Gurion lunged at Zeva with the wild intensity of a predator, his leap carrying the raw weight of someone ready to tear through whatever stood before him. Zeva didn't flinch. With a practiced flick, she tossed the bokken behind her back, letting it roll from one hand to the other in a seamless transfer before snapping it upward in a tight, arcing swing toward his jaw.
Gurion caught the movement at the last instant and brought his right forearm up to block. The wood cracked against bone, the shock running through his arm and biting into his shoulder. He gritted his teeth, forcing his body to twist for a counterstrike—only for Zeva to shift.
She loosened her grip just enough to let the bokken spin in her palm, sliding past the path of his strike. In a blink, the tip came snapping back across his face. The smack landed flush on his nose, the sharp pain exploding through his skull as his head whipped back. Blood burst from his nostrils, warm and fast.
Quincy's voice cut through the roar of the crowd. "The Martial Artist just took a bad hit! He looks determined—but is determination enough to win this battle?"
Gurion shook his head to clear it, blinking through the sting. His eyes darted toward the weapon racks—specifically, the round shields resting in their mounts. But the thought died instantly. If he broke away from her for even a moment, she'd have time to draw her real sword. And then, shield or not, the match would be over before he took a step.
So he stepped back in.
He launched into a flurry—fast jabs to probe her guard, his fists snapping out in quick, darting lines toward her chin and collarbone. Zeva shifted the bokken like a flowing current, catching each strike on the flat or edge with a precise redirection. Gurion dropped low, whipping out two sharp low kicks aimed at her thigh and knee, but she lowered the blade in smooth arcs, catching them without breaking her rhythm.
He switched gears, letting the speed build into power—two heavy haymakers thrown with every ounce of muscle behind them, forcing her to meet them head-on. The bokken smacked against his fists with a dull thud, her stance unshaken. Finally, he spun into a roundhouse kick, the wind from it cutting close to her temple, but the wooden blade was already there, stopping him cold.
"If the arena were different," she said evenly, not sounding winded in the slightest, "you might have won."
Before he could respond, her counters came—swift, precise jabs of the bokken into the softer targets: the side of his knee, the inside of his elbow, the base of his shoulder. Each impact sent a spike of pain that rattled through his limbs, his breath breaking into sharp bursts.
He stepped back, chest heaving, each inhale a visible puff of mist from the sheer force of his exhaustion. *There really is no winning this, is there?* The thought came unbidden, heavy as lead in his mind. *Maybe I should just—*
He froze, eyes narrowing, his lips curling back to bare his teeth. *Did I really just think about giving up?* His heart thundered. *No! No matter what—it doesn't matter if she's a mountain. I'll climb it!*
Dropping low, Gurion fell to all fours, muscles coiling, tail going still, ears pressed flat to his skull.
"What's this? What is the Martial Artist doing?" Quincy's voice rang out in bewilderment, echoed by the murmurs of a confused crowd.
Zeva tilted her head slightly, bokken angled toward him. "What are you doing?"
She got her answer as Gurion exploded forward in a sprint—launching with a bark.
There was a sudden shift in Gurion's presence—a violent breaking of form. Gone was the measured guard, the clean lines of practiced martial arts. What replaced it was raw, unchained motion: the coiled desperation of a predator with nowhere left to run. His muscles rippled under his skin as he closed the gap in a blur, nails scraping against the floorboards in his low stance.
He lunged without telegraph or pattern, forcing Zeva to pivot hard to avoid a sweeping claw of a strike aimed for her midsection. Before she could reset her stance, he was already circling wide, his feet pounding against the arena floor with the rhythm of a stalking beast, slipping behind her guard with a slash of his arm that sliced the air by her cheek. She countered with a quick slash of the bokken, but he dropped low on pure instinct, spine curving like a hunting cat, his head tilting just enough for the wood to whisper past his hair.
Every movement was animalistic—rolling shoulders, twisting hips, striking in sudden bursts like pounces from a predator's lair. His hands lashed out not with clean martial form, but with raking, claw-like arcs that sought to batter, grab, or drag her off balance. He shifted levels constantly—one moment upright, the next darting forward on all fours—his momentum snapping in different directions mid-charge. A guttural growl rumbled from his chest, audible even over the roaring crowd, each sound punctuating a strike.
His unpredictability began to press her back, each attack forcing her to step, block, or redirect before he was already lunging in again. A jab of the bokken toward his ribs was met with him flattening to the ground so abruptly it seemed unnatural, sweeping her ankle with a hooked leg before coiling upward into a springing leap, his arm cutting through the air toward her head in a swiping hook. She barely leaned away in time, her brows drawing together in sudden, focused concentration.
"Is The Blade being pushed back right now?" Quincy shouted above the roar of the spectators. "The Martial Artist—if we can even call him that anymore—is actually forcing The Blade back!"
The cheers surged, stomps rattling the arena floor.
Zeva's eyes narrowed. She said nothing, her breathing controlled, but the bokken dipped lower in her hand, her fingers shifting into a more precise grip. Gurion came at her again, a bounding leap like a wolf aiming for a killing blow—
And in that instant, she let the bokken fall from her hand.
Her real sword flashed from its sheath in a single, practiced motion, the hiss of steel cutting through the noise. The blade swept across his chest before his feet even hit the ground. She stepped neatly aside, his momentum carrying him past her as the crimson line opened across his torso.
"You lost focus," she said flatly, flicking the blood from her blade before wiping it clean in a fluid, familiar gesture. The sword slid home with a soft click.
Gurion's legs buckled. He looked up at her, vision already swimming, the noise of the crowd dull in his ears. *Sorry, everyone… I couldn't save you…* The thought was the last thing that lingered before darkness swallowed him whole.
"Despite it all," Quincy's voice rang over the stunned hush, "The Blade—Zeva Blossom—is the winner!"