching the railing so tight her knuckles turned white, Camille pressing her lips together to stop herself from calling out, Alexis's analytical mind racing for a way to calculate the impossible.
The operations team behind them were mostly shocked. I had beaten Kane with relative ease, something that no one there actually expected. With the exception of Anthony. He was smiling like he knew that I was at my peak right now.
And then, there was Vincent Giovanni.
The man sat high above, in his private box, a glass of dark wine in one hand, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and exhilaration. He leaned forward, fingers tapping against the rim of his glass, his golden eyes gleaming with predatory delight.
His lips moved. I didn't need to hear him to know what he had said.
A heavy thud pulled my focus back to the ring.
Ragnar had stepped in.
His frame was deceptive—lean, almost too casual, yet I knew better. There was an inhuman grace in the way he moved, as if the very air bent around him. He grabbed a crimson coat from a wealthy looking man as he got closer. It trailed behind him, the fur lining around his collar shifting slightly as he rolled his shoulders, stretching out his limbs as if waking from a pleasant nap.
"Finally," he exhaled, like a man starved finally getting his first taste of food. "I was worried that I would have to wait longer or-even worse- not be able to fight you. That would've been boring."
I said nothing. Words were meaningless here.
The announcer barely managed to finish calling our names before the buzzer sounded.
His fist missed my jaw by millimeters, the sheer force sending a gust of wind past my face. I twisted, already countering—my elbow struck out, aiming for his ribs—
Only for him to vanish.
A foot slammed into my shoulder from above, the impact launching me sideways. My body flipped midair, twisting just in time to land on my feet.
Ragnar's laughter rang out. "Oh, you're good."
I was already moving, closing the distance in a flash. My fist lashed out, a sharp jab aimed at his temple. He leaned back, avoiding it by the width of a hair. My left hand followed immediately after—he weaved away, but not fast enough.
My knee crashed into his ribs.
He grunted, stumbling back a step before his arms snapped out—his hands caught my shoulders, fingers pressing in like claws.
His head slammed forward.
A headbutt—calculated, precise. Pain shot through my skull, but I didn't let it stagger me. I twisted free, throwing a sharp hook into his gut. He exhaled sharply, but the grin never left his face.
"Yeah," he muttered, eyes bright with exhilaration. "This is it. This is fun."
He lunged again, and I met him blow for blow.
Every punch, every counter, every dodge—it was like fighting in a storm, unpredictable yet controlled. My instincts, my skills, my mastery over countless disciplines—all of it worked in tandem, calculating his movements, reading his body, predicting every shift.
Yet, he was matching me.
The longer the fight went on, the less my calculations mattered. It was like fighting someone who could read me just as well as I read him.
Our fists collided in the air, shockwaves rippling through the pit. The ground beneath us cracked. The crowd was no longer roaring—it was screaming. People could sense it. The brutality, the precision, the sheer exhilaration of the fight.
It happened in an instant. One moment, I was dodging a straight punch, already shifting to counter—
The next, he was gone.
Not a step back. Not a sidestep. Not even an evasion.
He simply disappeared. Out of my realm of calculations.
This didn't make sense to me. How could his skills just rapidly improve? This wasn't the usual growth he was presenting throughout the fight. No, this was something more.
My mind screamed warnings, my instincts flaring with danger, but it was too late.
I felt it before I saw it—
A fist, slamming into my face with such force that the very ground seemed to reject me.
Pain. White-hot. Sudden. My body did not move.
Instead, all I could hear was the exoskeleton of my beetle mask cracking under the pressure.
My feet remained planted, but my head—
My head was driven into the earth.
The crowd gasped. The shockwave of the impact cracked the arena floor. Dust and debris shot into the air.
Buried face-first into the ground. Upright. Like a nail hammered into wood.
The world spun. My ears rang. My body, my mind, struggled to process what had just happened. I could feel the slightest breeze of air through the small cracks of the mask.
Ragnar let out a soft whistle. "Damn. That actually worked."
He took a step back, admiring his handiwork.
Then, he crouched down beside me, voice filled with nothing but delighted amusement.
"Hey, Mr. Beetle," he grinned. "You still alive down there?"
Darkness edged at my vision. My breath came slow, controlled. I wasn't unconscious.
But my body refused to move.
The world stood still for a moment.