The next few matches were rather uneventful and predictable somewhat, but the audience enjoyed every single one of them, until it was the turn of Albert Ziloman, the son of the noble, Withlo Ziloman. He was to face Goruc Ayo.
Goruc Ayo was no ordinary competitor—he was the son of the wealthy blacksmith Goruc Mula, a man renowned across the region for his terrifying physical might, a man who could crush stones in his palms as if they were no more than hardened bread. Goruc Ayo had inherited that raw, iron-bending strength, and when fused with the discipline of martial arts, he had risen as the second lion of the martial arts school.
Albert Ziloman, on the other hand, had earned his place as the third lion, standing just below two others who had carved their names in the martial world. This battle was no trivial affair; if Albert triumphed, he could rise and cement his claim as one of the greats, but if he lost, the momentum he had carefully built in this competition would shatter, leaving him with nothing but noble pride to lean on.
"Albert Ziloman!" the announcer's voice rang out across the arena.
The crowd stirred. Albert emerged from the waiting area, his blond hair catching the sun like molten gold, his steps calm yet calculated. He was dressed in a black robe embroidered with silver trimmings, the garment swaying lightly with each stride, and a faint smile curved his lips as though he had already rehearsed victory in his mind.
The audience leaned forward, necks craning for a better view.
A cheer erupted from the noble seats. His father, Withlo Ziloman, slapped his palms together with booming pride, his laughter rolling across the section.
"That's my son… That's my son!" he declared, puffing out his chest like a rooster among hens.
Around him, flatterers and sycophants wasted no time feeding his pride.
"Nobleman, you raised a good son!" one called out.
"Look how dashing he is in that black robe! Such presence, such noble bearing!" another chimed in.
"Look at his golden hair, his sharp features—handsome as a prince! Noble Withlo, if you permit, I would gladly pair him with my daughter…"
"What a lad indeed!"
Their words came syrup-thick, their smiles practiced. Though inwardly, most of them doubted Albert's chances against the blacksmith's son, no one dared voice such treachery aloud. A favour from the Ziloman household was worth more than honesty in that moment.
Meanwhile, in the opposite corner of the arena, Goruc Ayo stepped forward.
If Albert was elegance and noble poise, Goruc was raw, terrifying presence. His frame was massive, towering over his peers, his shoulders broad like an anvil's edge. His dark hair was tied tightly behind his head, his chest bare beneath a leather harness that seemed ready to burst under the swell of his muscles. Each step he took resounded like a drumbeat, and murmurs spread like ripples across the crowd.
"That's Goruc Ayo…" someone whispered.
"The son of the Blacksmith King…" another muttered.
"He's like a beast in human skin—his fists are hammers, his arms like steel bars. Albert will need more than fancy footwork today."
The announcer's voice rose once more, sealing the tension.
"On this stage, a clash between the noble lion and the smith's lion! Albert Ziloman versus Goruc Ayo!"
The crowd erupted into cheers, whistles, and shouts of encouragement.
In the noble stands, Withlo Ziloman continued to laugh, but his fingers tapped nervously against his knee. In the another section of the arena, the blacksmiths' section, Goruc Mula sat like a mountain, arms folded, eyes gleaming with quiet confidence.
The air between the two young men thickened as they locked gazes. Albert's lips curved upward into a subtle smirk; Goruc only cracked his knuckles, the sound like boulders grinding against one another.
The referee raised his hand.
"Begin!"
The arena hushed, anticipation thick in every heartbeat.
Albert's slender frame shifted into a graceful stance, his movements flowing like a dancer preparing for a waltz. Goruc, in contrast, lowered his body like a predator about to pounce, his aura radiating brute force that threatened to crush the air itself.
The battle between elegance and raw power was about to erupt.
Albert Ziloman looked towards his majesty the emperor, his fiery eyes shimmering with a fanatical zeal, as though the very presence of Josh Aratat could grant him strength enough to split the heavens. The young noble's breath came slow and steady, each inhalation pulling courage into his chest, each exhalation grounding him in the reality of this monumental moment.
He lifted his bronze rank high-level rod into the light, its polished shaft catching glimmers that seemed to echo the regal authority of the emperor's own kingly staff. It was more than a weapon—it was a declaration, a symbol of his desire to be like the emperor, Josh Aratat, it is meant to remind all who watched that the rod was a symbol that carried a weight of expectation heavier than steel.
The crowd, sensing the quiet storm beneath his composed exterior, stirred. There was something unsettling about his confidence, something that whispered of certainty rather than bravado.
Goruc Ayo, in stark contrast, was raw, unrefined might. The son of Goruc Mula, his body was a cathedral of brute force. Thick veins wound across his arms like tunnels carved deep into stone, pulsing with the life of someone who knew strength was his greatest weapon and perhaps his only language. His hammer, a slab of iron forged by his father's own hands, rested carelessly on his broad shoulder, as though it weighed no more than a wooden branch.
When he smirked, the arena itself seemed to shrink under the menace that dripped from his voice.
"Little Ziloman," he rumbled, folding his arms across his mountainous chest while keeping the hammer balanced with insulting ease, "you might as well give up now. If you go through with this, don't expect to return to your father in a perfect piece…"
A ripple of laughter spread through the audience, though unease gnawed at their mirth. Everyone knew Goruc's strength. Everyone also knew that Albert Ziloman was no fool, and fools did not stare down hammers with calm eyes.
Albert did not flinch. He did not answer. Instead, he stood with the serene poise of a man who had already seen every possible outcome and chosen his path. His gaze locked on Goruc like a hawk weighing its prey, as though he were measuring every breath, every twitch of muscle, every vulnerable seam in the armor of raw strength before him.
He tilted the rod slightly, testing its weight, his fingers tightening just once along its grip. To the untrained eye, he looked calm, even hesitant. But to those watching closely, there was a glint—dangerous, decisive, inevitable. Albert Ziloman was not preparing to fight. He was preparing to end it.