Zlatko collides first. He slams into Kaelros with a heavy grunt, and the two of them instantly spiral away from the main group, locked in their own chaotic exchange of blows.
While the "Aces" are separated, Darjan and Luka bear down on the remaining two. As they sprint, Darjan leans his head toward Luka, his voice a low, gravelly command.
"Luka, listen. You're going to be the bait," Darjan says. "We aren't going to make it obvious, but I need them to think you're an easy target so they overextend. That's how I get my clean hits. Understand?"
Luka's heart does a frantic double-tap against his ribs. "Bait. Got it," he gasps, nodding.
The squads collide. At first, it's a repeat of the opening seconds. Darjan is a wall of muscle and concentrated energy, acting as the main force protecting Luka from Virek and Ikaro. Luka stays in the shadow of Darjan's massive frame, waiting for an opening.
Then, he sees it.
As Darjan grapples with Virek, Ikaro steps to the side to angle for a strike. Luka doesn't wait for Darjan's signal. He leaps from behind Darjan's back, putting every ounce of weight he has into a full-force kick aimed at Ikaro's head.
He wants to prove he isn't just dead weight. He wants to hurt them.
But the difference is immense. Luka has the energy, but he has no clue how to use his power. There is no refinement, just a raw, clumsy swing.
Ikaro doesn't even flinch. With the effortless grace of a man swatting a fly, he reaches out and catches Luka's flying leg mid-air.
"Too slow," Ikaro mutters.
Before Luka can even realize he's been caught, Ikaro pivots and swings Luka's entire body downward.
SLAMMM—
The back of Luka's head and spine hit the floor with a bone-shaking thud. The world goes white. The air is punched out of his lungs, leaving him gasping for a breath that won't come. The pain is unbelievable—a searing, cold fire that paralyzes his limbs.
Seeing Luka about to be finished off, Darjan roars braces his output. He shoves Virek aside with a powerful burst of Qzi and launches a heavy punch at Ikaro. Ikaro manages to bring his arms up in a cross-block, but the sheer force of Darjan's energy knocks him several meters aside.
Darjan instantly steps over Luka's crumpled form, standing guard like a gargoyle. He keeps his eyes on the two opponents while Luka's lungs finally hitch, pulling in a ragged, painful breath.
"Not yet," Darjan whispers, his back to Luka as his eyes track the recovering Ikaro. "It's not time. You need to endure a little more."
Luka can barely see through the tears of pain, but he manages a weak nod. He trembles, forcing his hands to grip the floor as he tries to stand.
"Ready?" Darjan mutters. "I'll turn around and pretend to check on you. They'll think I'm distracted. That's when we launch."
Darjan suddenly drops his combat stance. He turns his back to the enemies, looking down at Luka with a fake expression of concern. It's a glaring opening—one that Virek and Ikaro can't resist.
As they lunge forward to capitalize on the mistake, Darjan's 'concern' vanishes.
He spins with the speed of a cyclone, his massive hands grabbing Luka by the shoulders. Using the momentum of his turn and a surge of raw Qzi, Darjan launches Luka through the air like a human projectile directly at Ikaro.
Luka flies. He hits Ikaro chest-first with a sickening
oomphh—
Ikaro, caught completely off-guard by the suicidal tactic, takes the full impact. He stumbles back, his heels skidding, a look of genuine shock crossing his face as he nearly loses his footing. He's damaged—not out, but finally, the perfect rhythm of the Third Squad has been shaken.
Luka doesn't give Ikaro a chance to breathe. Seeing the older fighter on one knee, Luka lunges forward. He isn't thinking about technique or 'Flickers'—he's just wailing.
A flurry of amateur, desperate punches and strikes rain down on Ikaro. For a few glorious seconds, Luka actually lands. A knuckle grazes Ikaro's cheek; a palm strike thuds against his shoulder. But as the daze from the 'human projectile' impact clears, Ikaro's eyes sharpen.
He begins to move like smoke.
Luka's fists hit nothing but air as Ikaro's head sways inches from each strike. Suddenly, the rhythm changes. Ikaro finds the gap.
FUMPT—
A swift jab catches Luka square in the nose, blurring his vision.
VDUM—
A follow-up hook sinks deep into Luka's ribs.
Luka collapses, clutching his side and gasping for air. The pain is searing, but this time, he's playing the game. He lets his body go limp, exaggerating the fall just enough to draw Ikaro in.
Ikaro steps forward, closing the distance to finish the job. Just as he enters the kill zone, Luka plants one hand firmly on the floor and swings his body around, launching a desperate right kick from the ground.
It's a smart move, but Ikaro is a veteran. He catches Luka's ankle mid-swing, his grip tightening like a hydraulic vice.
"Not bad," Ikaro says, his voice devoid of malice. "You're adapting."
Luka feels the familiar panic—the memory of being slammed into the floor just minutes ago. "○Not again. I am NOT getting slammed again."
He doesn't have the Qzi to overpower Ikaro or to defend, so he uses physics. Luka slams both hands onto the ground, squeezing his fists until he feels the synthetic floor beneath his nails. He isn't just trying to pull his leg back; he's trying to rotate.
With a guttural scream of effort, Luka twists his entire torso.
"Oh!?" Ikaro surprised.
He utilizes every muscle in his back, core, and hips—a full-body torque against Ikaro's isolated forearm.
RRRRRIP!—
The friction is too much. Ikaro's grip is strong, but it's only hand strength vs. Luka's entire body weight. Luka's leg spins within Ikaro's palm, his skin tearing and raw as he forces his way out of the hold. He rolls away, scrambling back to a shaky stance, blood dripping from the raw friction burns on his ankle.
Across the floor, Darjan has Virek occupied, their fists clashing in a heavy, rhythmic exchange.
Ikaro stands still for a moment, looking at his empty palm and then back at the panting teenager in the tattered hospital gown. He doesn't rush back in. Instead, he speaks up, his voice carrying across the blue-lit arena.
"Hey, kid... you're not bad at all," Ikaro says, a hint of genuine respect breaking through his serious mask. "What you did there was very smart. You used the power of your whole body to turn, utilizing every muscle while you knew I only had my grip strength. Most recruits just try to pull away. You tried to break the joint."
Luka doesn't respond. He can't. The pain in his leg is agonizing. A raw, stinging heat that makes his teeth chatter. But beneath the pain, something else is happening. His adrenaline pumping full force, the pain now not so significant.
"○Damn.. that hurt" Luka thinks to himself. "But i managed to break free on my own."
"Though, it did cost you your skin," Ikaro remarks. But now his eyes widening even more. "But that's the more impressive part. Haha! I gotta say kid. You got more guts than me to go this far in a spar."
For a split second, Luka's eyes dart toward Darjan. Still panting and in pain.
In the middle of his struggle with Virek, Darjan gives a single, sharp nod.
The signal.
"I must say, I thought Darjan was out of his mind letting you go alone," Ikaro thinks back to when he threw. "But now I see, I have to take you atleast a little serious."
As the sentence finishes Luka doesn't miss a beat. He turns and charges at Ikaro.
His face is twisted in a mask of desperate aggression. Ikaro settles into a rock-solid stance, bracing his core for the impact. But at the very last micro-second, Luka digs his heel into the synthetic floor, pivots, and runs.
Ikaro's brain shorts out for a heartbeat. "○He's retreating?" The instinct of a predator takes over. Ikaro lunges, his pride stung by this newcomer making a fool of him.
He catches Luka within three strides, tackling him and pinning him to the ground. Ikaro begins to wail on him, fists blurring—but in his fury, he commits the cardinal sin of wrath.
He forgets about Darjan. Lost in the burst of emotion.
Previously, Luka was such a non-threat that Ikaro could keep half an eye Darjan while dealing with the kid. But the embarrassment of the previous exchange blinded him. The opening is a mile wide.
Virek screams from across the floor, his voice cracking with panic. "WATCH OUT! IKARO!"
Too late.
Ikaro realizes the trap a fraction of a second after it snaps shut. He turns his head just in time to see a wall of black-clad muscle bearing down on him.
Darjan doesn't punch. He launches his entire frame like a battering ram, his shoulder connecting with Ikaro's chest. The sound is like a car crash. The force carries Ikaro across the floor, slamming Ikaro into the hexagonal wall with a sickening thud.
Darjan doesn't stop the flow. While Ikaro is pinned against the metal, gasping for air, Darjan reaches down and grabs Luka's hand, yanking him up and spinning him in a circle.
"Again!" Darjan roars.
He launches Luka like a medicine ball. Luka is ready this time—he draws his knees to his chest and then snaps them out, both legs slamming into Ikaro's solar plexus, pinning him into the wall even deeper.
Darjan follows up instantly.
The "Shadow" and the "Wall" begin a 2-on-1 barrage. It's a symphony of brutality.
Darjan provides the heavy, bone-breaking power, while Luka uses his smaller frame to slip through Ikaro's crumbling guard.
Virek is sprinting toward them, his eyes wide with desperation. Both Ikaro and Virek's attention is now fully locked back onto Darjan. They are making the same mistake Ikaro just made, just in reverse. They see Darjan as the only real threat.
Darjan and Luka stop their punching for a heartbeat. Ikaro, blood dripping from his lip, sees the pause and realizes the geometry of the fight has shifted again.
"NO! DON'T RUSH!" Ikaro screams toward the incoming Virek.
But Darjan has already calculated the underestimation. He catches Luka by the arm again as the he bounces off a strike, and launches him once more.
Luka doesn't resist. He goes limp, trusting Darjan's trajectory. He isn't aiming for the battered Ikaro this time.
He's aiming for the sprinting Virek.
Virek, who was bracing to hit Darjan, finds himself face-to-face with a flying feet. Luka slams his legs in Vireks face, using the momentum of Darjan's throw to turn himself into a human anchor.
"Gotcha!" Luka grunts through gritted teeth.
Virek's momentum is completely derailed. He stumbles, and flies backwards, leaving Darjan alone with a broken Ikaro.
Darjan doesn't hesitate.
As Ikaro gasps for air, Darjan snakes a massive arm around the boy's throat, locking him into a brutal, standing chokehold. Ikaro flails, his fingers clawing at Darjan's forearm, but it's like trying to pry apart hydraulic pistons.
"Go to sleep," Darjan grunts, his eyes shifting to the side.
Luka watches, chest heaving. He realizes he's alone in the center of the fray now. Zlatko is still a blur of motion elsewhere, and Darjan is occupied. Luka turns to face Virek, who is finally back on his feet, eyes wild with rage.
"○Just a few seconds," Luka thinks, his heart drumming against his ribs. "○Just endure for a few more seconds."
Luka doesn't rush this time. He sinks into a shallow crouch, his hands up, bracing his mind for the pain of the impact. He waits for the move.
Virek bellows a wordless cry and sprints forward. He's a freight train of momentum.
Luka tenses, eyes shut tight—but the impact never comes.
With a mocking swish of air, Virek ignores Luka entirely, darting past him with a single-minded focus on Darjan's exposed back. He isn't interested in the Luka anymore; he has to save Ikaro before he passes out.
"Darjan! Watch out!" Luka screams, spinning around to chase him. "He's coming from your right!"
Darjan doesn't move. He doesn't even turn his head.
To Virek, Darjan looks like a stationary target. He is bent low over the struggling Ikaro, his back curled into a tight, rounded shape—almost like a ball of solid muscle. He looks vulnerable, his guard completely dropped to maintain the choke.
Virek pulls his fist back, putting every ounce of his sprinting momentum into a killing blow.
"Move!" Virek roars.
At that exact micro-second, Darjan's back uncurls.
He hadn't been vulnerable—he had been loading.
Darjan springs all his force into his lead leg, driving his heel into the synthetic floor with enough Qzi to make the plates groan. From that low, crouched 'ball' position, he explodes upward and outward. He releases Ikaro, letting the dazed boy slump to the floor, and converts all that stored energy into a massive, high-arcing overhand punch.
WHAMMM—
The timing is surgical. Virek's face meets Darjan's fist at the apex of the swing. The sound isn't a punch, it's a structural failure.
The force of the overhand blow is so immense that Virek's feet leave the ground instantly. His body becomes a projectile, skipping off the floor like a flat stone on a lake.
Luka's eyes go wide as Virek's unconscious body comes tumbling toward him. He has to dive to the side, rolling across the floor as Virek's limp form skids past and slams into the far wall, leaving a dent in the plating.
Luka stands up from his crouched position slowly moving his hands down from his head and turns toward where Virek flew.
Knocked out cold. Laying on the ground.