465 True Endurance II
Their bodies bled from many tens of wounds, covered in bruises, cuts, ice fragments, and burns.
They were close to the limit but neither showed any sign of backing down.
Instead, the opposite was happening. Pain seemed to be a foreign concept for them, as they never stopped going all out. "RAAAH!"
Kremlin gritted his teeth and charged forward again, fists raised.
Damien met him head-on, and they slammed into each other with the force of two charging bulls.
""DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!""
Their fists were a blur, each strike landing with a sickening thud.
No strategy was on display—just pure, unbridled aggression.
Kremlin's energy waned more than ever before, but he refused to slow. And he wasn't the only one.
Damien, bleeding like a broken fountain, somehow kept up with him, closely matching his every step, his every punch.
It was impressive—almost impossible—considering he was twice as injured as Kremlin. Yet he fought on, relentless.
However, no matter their mentality and drive, their bodies had a breaking point.
Eventually, it was reached.
Their movements had slowed just enough to be noticeable. n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om
That told them what they already knew.
They had to end this soon.
"Communist rat!"
Kremlin punched out, activating Iron Fist. "Goverment slave!"
Damien did the same, and their next clash was like two mountains colliding.
A flash of light momentarily blinded their surroundings as the ground they stood on was destroyed, a large crater forming around them.
BOOM!
Then, when an explosion-like sound resounded, the impact sent both men skidding backward.
Neither fell.
They charged at each other again, their fists meeting in a powerful collision that sent shockwaves through the place.
Their arms were numb from the repeated impacts, but they easily pushed through the pain.
Every nerve in their bodies screamed for rest, but they silenced those cries.
"I'M KILLING YOU TODAY!"
"YOU'LL BE MY BEST TROPHY!"
As they clashed again, their movements became even stronger.
Every punch, every block, was more than a hundred percent effort.
The rhythm of the fight had become almost hypnotic—strike, block, counter, repeat.
Whoosh!
All that mattered was the fight.
They charged at each other for what felt like the hundredth time...
Yet they knew this was the last one.
After this attack, only one of them would remain standing.
Their blurred fists met, and for a moment, there was no aftermath—just blue and red light mixing into a bright white. Then, when the world caught up to their speed, a collision never seen before in that arena had occurred—a shockwave that flattened the ground around them.
The impact was so powerful that it shattered everything in their immediate vicinity, sending both men crashing to the ground.
Seconds passed and neither of them moved, cold and hot wind howling around them.
"Urgh..."
But suddenly, one of them twitched.
It was Kremlin.
With a loud pained groan, he forced himself upright and headed toward his opponent, every step forward heavier than the last.
Yet his face betrayed none of the strain, instead stretching into a wide grin.
Victory was close, and he relished the taste of it.
Damien still lay on the ground, barely able to move, his breath barely audible as he struggled to rise.
Kremlin towered over him, staring down without a word.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward, his body tipping into a parallel with the ground, maintaining the pose for a heartbeat longer than expected.
Then he fell.
With all his weight behind it, his elbow descended, aimed directly at Damien's exposed neck—a final, crushing blow meant to end it all.
CRACK!
Just as contact was made, his elbow broke Damien's neck with quite ease, killing him on the spot.
His body spasmed for a second and went limp right after. It was a gruesome death, a satisfactory victory.
But Kremlin wasn't satisfied yet.
Still on his knees, before Damien's now dead body, he summoned what strength he had left and raised his fists high in the air.
Bang!
The sound of Kremlin's fist echoed, and what followed was nothing short of grotesque. A disgusting act that achieved nothing, a purposeless endeavor.
Each blow drove what remained of Damien deeper into the ground, breaking what little was left unbroken.
Before, there was no doubt of his survival, and now, even more so. The fight was over. It ended.
He had won.
Relishing that, Kremlin was satisfied, so he stood back up, his legs wobbling slightly.
He looked down at Damien once more, then at the sound of battle some distance away.
"Let's go." His vision was darkening, his legs barely holding him up, but he forced himself to move.
It was the "Captain's" orders.