The dust of the fallen first wave swirled around their feet, the arena silent except for the faint groans of the defeated. Armaan, Samar, and Roumit stood shoulder to shoulder, their chests heaving from exertion, eyes scanning the empty space ahead. The coordination, the fluidity, the teamwork—they had survived the first wave together. But Zykarith's sharp clearing of her throat snapped them back to attention.
"Well done," her voice rang out, calm yet commanding, carrying an undercurrent of amusement. "Now… the second and final wave. This time, you will face just one opponent. A Zenka. Remember—combat skills only. And I highly doubt any of you have anything to use, since Armaan's Aether Blade is with me."
Samar's eyes sparkled as he let out a low whistle, grinning ear to ear. "Ah, so this is the boss fight, huh?"
Zykarith's violet gaze flicked toward him, her lips curving into a faint, teasing smirk. "Try not to underestimate him. This Zenka is trained in planetary combat. He's no ordinary opponent."
With a metallic click and the groan of ancient gears, the massive gates of the arena swung open. Through the swirling fog and sizzling heat that poured in with his entrance, the Zenka emerged. He was colossal—easily seven feet tall, his frame thick with muscle and honed for battle. Every step seemed to shake the ground, yet there was a silent, controlled menace in his posture.
"He is a Zenka trained on our planet, Gary," Zykarith explained, her tone turning serious. "As you can see, he will not use any weapons either. The three of you must work together—alone, none of you could defeat him. And Armaan… remember, no powers."
The tension hung in the air as the Zenka's eyes swept over them, piercing, calculating, every fiber of his being exuding raw martial prowess. The fog swirled around his massive form, sizzling against the heat radiating off him. The arena had become a stage, and the final act of this phase was about to begin.
"A trained Zenka?" Armaan's voice was calm, almost cold. "Sounds interesting."
He clenched his fists, eyes narrowing, expressionless as ever. Samar and Roumit mirrored him, the three of them forming a line, ready for the storm that was about to hit.
The Zenka didn't waste a second. With a roar that echoed off the arena walls, he lunged forward, his massive fists swinging like wrecking balls. Armaan reacted instantly, dodging a strike that could have crushed a boulder. The sheer speed, even for someone of his size, was terrifying. Samar leaped backward, narrowly avoiding the fist that smashed into the ground with a deafening thud, sending shards of stone flying. Roumit tried a counterattack, launching a spinning kick toward the Zenka's chest, but the alien barely flinched, catching Roumit's leg mid-air and tossing him like a ragdoll into the arena wall.
"Ugh… we can't—!" Samar gritted his teeth, sliding back on the cracked stone floor, blood trickling from a gash along his forearm.
Roumit wiped the blood from his lip, trying to catch his breath. "This guy… is unbeatable…"
Armaan's eyes remained calm, his jaw tight, but his body moved fluidly, absorbing and redirecting blows with calculated precision. He blocked a massive swing with his forearm, feeling the vibration travel up his arm, but he didn't flinch. His expression didn't betray the pain.
The Zenka's attacks came in waves—each blow crushing, each strike precise, each movement designed to break them. Samar tried to coordinate a joint attack, rushing in with Roumit on his flank, but the Zenka twisted effortlessly, using Armaan's own momentum against him, sending him skidding backward. A spray of blood erupted from Samar's side where a fist had connected, staining the floor crimson.
"Armaan!" Roumit shouted, dodging another devastating strike that left deep cuts along his ribs. "We can't keep up with him! He's… too strong!"
Armaan's eyes swept over the arena, noting every pattern, every twitch of muscle, every micro-gesture of the Zenka. His face remained still, calm, unyielding. The blood streaming down his cheek didn't change the unshakable focus in his eyes. He moved forward, weaving through the Zenka's swings with uncanny timing, landing a solid punch to the alien's abdomen. The Zenka grunted, but barely staggered.
Samar's leg had been grazed in the last exchange, leaving a deep, bloody line down his thigh. He fell to one knee, shaking his head. "This… this guy is impossible… We can't beat him…"
Roumit gritted his teeth, blood running from his temple and lips, his breaths jagged and harsh. He launched a desperate kick, only for the Zenka to sidestep and swipe his arm across Roumit's chest, sending him flying again. Roumit landed on the hard floor with a sickening crack, his vision swimming, but still tried to rise.
Armaan didn't speak. Didn't flinch. Didn't breathe heavily. He simply moved. When the Zenka's fist came crashing down toward him, he ducked under it with precise timing, rolled forward, and came up behind the alien. He threw a quick series of jabs, each punch landing with measured force. The Zenka spun, catching Armaan mid-strike and threw him into the arena wall.
The sound of impact was like a thunderclap. Dust and pebbles rained down, and yet, Armaan slowly rose, blood streaking his face and shirt, his left shoulder aching from the previous hit—but his expression remained frozen, unreadable.
Samar staggered back, coughing, his shirt ripped along one side, and whispered, "How… how is he still standing…? We… we can't…"
Roumit, blood streaming down from his forehead and arms, groaned, "Every time we strike, he barely flinches… This is… impossible…"
The Zenka let out a guttural roar, raising both fists and slamming them toward the trio in a simultaneous, brutal assault. Samar barely rolled out of the way, hitting his shoulder on the floor and gasping from the pain. Roumit tried to intercept one of the swings, but the force of the hit knocked the wind out of him, leaving him gasping and sprawled on the arena ground.
Armaan remained standing. Blood streamed down his face from a cut above his eyebrow, his arms bruised and scraped, yet he didn't flinch. He sidestepped another attack and countered with a low, precise kick to the Zenka's knee. The alien roared in frustration, but didn't collapse.
Samar leaned against a cracked pillar, breathing heavily. "We… can't… keep going like this… He's too strong…!"
Roumit wiped blood from his temple and spat to the side, grimacing. "Even together, we… we can't match him…"
Armaan's gaze swept over both of them, calm and unyielding. His fists tightened. No excuses. No hesitation.
The Zenka advanced again, each step shaking the arena, his fists swinging like wrecking balls. Roumit tried to dodge, but his ribs ached too much, slowing his reflexes. He barely managed to block a strike that sent sparks from the stone floor. Samar's arm was bleeding profusely now, and his breathing came in short, painful bursts.
Yet Armaan moved like a shadow among them, calculating, predicting, reacting. He ducked under a wild swing, rolled forward, and came up behind the Zenka. Using the alien's momentum, he attempted a joint maneuver with Samar and Roumit—but the Zenka's reflexes were too fast, his body too strong. The impact of his counterattack sent all three tumbling backward, each landing heavily and coughing out blood.
Samar pressed a hand to his side, wincing. "This… this guy… he's… unbeatable…"
Roumit, panting, leaned against the floor, eyes wide as he tried to gather strength. "Every strike… doesn't even… slow him down…"
Armaan, still expressionless, rose from the ground. Blood was trickling from multiple cuts, his shirt shredded, his muscles aching, yet his eyes were calm, unwavering. He looked at the Zenka and took a step forward. No words. No hesitation. Just the unshakable resolve that neither pain nor fear could touch.
The Zenka roared, swinging a massive fist down at him. Armaan pivoted, letting the fist crash into the ground, sending stone shards into the air, then countered with a series of precise punches and kicks aimed at the alien's legs, torso, and shoulders. The Zenka stumbled, a grunt escaping him, but still far from defeated.
Samar, watching Armaan push forward, gritted his teeth. "We… we can't… keep up with him like this…"
Roumit's arms were shaking, blood streaked down his face. "He… he's too strong… we… we can't…"
But Armaan didn't answer. He didn't complain. He didn't hesitate. He kept moving forward, fists clenched, eyes narrowed, his body enduring blow after blow, refusing to fall.
The arena seemed to pulse with the intensity of the battle. The sound of fists colliding with flesh, the impact against stone, the grunts and groans of exertion—all of it echoed through the arena. Blood coated their arms, legs, and faces, yet Armaan's face remained unreadable, untouched by despair, unmoved by pain.
Even as Roumit was slammed into a wall and Samar barely blocked a strike aimed at his side, Armaan pushed forward. Every movement was precise, calculated, and determined. His fists, though bloodied, continued to land with exact timing. Each kick disrupted the Zenka's stance just enough to prevent him from gaining complete control.
The Zenka roared, swinging again, faster, stronger. The boys were bleeding, battered, and bruised beyond recognition. Yet still, they rose, still fighting, still moving as one unit. The first time, they were coordinated. Now, even in the face of near-impossible odds, they refused to give in.
Samar coughed, blood flecking his lips. "We… we can't… keep this up…"
Roumit's fists shook. "This… this is insane… We… we can't…"
Armaan didn't reply. He didn't even look at their wounds. He only saw the Zenka, only saw the path forward. His fists clenched again, his expression unreadable. And in that silence, amidst blood, sweat, and chaos, the battle pressed on.
Armaan's back slammed against the arena wall with a deafening crack, the force reverberating through his bones. Pain shot through his body like lightning, making him gasp and cry out, a sound that was alien to his usually calm demeanor. For a fleeting moment, his mind wavered.
Maybe… they're right. This is it… the end…
But then, as if carried by the winds of memory, a flashback struck him.
Farmaan's voice echoed in his mind, deep and unwavering, resonating with authority and wisdom.
"Armaan… listen closely," Farmaan said, his eyes intense, burning with the fire of a mentor who had seen battles beyond imagining. "Prana is not a mere flow of energy—it is the reflection of your very will. It bends and strengthens according to your determination. The might of a Rakshak does not come from muscle or skill alone… it comes from the unbreakable resolve within him."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Your prana is your resolve made tangible. If your will wavers, even the strongest body becomes fragile. But if your determination holds firm, your prana will surge through you, unstoppable, like molten magma erupting from the heart of the earth. Never… ever allow your will to falter during a battle. And if doubt ever creeps in, say it aloud, so your resolve manifests into power!"
The words pierced Armaan's mind, igniting a spark in the midst of despair. In that instant, he remembered everything—the countless battles, the faces he had sworn to protect, the promise he had made.
He clenched his fists, his eyes narrowing with unyielding focus, the pain in his body becoming fuel rather than a burden.
"I will not fail… I cannot fail… I am their protector… I am their Rakshak!"
As he spoke those words aloud, a radiant heat began to emanate from his body, intense and searing, like magma breaking free from the planet's core. The very air around him shimmered with the glow of prana, his aura expanding outward, painting the arena in waves of molten gold and crimson.
Though his expression remained calm, almost eerily so, his eyes burned with a ferocity that refused to be denied. Every muscle in his body trembled under the pressure of unleashed prana, yet he stood taller, unbroken, unstoppable.
Armaan's gaze swept over the battered forms of Samar and Roumit, their bodies bruised and bloodied from the relentless onslaught. He stepped forward, his aura still radiating heat like molten magma, yet his expression remained calm, almost unnervingly serene.
"Hey… guys…" His voice cut through the chaos, deep and steady, carrying the weight of unshakable resolve.