Axel announced in a firm voice:
"The next battle will be Nero versus Sunday."
Sunday opened his mouth, clearly about to make some lighthearted comment to ease the tension.
"Well, I guess it's time to..."
"Shut up," Nero interrupted without even looking at him.
The atmosphere instantly became tense. Nero stepped forward and assumed a fighting stance, his body slightly bent, his feet firmly planted on the ground.
Sunday blinked once, surprised… and then smirked. Without another word, he adjusted his grip and drew his weapon with a clean, precise movement. His eyes, once relaxed, sharpened.
Nero activated his knife and began to analyze the terrain.
The ground was firm, with no debris to impede movement; the space was ample enough for a swift fight, but not for carelessness.
Every shadow, every minute variation in the air registered in his mind.
Sunday was a few feet away, slightly tilted, his weight deceptively distributed.
Sunday made the first move.
It wasn't an attack, but a deliberately slow sideways step, as if he were gauging the distance with indifference. His weapon lowered barely a centimeter, a minimal gesture, calculated to provoke.
Nero didn't react.
The knife vibrated in his hand, alert. His eyes followed every adjustment in Sunday's stance: the almost imperceptible turn of the shoulder, the tension building in the rear leg, the suffocating breath. Everything indicated the same thing.
He's going to explode any second.
Sunday clicked his tongue.
"How intimidating," he murmured, "you look like a statue."
The instant he finished the sentence, he attacked.
His body shot forward with a speed that contrasted brutally with his relaxed demeanor.
The weapon traced a horizontal, clean cut, straight across the torso.
Nero reacted at the same time.
He spun, the knife rising and deflecting the attack with a sharp clash of metal against obsidian.
The impact echoed through the air, and both took a half-step back, breaking contact.
There was no pause.
Sunday advanced again, linking up a second attack from below, aiming for the ribs.
Nero blocked again, but this time the blow carried more weight. His boots slid a few inches on the firm ground.
He's strong... Nero smiled with amusement.
Sunday grinned, now with his teeth.
"That was close."
He changed his rhythm suddenly.
He shifted from direct attacks to erratic movements, weaving in and out of Nero's range, throwing slashes that weren't meant to strike, but to force reactions. Each strike was a question; each block, an answer.
Nero began to advance.
He wasn't chasing. He was pressing.
He took one step, then another, closing the space with surgical precision. The knife traced short, efficient paths, always targeting key areas.
He didn't waste energy. He didn't improvise.
Sunday stepped back for the first time.
"Wow..." he said, blocking an attack that nearly grazed his arm. "So this is the famous Nero."
He jumped back, creating distance, and changed his grip. His stance became lower, more serious. The lightness vanished from his gaze.
The next exchange was brutal.
Sunday attacked with a flurry of quick, diagonal, and vertical punches, looking to break through Nero's guard. Nero absorbed the onslaught, blocking, deflecting, twisting his body at the last second to avoid direct hits. The sound of metal clashing became constant, almost rhythmic.
Then Nero saw the opening.
A microsecond. An overconfidence in the final attack.
He went in.
He took an explosive step forward and threw a straight cut to the side. Sunday reacted reflexively, twisting his torso; The attack didn't land squarely, but the blade grazed his clothing, tearing a clean line of fabric.
They separated.
The silence was heavy.
Sunday was breathing more heavily now. He ran his thumb along the edge of the weapon, assessing it.
"Heh…" he chuckled softly, "this isn't a game anymore."
Nero smiled; a plan had formed in his mind.
Nero tilted his head and let out a low, almost lazy laugh.
"You know?" he said with a clearly mocking tone, "You swing like every blow has to prove something. All strength… no brains."
Sunday's expression froze.
The comment wasn't harsh, but it hit right where it hurt.
Sunday's fingers tightened around the weapon until his knuckles turned white. His breathing became ragged and uncontrolled.
"…Pull it back," he said through gritted teeth.
Nero didn't respond. The crooked smile was still there.
That was enough.
Sunday roared and charged with everything he had. He didn't measure distance or rhythm: he charged straight ahead and unleashed a brutal blow, followed by another, and another, each one fueled by fury. The final impact connected squarely.
Nero's body was sent flying.
He traveled several meters through the air before crashing to the ground, leaving a deep slash as he slid down. Silence fell abruptly over the field.
For a second, no one moved.
Nero got up slowly. He brushed the dust off his shoulder, unhurriedly. The mockery had completely vanished from his face.
His expression was now serious. Cold.
"...enough," he murmured.
The knife vibrated with a different pulse.
Nero activated Zero Stage.
The pressure in the air intensified. His eyes darkened to black, and in the center of his pupils appeared a deep, motionless, unnatural red glow.
The two continued to stare at each other, rage hovering between them like an invisible pressure.
Sunday was the first to break it.
He lunged forward, unleashing a series of electrified, rapid, and chaotic blows.
Sparks flew through the air with every movement, seeking to overwhelm Nero with sheer intensity.
Nero stood firm.
At the perfect moment, she played one of her cards. She spun and sliced through the air with surgical precision, striking the side of Sunday's arm. The attack wasn't deep, but it was clean.
Sunday grunted as she stumbled back. Blood dripped to the floor in jagged drops.
That only made things worse.
Her smile widened, twisted, brimming with rage.
"Heh…" she said, staring at him, "I guess someone like Rose would sell well."
The effect was immediate.
The atmosphere grew oppressive, as if the air had been forcibly compressed. The red glow in Nero's eyes intensified, and her expression lost all trace of humanity.
Hatred surged.
She didn't scream.
She didn't react immediately.
But Zero Stage reacted with absolute clarity. His stance shifted barely, just enough for Sunday to feel a chill run down his spine.
He had made a mistake.
With incredible speed, their swords clashed, the impact so violent that both were sent flying, spinning through the air before crashing down to the ground with a thud.
For a moment, everything was silent.
Sunday opened his eyes, surprised.
"Huh…?"
Nero seized upon Sunday's momentary confusion.
He charged forward, closing the distance in an instant.
The impact caught him off guard and knocked him off balance. Both fell to the ground, but Nero was the first to react, landing on top and preventing any attempt to retaliate.
Nero took the opportunity to unleash a flurry of punches to his face.
Sunday tried to get up, to raise his arms in front of him, but Nero's pressure kept him immobilized.
Every movement he made was cut short before it could be completed. There was no unnecessary brutality, only a clear, cold, unquestionable superiority.
Nero's strength grew with rage.
The atmosphere became dangerously tense.
Axel stepped between them without hesitation.
"Enough!" he said, with an authority that brooked no argument.
Nero's body froze, as if something inside him had finally clicked back into place. His fists trembled for a second before loosening. The oppressive tension that filled the air slowly dissipated, and the red glow in his pupils faded until it was gone.
He took a deep breath.
He stood and stepped back.
Sunday remained on the ground, breathing heavily, making no attempt to get up immediately. He was no longer smiling. The rage was still there, but it had been crushed by something more obvious: the difference between them.
Axel looked at them both, serious.
"The battle ends here," he declared. "This stopped being a duel a long time ago."
Nero didn't reply. He simply picked up his knife and turned away, his back to the field without once glancing at Sunday. His silence spoke louder than any threat.
Sunday closed her eyes for a moment.
She had lost.
Not just the fight, but control.
The dust settled. No one spoke.
And as Nero walked away, one thing became clear to everyone present:
That fight hadn't just determined a winner.
It had drawn a line that should never be crossed again.
Nero and Sunday's eyes met.
The hatred was still there, simmering, almost alive... but there was something else... respect.