Sunset Rebellion

"What a question! Oliver is overwhelming Ryan!" the announcer commentated, his voice booming over the roaring crowd. Don't jinx me, you stupid announcer. My heart pounded suddenly, my focus sharpening on Ryan’s every movement. The veins in my right fist pulsed like they were about to burst through my skin, and adrenaline surged. Should I do it right now? No. Not yet. Let's wear him down some more.

I narrowed my eyes, studying his stance for an opening. With a flicker of movement, I vanished from his line of sight, reappearing just at the edge of his peripheral vision like a ghost. His eyes widened, but he was too slow to react as I launched an upward elbow toward his chin, my arm slicing through the air. He leaned back at the last possible second, narrowly avoiding the blow, but that wasn’t what I was going for. It was a feint, just a setup for what came next.

I didn't hesitate—three rapid strikes hammered into his upper abdomen, gut, and chest, each hit landing with my maximum force. He gasped for breath, staggering back, but I wasn’t done. His body quivered under the impact, his endurance on the brink. A dozen more hits, then I'll finish him. I could already see the fatigue weighing down his limbs. Desperate, he raised his knee, attempting to retreat and create some distance, but I was quicker. I slapped his knee down, forcing him off balance. Before he could recover, I crouched low, my body coiling. In one fluid motion, I swung my leg in a low arc, aiming for his calf. My shin collided with his leg, digging into the muscle. He grimaced, his face contorting in pain as his leg buckled slightly. He needs his legs more than anything.

I struck the sand beneath me, the gritty texture biting into my skin as I curled a handful of grains into my palm. I hurled the sand toward his face, the particles spreading in the air like a fine mist, aimed directly at his eyes to obscure his vision. For a split second, I thought I had him. His body jerked backward as he instinctively swiped at the cloud of sand, creating a small clearing. But that brief moment was all I needed.

As his hand moved through the air, I launched a right straight, my fist cutting through the space between us with nearly all of my speed, targeting his nose. This should finish it. The blow was meant to end everything, to put him down for good. But to my shock, his hand shot up and caught my fist mid-air with startling ease. The force of my punch stopped cold in his grip. His eyes locked onto mine, a smirk creeping onto his face. "Caught you." he quipped, his voice oozing confidence. Don't get cocky! I immediately swung a wild left haymaker, hoping to force him to release my other hand. But again, he was faster than I anticipated. His other hand caught my other fist, halting my strike. Both my arms were locked in his iron grip, immobilized. He smiled, and for the first time in the entire bout, I saw something flicker across his face—emotion. “Ready for some pain?” he taunted.

His body shifted. His leg shot up, his foot slamming into my chest in a brutal front kick. Pain exploded through my ribs as the force sent a shockwave through my entire torso, and I coughed up blood, the metallic taste flooding my mouth. My breath came out in ragged gasps. "I thought you were fast, though?" he sneered. I'm nothing more than a dummy right now! I struggled to regain control, but his foot moved again, faster than I could anticipate. He turned his body and delivered a vicious kick to my liver. Agony surged through me like fire, my knees buckling under the pain. My vision blurred as I gasped, desperate to pull away, but my arms were still trapped in his unyielding grip. I need to get out of this! I tried in vain to yank my arm free, but his hold was relentless, like a vice that wouldn’t loosen.

He chambered his knee, the movement slow, telegraphing the devastating blow he was about to unleash. I easily weaved his telegraphed kicks before.. I can’t take more of this! My muscles ached, my body battered due to me disregarding my physicality. I dug my heels into the ground, tightening the muscles in my legs and fists, steadying myself for one last desperate move.

His leg prepared to strike, and I pushed my right arm forward, just enough to ease some of the pressure between us, throwing him off balance. He didn’t expect me to close the distance, not after everything I’d taken. That was my opening. I activated every muscle fiber in my body, channeling power from my legs up through my core, driving it into my right fist. With a burst of speed that defied my normal limits, my punch shot forward at an unimaginable velocity—seven hundred meters a second. My Foix Lance. His foot came crashing down toward me, aimed for the knockout blow. My fist and his kick collided simultaneously, each of us executing our moves with perfection. His foot slammed into my chest with a thunderous impact, sending another wave of pain ripping through me. At the same moment, my fist connected with his midsection, the increased torque of my blow causing him to cough up blood, his face twisting.

The damage was mutual. My lower upper body and legs gave out beneath the force of his kick, and I felt my strength drain away in an instant. My body drooped forward, completely spent, my vision blurring. He caught me before I could fall, his hands gripping my shoulders, holding me up as both of us struggled to stay on our feet. I could feel his ragged breaths and the tremble in his muscles as we stood there, both of us on the brink of collapse. The world around me faded, my vision slowly turning to black. The edges of my consciousness slipped away, but a single thought echoed in my mind. The difference in this fight—it was durability and power. I see the use of that now...

The referee stomped the ground, "Winner... Ryan!" The crowd erupted, their cheers filling the arena. "It's over! Oliver put up a great fight, but Ryan pulled through!" the announcer bellowed with excitement. Ryan, his face grim with exhaustion, released Oliver’s shoulders. The moment he let go, Oliver's body collapsed forward, his face hitting the sand. He didn’t react—he couldn’t. He’s out cold, completely comatose. Ryan, despite his own battered state, bowed respectfully to the fallen Oliver, acknowledging the effort of his opponent. I sat off in the locker room, watching the scene unfold, Hal, standing nearby, scoffed, "That idiot took too much damage. He won’t recover by the next round." I hadn’t even noticed that. Ryan’s body was covered in cuts, bruises, and blood. It was clear that this victory had come at a serious cost.

Could I have beaten Oliver? If it had been me in there instead of Ryan? I watched the fight closely, and something stood out to me. Ryan was at a serious disadvantage, but that didn't stop him—he had studied Oliver, anticipated his moves. He found the perfect opening to exploit. Oliver was fast, much faster than me, but he lacked balance in his fighting style. He barely used kicks, and there was no structure or form to his movements. It was all about speed. He sacrificed everything for that edge, but at what cost? Ryan saw through it. If it were me, I’d have a chance, sure. If I landed one of my techniques—even just one Severed Soul—on him, it would end the fight then and there. Would I get that chance? Could I find the opening like Ryan did? With my current level of tactics, it’s hard to say. It wouldn’t be certain. At best, it's fifty-fifty.