"You talk too much…" Albert Ziloman's voice was low, calm, and deliberate—each word like a needle pressed into Goruc Ayo's pride. His tone was not boastful, not aggressive, but dismissive. That alone was enough to make Goruc's veins bulge further, his irritation growing like a fire stoked by wind.
The hammer-wielder's eyes darkened with rage. "I was taking this easy," Goruc bellowed, his voice booming across the arena, "because of how proud your father looks in that seat. But since you've chosen to be unreasonable, after I'm done with you, he won't know whether to laugh… or to cry!"
His roar was followed by action, faster than many expected from such a mountain of muscle. Goruc lifted his hammer in a single, fluid arc and brought it crashing downward with all the fury of falling stone.
The air whistled with its descent.
But Albert was not there.
He shifted swiftly, his movements sharp and precise—like a fox weaving between the jaws of a hound. His clothes flared as he twisted, his boots barely touching the ground before he spun past the edge of the strike. The hammer met the stage with a deafening thud. The platform quaked, a web of cracks splintering outward as dust erupted in clouds around them, momentarily veiling the combatants in a haze.
The audience gasped, some shielding their faces from the dust, others straining to see what had become of the young noble.
Through the murk, Albert emerged, rod already raised. He stepped into the opening with frightening efficiency, sweeping the bronze-rank high-level weapon forward with the momentum of his entire body. The rod met Goruc's chest in a resounding crack.
For a heartbeat, silence.
The strike bounced back, its reverberation snapping along Albert's arms, but the result was undeniable. Goruc staggered—his hammer sliding slightly off his shoulder as he fought to steady himself. A pale red mark bloomed across his chest, the flesh already swelling under the blow.
His expression twisted for a fraction of a second—pain flashing through his eyes, then swallowed quickly beneath a mask of bravado. He straightened with a guttural grunt, spitting to the side as if the strike were nothing more than a nuisance.
But Albert had seen it. And Goruc had felt it.
The mark was only surface; the real damage was within. His organs throbbed painfully, and each breath carried a sharp sting, though he would never show it to the crowd.
Around them, the spectators erupted in disbelief.
"Did you see that? He took the full force of a bronze-ranked rod and still stands!"
"Amazing! Goruc Ayo is a monster of endurance!"
"Albert struck clean, but it's useless against that body…"
The chorus of gasps and shouts painted Goruc as an unshakable titan. Yet, within the ring, there was a silent exchange far more telling than the cheers. Goruc's eyes flickered with unease, and Albert's calm stare answered him with something more dangerous than words: understanding.
They both knew.
This was no simple exchange of blows. One was hiding the pain of a wound that could take him out if repeated. The other had just confirmed where the cracks in the mountain lay.
Goruc Ayo, furious, became more animated now, his chest heaving like a war drum. His hammer spun in his massive grip, a blur of iron and rage. With a guttural roar, he swung it down in a devastating arc toward Albert Ziloman.
Albert reacted instantly, bronze rod snapping upward to meet the weapon.
Clang!
The sound rang like a bell of war. The force of Goruc's hammer crashed into the rod, the impact bending the weapon slightly, denting its flawless surface. Albert felt the reverberation shoot through him—his arms burned as if fire had surged through his veins. His grip faltered, his knuckles whitening, then loosening against his will. His muscles screamed. His arms collapsed uselessly by his side, leaving him staggering, breath shallow.
The crowd gasped as Albert reeled. Dust curled at his boots.
Goruc's lips stretched into a savage grin. He had his opening.
With a primal roar, he hoisted the hammer high with every ounce of strength in his massive frame. The veins on his arms writhed like snakes under his skin as he poured his fury into a single, final strike meant to finish it. The hammer descended, a mountain of metal that promised only ruin.
Albert Ziloman knew—this was the end, unless…
He silenced his fear. The pounding of his heart, the doubts whispering in his ears—he shut them all out. His eyes sharpened, narrowed, until the world was no longer filled with noise, only with angles and timing. His focus cut through everything.
And then he saw it.
The slight bend in Goruc's stance. The faint wince that betrayed the wound Albert had struck before. The hidden crack in the mountain's foundation.
Albert swerved at the last heartbeat. The hammer thundered into the stage with a quake that sent dust and shards of stone flying into the air. But Albert was already in motion. His rod swept out like lightning, crashing once again against the exact same spot on Goruc's chest.
This time, the giant could not hide it.
"Arrghhh!" Goruc screamed, the pain tearing through him like fire. His body bent against his will, his hammer sliding uselessly down from his grip. The force of the blow lifted him, staggering him backward.
Albert did not wait.
He surged forward, his noble poise transforming into deadly precision. With a single bound, he leapt into the air, every line of his body honed with intent. His kick landed against Goruc's chest with brutal finality.
The giant was hurled backwards—off his feet, off balance, off the stage.
The crowd erupted in stunned silence. Time seemed to slow as Goruc Ayo crashed to the ground outside the ring, his hammer clattering beside him with a sound that echoed like defeat.
Albert twisted midair, his movement sharp, controlled, elegant. He somersaulted and landed lightly within the stage. The rod was already in his right hand, its dented frame glinting like a badge of victory. He stood tall, calm, the weapon angled at his side as though it were a scepter of kingship.
He looked not like a boy, but like a sovereign who had just imposed his will.
For two long minutes, the arena was silent. Not a cheer, not a breath—just stunned disbelief.
Then, as if the tension had finally cracked, the stands erupted in thunderous cheers. The noise rose like a tidal wave, sweeping through the arena.
No one could believe it. Albert Ziloman—the slender youth of elegance and noble refinement—had toppled the monstrous Goruc Ayo.
Even Withlo Ziloman, who had been standing and shouting encouragement all along, froze. His proud father's eyes were wide, mouth slightly open. His son had actually won.
"The winner is… Albert Ziloman!" the referee's voice rang out, cutting through the chaos.
The words confirmed the miracle. The crowd cheered louder, their disbelief turning into roaring celebration.
Albert Ziloman stood at the center of it all, silent, steady—his calm poise unmoved, as if victory had been inevitable all along.