Hikaru adjusted her grip, eyes narrowing. She had pushed Gingka into a corner once with her illusions, but now, he was charging through every defense. There was no other option left. If she was going to break Pegasus's momentum, she had to do it with one decisive strike.
Her thumb brushed over Aquario's launcher, feeling the rotation pulse through her fingers.
"Let's end this," she muttered.
Aquario's spin shifted.
But this time, it wasn't subtle.
Madoka's scanner lit up with rapid alerts.
"She's initiating her special move."
Kenta leaned in, barely blinking. "This is her finisher, isn't it?"
Benkei's arms dropped from his usual crossed stance. His gaze stayed locked on the stadium. "If Gingka doesn't brace, this'll flip the match."
Aarav said nothing. His eyes were following the minute spin shifts, already calculating the next five seconds of battle.
Aquario spun in tight rotations, but it wasn't holding still. Its movements started pulling at the stadium's surface, causing ripples in the air—not visual tricks, but the real displacement of pressure. The sharp shifts in spin created layered shockwaves that pulsed outward, resembling crashing ocean waves that rolled across the stadium floor.
The air felt heavier.
Pegasus's rotation began to stutter—not in speed, but in stability. The ground beneath it wasn't flat anymore. The wave was lifting Pegasus, tilting its axis slightly with every ripple.
Madoka's analysis displayed the feedback.
"She's creating a ripple pressure across the stadium. It's destabilizing Pegasus's foothold."
Gingka's eyes sharpened, his grin turning serious.
Pegasus's footing slipped once, then again.
The next ripple struck harder, lifting Pegasus slightly into the air.
Kenta gasped. "She's throwing him off the ground!"
Pegasus hovered, unbalanced, caught within Aquario's wave zone.
Hikaru's expression remained sharp.
"This is the end," she said, more to herself than anyone else.
But Gingka wasn't panicking.
He felt Pegasus lose its footing, but that didn't mean losing the battle.
He adjusted his stance, grip tightening.
"You're strong," he said, his voice steady. "But I'm not spinning to lose."
Pegasus was airborne, but Gingka wasn't done.
He pulled back slightly, locking his wrist in a controlled motion.
"Pegasus—Storm Blast."
Pegasus, suspended for a breathless moment, shifted mid-air.
It wasn't a special effect.
It was a pure, rotational pivot.
The blade angled itself downward, its spin force compressing into a direct descent.
Gingka's Storm Blast wasn't a flashy, named attack—it was a brutal, precise spin-driven dive.
Pegasus reoriented like a hammer, using gravity and rotational momentum.
From the sky, it charged toward Aquario.
Hikaru saw it coming.
She didn't flinch.
Aquario's Infinite Assault was still active, the waves surging outwards.
But this wasn't about waves anymore.
This was about direct collision.
Both Bladers had committed.
As Pegasus descended, Aquario's rotations centered, waiting for the impact.
The collision was sharp, metal ringing against metal.
The stadium trembled.
Aquario held for a heartbeat, resisting the downward force.
But Pegasus's spin didn't waver.
It drilled through.
Aquario's spin line cracked.
The control was gone.
Aquario skidded backwards, bouncing against the stadium slope.
It spun, slower, then slower still.
Until it tipped.
The stadium fell silent.
Pegasus remained spinning, its rotations slower but firm, steady in the center.
Gingka exhaled, lowering his launcher.
Madoka's scanner dimmed.
Benkei's arms unfolded, resting at his sides.
Kenta's grip on his own launcher eased.
Aarav's eyes didn't shift, but the faintest nod marked his recognition.
Hikaru picked up Aquario, her grip firm, but her eyes weren't on the stadium anymore.
She looked up at the sky.
Becoming the strongest—that had always been the goal.
But standing here, after this loss, the gap felt real. Not crushing, but real.
Her dream didn't break, but it didn't feel as close as before.
Gingka noticed.
He didn't offer empty words.
He walked up beside her, holding Pegasus in his hand, his eyes lifting to the same sky.
"You know," he said, voice casual, "losing doesn't mean you stop reaching. It just means the next spin has to be better."
Hikaru's eyes didn't leave the sky.
But her fingers slowly unclenched from Aquario.
Gingka added, "You pushed me harder than most Bladers. That's not a loss. That's progress."
For a few seconds, neither spoke.
Then Hikaru clipped Aquario back onto her belt.
"I'll keep practicing."
Gingka smiled. "Good. Because next time, I want to see how far you've sharpened."
Benkei's voice cut through the quiet.
"You'll get him next time."
It wasn't loud. It wasn't forced. Just a straight statement.
Kenta grinned, jogging over. "That was incredible, Hikaru! You almost had him with that wave."
Madoka lowered her scanner, her tone softer. "You didn't lose control. You just found the edge of it."
Aarav stayed where he was, arms folded, but his gaze didn't shift from Hikaru. He wasn't looking with pity. He was watching a Blader who had taken a hit, stood still, and was already calculating the next spin.
Hikaru didn't respond immediately.
But the quiet weight in the air wasn't defeat.
It was unfinished business.