903 End
Hundreds of descendants had joined Baoway's tournament, and each got to prove themselves at least once in the arena. The preliminaries, multiple repechages, and final rounds entertained the audience for longer than a month, but everything eventually came to an end.
A tall, lean, black-haired young man faced a shorter, burly, brown-haired young woman at the bottom of the arena. Both contestants were second-level warriors, but their inhumane stamina had still left them exhausted after multiple tight exchanges.
The audience held their breath, inspecting that silent, tense moment with their eyes or through the stages' screens. Clearly, the two contestants only had enough energy to launch one last offensive, and no one wanted to miss the final exchange.
The same went for the towers and terraces, including Khan's. The guests at his sides retained a respectful silence while waiting for the last exchange. The tournament had finally reached its apex, and both humans and aliens wanted to see its conclusion.
The young man's arms stood firmly before his face, protecting and half-hiding it. Meanwhile, his fingers were tense, stretched toward his opponent, seemingly ready to grab her.
The man was also curled forward, with his legs half-bent. That defensive stance completely shielded him from frontal attacks, and the exhaustion conveyed by his ragged breath failed to create meaningful openings.
Meanwhile, the young woman was in far worse shape. She was half-turned, perpendicular to her opponent. Her legs were straight, and her left arm rested curled by her waist, ready to spin forward. However, her right side offered no protection. It faced the contestant with nothing but her shoulder while its limb hung limply from it.
That wasn't the woman's proper guard. At the beginning of the battle, her right arm had stood straight, lifted toward her opponent to keep some distance. Yet, the hole in her right shoulder's armor highlighted the exchanges' results. The young man had rendered her limb useless, creating an immense opening.
Usually, warriors wouldn't hesitate to exploit such a big opening, but the young man hesitated. He had seen his opponent enduring his precise blows time after time, using those opportunities to launch devastating counterattacks. The woman's left arm was deadly, and two of her punches had almost made the man faint.
The woman shared her opponent's hesitation, albeit for different reasons. Her limp right arm left her vitals unprotected, and the man would obviously target them. The armor on her torso also had many holes, and she didn't know if her muscles alone could withstand the man's unavoidable blows.
The battle seemed to have reached a stalemate. The man only exposed himself during his offensive, so he was wise to focus on defending. Meanwhile, the woman was in no condition to launch an assault or bait her opponent out. She couldn't create openings without suffering first, and limiting the damage before her eventual counterattack sounded ideal.
However, the more experienced warriors in the audience saw a different truth. That was no stalemate, or rather, one side couldn't afford it to last too long. The woman had proven herself physically superior, so her stamina and arm would recover faster, putting the man back to square one.
The woman's eyes widened in surprise, but it was too late. The man launched a battle cry as his arms rose once again, converging on her left shoulder. His stretched finger pierced her armor, hitting specific spots underneath, and her left arm suddenly went limp.
The woman tried to jump backward, but the man didn't let her. As soon as her last defense fell, the man leaped forward, his left arm turning into a spear aimed at her forehead. His fingers hit, releasing his remaining strength, and the woman's vision went dark.
The audience on the stage held their breath. The man didn't attack anymore and leaned forward, coughing as his throat reminded him of the blow he had just suffered.
However, the woman also stood still, remaining on her feet before her exposed and exhausted opponent. That was the perfect chance for a finishing blow, but her body didn't move.
One second had to pass for the situation to become clear. The woman had never stood still. Her body had continuously tilted forward, albeit unnoticeably. Yet, that trend quickly picked up speed until she fell headfirst onto the floor.
A green glow shone on the man's lowered face. The floor lit up to announce the match's end, and the name on it confirmed the man's victory. Happiness invaded him, but he was too tired to straighten his back or shout, so he only lifted an arm, triggering deafening cheers from the stages.
The arena almost exploded among the applauses, cries, and cheers. Every screen focused on the young man, and more appeared under the stages on the battlefield's walls. The long tournament had a winner, and the man took a deep breath, finally savoring the chance to relax and enjoy his achievement.
Nevertheless, the man's lungs suddenly became unable to draw air. Something heavy had fallen on him, attempting to squash him on the floor. His battle instincts didn't even try to surge as his legs gave in, but an arm promptly caught him by his chest.
"You won't get the chance to relax on a real battlefield," A whisper reached the man's ears, and its words felt like hammers on his brain. "Still, you fought well. You have great instincts."
The hand on the man's chest lifted him, straightening his back and revealing its owner. The descendant found himself before a crowned figure with glowing eyes and donning an oversized red cape. Each of those details would make his identity unmistakable, but they almost felt too much to bear together.
Khan smiled at the descendant's hanging jaw before seizing his wrist to lift his arm. He glanced at the stages afterward, focusing on the symphony inside the arena, which became part of his vocal cords when he opened his mouth.
"I present to you the winner of my first tournament," Khan calmly said, but his voice reached every corner of the arena. "Congratulations, Moses Parket."