Maboshi charged in like a madman, his eyes blazing, his twin blades swinging from his torn palms. Yet Silvara didn't move a single step. Her hands rose lightly, sketching patterns in the air once more. And in the blink of an eye… a massive tree trunk shot up before her, solid as stone, erupting from the earth as if from nowhere.
Before Mabushi could register it, his head smashed into the trunk with bone-crushing force. The impact echoed through the arena like a hammer on steel. His body jolted, staggering as his eyes widened in shock. Blood split across his forehead in a thin line before bursting down his face.
The crowd gasped. Some smiled, others laughed. Mabushi swayed but did not fall. His knees buckled for a heartbeat, then he planted his feet again, wiping the stream of blood from his brow. His trembling hands dripped red, his wrists still torn, strands of sticky webbing clinging stubbornly to his fingers even after breaking free.
His breathing was ragged, torn from his chest with each gasp. For a brief moment, he no longer saw Silvara at all—only the black void encroaching on the edges of his vision.
Inside, he muttered:
My body's finished… my arms won't last. Even my chest tears with every breath.
He shut his eyes for a heartbeat, then exhaled slowly. A thought he'd buried from the start now forced its way to the surface:
That thing… the drink.
His trembling hand reached to the small pouch at his belt. His fingers brushed a tiny glass vial, inside it a deep-blue liquid gleaming like a gemstone under the light. His last trophy from a long-ago theft, kept for the moment he always knew would come.
A second voice in his mind warned:
If you drink it, you'll become a machine for five minutes… no pain, no limits, just speed, strength, and focus. But afterward… your body will collapse. The pain will return tenfold—it could destroy you entirely.
He lifted the vial before his eyes. His weary face reflected in it, eyes still burning. A crooked laugh escaped his lips despite it all:
"Five minutes is plenty… more than enough."
He clenched the vial between his teeth, snapped its seal, and tilted his head back, swallowing it all in one gulp. The taste was sharp, metallic, biting—but he forced it down. Only seconds later, fire surged through his veins. His trembling ceased, his grip tightened on both swords, veins bulging as if his body itself strained to contain the surge.
Heat spread through him like wildfire, swelling until his chest felt ablaze beneath his skin. Sweat poured from his brow—but it turned to steam before it hit the ground.
Every breath came deep, heavy, like the snarl of a beast about to explode. His eyes sharpened, pupils constricting to predatory slits as if he had finally locked onto his prey. He began walking toward Silvara, slow steps that seemed to weigh down the air itself.
For the first time, Silvara's smile faded. Her gaze trembled, and inside her mind a whisper echoed:
This isn't Mabushi the Rogue who was fighting moments ago… what is this? His body… is steaming?!
She glanced down at his feet. No footprints marked the dirt—only faint rings of vapor, as though he walked within a field of invisible pressure.
Then Mabushi launched forward like an arrow. His steps were no longer human, but flashing bursts that vanished and reappeared, as if the ground couldn't hold him. His blades blurred, each strike trailing a surge of steam.
He reached her in an instant, steel slicing toward her chest. She leapt back just in time. But Mabushi didn't relent—he gave her no chance to breathe. A savage grin split his bloodied face, more beast than samurai.
Strike from the right—she ducked.
Strike from the left—she vaulted away again.
Each blow faster, heavier than the last.
For the first time, Silvara, who had always held herself with calm detachment, felt true pressure. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her hands ceaselessly summoning roots and branches to block him—barely in time.
Her eyes tracked his blade as it grazed her cheek, leaving a thin red line. He surged forward again, his confidence peaking, every dodge of hers only feeding his momentum.
He roared between strikes:
"You won't keep running forever, Silvara! This arena… will be your grave and mine!!"
As her feet skidded back, with Mabushi's blade slicing the air inches from her face, it wasn't his shouting that pressed against her chest… it was what she saw.
His power is uncontrolled… it burns him even as he wields it. He's not fighting me—he's fighting something inside himself.
A faint smile curled her lips through her panting:
This man doesn't realize he's digging his own grave. Every reckless strike is pain disguised as courage.
He doesn't need an enemy to kill him. That drink, his rage, his pride—they'll do it for him. My role is only to show him the mirror he refuses to face.
Her hands rose, roots tearing from the ground again. Inside, she whispered:
Mabushi the Rogue… you don't need victory or defeat. What you need is to realize—you're not a lion, but a charred leaf, falling silently from the roots.
Mabushi stormed forward like a tempest. His right blade shredded her root defenses, his left slashed the air wide—until, at last, it pierced her abdomen in a direct thrust. Her body shuddered as blood spilled hot across his blade. She didn't scream. Instead, she lifted her gaze to his, smiling strangely, as though she knew something far beyond him.
Her voice came broken, yet steady:
"You know… you're not fighting for victory. You're a man with a reason… one reason that lets you bear all this pain."
Mabushi's eyes flared. From his chest, he bellowed:
"Shut up!!!"
He ripped his swords free, flinging them to the ground. His fists slammed into her face, her chest, her stomach—each strike heavier than the last, as though aimed not at her but at the voice gnawing inside him.
Blood trickled from Silvara's lips, yet she continued, her voice ragged:
"You want to live… even if death is certain… because inside you, something… refuses to end."
Mabushi roared, grabbing her by the hair with his left, his right fist crashing into her face as he screamed:
"I said shut up!!!"
But she only smiled through the blood, whispering not to his ear but into his heart:
"Even this screaming… isn't strength. It's emptiness you're trying to drown in noise."
His face burned red, veins bulging at his temples. Each blow made the arena quake, yet she did not resist, as if her intent was not to survive—but to carve her words into him deeper than her roots could ever dig.
This was no longer a battle—just a man pouring out the last of his fury. Mabushi's fists crashed down on Silvara again and again, blood painting her face, her body limp until finally, unconscious, her enigmatic smile gone.
Still, he did not stop. His hoarse growl ripped the air, every punch a curse against earth and sky alike:
"Shut up!! Shut up!! SHUT UUUUP!! SHUT… UUUUUP!!!"
The arena shook with the madness, the audience struck silent. This was not a warrior's triumph—this was chaos unleashed, an animal without retreat.
At last, the president's voice cut through:
"The winner… Maboshi the Rogue!"
Mabushi froze, fist still raised. His chest heaved violently, steam rolling off him. Slowly, he lifted his head toward the crowd, a twisted, blood-smeared grin on his lips.
He staggered upright, body swaying. Two steps forward… then his legs betrayed him. His whole body shuddered, dizziness crushing his skull as the ground spun beneath him. And then… he collapsed.
He hit the hard floor with all his weight, trembling as though the last drop of his spirit had been drained. Gasps echoed through the stands. Akio leapt from his seat in disbelief, while Ann stood frozen, her eyes quivering at the horror before her.
"MABUSHIIIIIIII!!!"
Ann's scream tore through the silence. Mabushi's hand still stretched forward, grasping for something unseen—before everything fell into darkness.