The arena trembled under the weight of the combatants. Sparks flew as Gloxkir's claws tore into stone, each strike faster and more unpredictable than the last. Kairo's side throbbed where the Ashweave bindings clung, every breath a reminder that his body had already been pushed beyond human limits.
Gloxkir roared, a sound that shook the air, and charged with blinding speed. Kairo met him with measured steps, his body moving almost mechanically, instinct guiding him through the storm of iron and muscle. Every strike that should have broken him barely grazed, absorbed by the unyielding rhythm of his endurance.
And yet, beneath the surface, memories surfaced — fragments of pain he had tried to bury.
Flashes of dark chambers.
Chains biting into flesh.
The Remnant's cold, methodical cruelty.
Endless screams.
Kairo's mind recalled every torture, every impossibly drawn-out wound, every time his body had refused to die. It was not strength born of muscle, but of experience and endurance, honed through suffering that no mortal could survive. Each memory sharpened his senses, guiding his movements like a ghostly tutor.
Gloxkir's claws slashed again. Kairo ducked low, letting the massive strike sail over his shoulder. The Judgement Dance flickered in his stance — not as a full assault, but as subtle, calculated shifts that allowed him to anticipate Gloxkir's rhythm, to survive where others would have fallen.
The crowd's roar became a distant echo. Kairo's focus narrowed to the predator before him, the movements, the rhythm, the slightest tells that hinted at the next strike. He had no flashy powers. He had no overwhelming strength. He had only his body, his mind, and the scars of a thousand torments that refused to let him die.
Gloxkir's frustration mounted, his strikes wild and desperate. Kairo moved through the storm, every dodge, every counter, a silent statement: I endure. I watch. I survive.
The clash continued, relentless, until the arena itself seemed to bow to the force of their struggle. Flames twisted around them, shadows danced like living things, and somewhere above the chaos, Igron's summoning continued, drawing the demi-demon farther from the arena and leaving Kairo to face the relentless force of the tournament alone.
And through it all, Kairo's mind remained still, anchored in the one truth that had always carried him through Hell: survival, above all, was the only answer.