Chapter 4: The triumph
Beyond the tournament grounds, past the sprawling city and even the treacherous Poisonous Field, stood a towering mountain, its peak piercing the heavens. Atop this colossal peak sat John, his gaze locked on the distant battlefield below. From this vantage, high above the world, he could see everything. His vision, now enhanced a hundredfold by the mysterious black-coated figure who had altered his body, allowed him to observe the events as if he were standing in the arena itself.
John had been following the battle between Marc and Enigma with silent intensity. When Marc survived Enigma's devastating attack, John felt a flicker of surprise. He had always known Marc was strong, but this was a new level of resilience, a strength John hadn't fully anticipated. And yet, deep down, he had never truly doubted it. Marc's potential had always been immense, but now it was on full display.
Behind John, a massive figure lay motionless. The size of it was staggering, too large to be anything but a dragon—or something just as ancient and powerful. The first light of dawn spilled over the mountain, casting its golden rays upon the enormous form. As the sun illuminated the creature, its true nature became clear—a dragon, its scales shimmering with a strange mixture of ice and fire. Its size was legendary, a creature from myths and whispered tales in the city below. People spoke of a dragon made of frost and flame, a beast so large it could rival the mountains themselves.
But something was wrong with this dragon. Its face, once regal and fearsome, looked hollow and lifeless. Even for an ancient dragon, its expression was unnaturally still, as though its very soul had been ripped from its body. As more sunlight poured across the dragon's form, the extent of the damage became visible. The once-mighty creature had been ravaged by battle. Jagged holes marred its right side, deep cuts slashed across its left, and at the centre of its chest, a gaping wound—the fatal blow. It was clear now that this dragon had fought a battle it could not win.
John sat on the edge of the mountain, his hands slick with blood. In one of his hands, he gripped a small staff, its top encased in ice that still glistened under the sun. This staff had been the weapon that delivered the killing blow. The very dragon that could have levelled mountains with a single roar, or set the entire range ablaze with its fiery breath, now lay slain at John's feet.
John turned his head slowly, his gaze shifting from the distant tournament to the flickering fire he had built for himself atop the mountain. The flames danced in the cool air, crackling softly as they devoured the wood beneath them. With a deliberate motion, John reached out and grasped a stick resting over the flames. He lifted it, the faint sizzle of roasted flesh filling the quiet around him.
Bringing the stick closer to his mouth, he took a bite from the charred meat skewered upon it. The taste was rich, unlike any other, and yet there was a grimness to his actions. For this was no ordinary meat. The flesh he consumed was from the dragon—the massive, lifeless creature that lay motionless behind him, its body broken and defeated. its enormous body still and cold. The once-mighty beast, capable of levelling mountains and scorching the land, was reduced to a meal.
As he watched the ongoing fight in the distant tournament, there was no triumph in his eyes, only cold resolve. John had defeated the dragon, a creature of immense power and myth, but there was no celebration. He was merely an observer, waiting for whatever came next. The same man who had brought down a force of nature now watched as another battle unfolded below, unmoved by the carnage behind him.
John rose to his feet, gripping the same bloodstained slick he had used to slay the dragon. The ice at its tip shimmered faintly in the morning light as he began his descent down the mountain. Each step was careful, deliberate, as he made his way along the rugged path. The air around him was thin, biting cold, yet John pressed forward, his thoughts on the distant battlefield.
He had cut down countless creatures and monsters on his descent from the mountain, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake. Nearly every beast that once roamed those heights had been driven to extinction by John's hand. The few that remained cowered in fear, knowing that to cross his path was to court certain death. His presence alone was enough to make the fiercest creatures shrink away, for they knew none could survive a battle with him.
As he descended further, something caught his eye—an opening in the rock, a cave he hadn't noticed during his climb. Its mouth gaped wide, dark and foreboding, and from within, a cold wind swept out, chilling the air even more. John stopped in his tracks, standing still as the icy breeze wrapped around him, carrying with it a strange, unsettling energy.
For a moment, he stood in silence, feeling the weight of the cave's presence. There was something ancient about it, something that stirred a faint echo in the back of his mind.
"A cave?" John muttered to himself, his voice echoing softly off the stone walls. He stepped toward the dark entrance, curiosity tugging at him. "Might as well explore it," he said with a shrug. "Not like I've got anything better to do." With that, he vanished into the shadowy depths, swallowed by the cave's darkness.
Back at the tournament, the tension in the air reached its peak as Marc and Enigma dashed toward each other, both moving at blinding speeds, their movements perfectly synchronized. The impact of their fists colliding was deafening, a shockwave ripping through the arena as the ground beneath them splintered and cracked. Chunks of debris were flung into the air, scattering in every direction, as if the very earth couldn't withstand the force of their clash. The once-pristine arena lay in ruins, shattered by their sheer power.
But as the battle raged on, Marc's strength began to wane. Fatigue crept into his limbs, his energy draining with each passing moment. His breathing grew laboured, and Enigma, ever watchful, noticed the cracks in his opponent's defence.
"Don't tell me you've already reached your limit," Enigma said, his voice laced with arrogance. A smirk tugged at his lips through his crack mask. "And here I thought you'd be the one to force me to use my full power."
Marc's vision blurred, his body screaming in protest. He had nothing left to give—except for one final burst of will. Desperation surged through him, and with a roar that echoed through the broken arena, he channelled every last ounce of energy into his arm.
"AHHH!!"
With one final, furious scream, Marc unleashed all of his remaining strength in a single strike. His fist connected, and for the first time, Enigma staggered, pushed back by the sheer force of Marc's resolve.
The entire crowd held its breath. The silence was palpable, not a single person dared to blink, terrified they might miss the decisive moment. The other fighters, their own battles forgotten, watched the screen with wide-eyed anticipation. Everyone waited, their hearts pounding, to see what would happen next.
But while Marc gave everything he had, Enigma had grown tired of the contest. His earlier respect was gone, replaced with boredom.
"This is getting tedious," he muttered, his voice cold and dismissive. And in the blink of an eye, Enigma struck. Marc's body was sent flying across the arena, crashing into the debris-strewn ground, his final effort rendered futile.
The crowd was stunned, disbelief hanging thick in the air. Some of the fighters had expected this outcome, but others were caught off guard by the sheer brutality of the battle's end.
On the far side of the arena, Marc lay motionless on the ground, his body broken and battered. The punishment he had endured was too much, and his strength had finally given way, leaving him unconscious in the aftermath of the fight.
"And that concludes the match!" The announcer's voice rang out, cutting through the murmur of the crowd. "THERE YOU HAVE IT, FOLKS—THE WINNER OF THIS MATCH IS ENIGMA!"
The crowd erupted in applause, a mix of awe and respect for Enigma's victory. Despite the intensity of the battle, Marc had put up a fight worth remembering, but Enigma had emerged victorious, as many had feared he would.
Without a word, Enigma turned and strode out of the arena, his expression hidden beneath his mask. He moved with the same calm detachment as always, disappearing into the shadows of the fighters' room as the arena.