Dark stepped into the arena, the air thick with anticipation. The crowd surrounded him on all sides, their voices echoing against the black stone walls. At the center stood two figures—Rykaou waiting silently, and Dantero, grinning like always.
Dantero: Yoo.
He raised a hand, palm open.
Dark lifted his own and dapped him up firmly.
Dantero: Emperor, meet Rykaou. Beast of the Valley.
He turned toward Rykaou, motioning between them.
Dantero: Rykaou, meet Emperor Dark. The Hope That Dismantles All Evil.
Rykaou exhaled slowly. His chest tightened at the weight of that title. Then he smiled faintly and raised his hand.
Dark accepted the handshake, calm and steady. Their grips tightened—an unspoken understanding between two forces of will.
Dark: (thinking) His Power Source... interesting.
A faint shimmer crossed Dark's eyes, the glow almost hidden beneath his hood.
Rykaou felt it immediately—his pulse spiking as if every instinct screamed at once.
Rykaou: (thinking) That pressure... If I'm going to stand before him one day... I'll have to become stronger.
Dantero clapped his hands together, stepping back.
Dantero: Alright, take your positions!
The arena roared with excitement. Most cheered for the Emperor, but many watched Rykaou—curious about the one bold enough to face him.
Dantero raised his hand high.
Dantero: You know the rules. No killing, don't go too far, and if one concedes—you stop.
Rykaou nodded once.
He lowered into his stance—one leg back, spine bent slightly forward, hands loose, ready. His breathing slowed until the air itself seemed to wait with him.
Dark didn't move. His cloak drifted with the faint wind, shadow covering his eyes, only the lower half of his face visible. His stillness carried more threat than motion ever could.
Dantero grinned.
Dantero: Three...
The crowd hushed.
Dantero: Two...
The air trembled.
Dantero: One... GO!
Rykaou roared and vanished forward, tearing through the air. In a blink, he appeared in front of Dark, fist raised like a storm.
The impact never came.
Dark's hand shot up, palm open, stopping Rykaou's strike mid-swing. Not blocking—stopping. Time itself seemed to hesitate.
Rykaou's eyes widened, but his grin returned. He twisted, switching stance midair, and launched a kick straight for Dark's side.
A flash.
A sound like thunder.
The entire arena shook as a shockwave burst outward, dust swallowing both fighters.
When it cleared.
Rykaou stood meters away, breathing heavy, one hand gripping his stomach where the strike had landed. His expression burned with confusion and pride, that defiant, determined glare only a fighter could wear.
Rykaou: (thinking) A... double impact? I— I was attacking... so how did I—
He looked down, realizing Dark hadn't even moved from his spot.
Dark brushed a bit of dust off his shoulder, calm as silence itself.
The crowd erupted. Everyone questioned what happened. Dantero stood aside, grin still hanging on his face.
Dust slid across the floor.
Rykaou steadied himself, barefoot pressing against the cracked stone. The heat from the ground met his skin. His ribs ached. His blood was hot. He wasn't done.
He stepped forward once. Twice. His breathing leveled. His stance lowered.
Dark waited. Still.
Rykaou moved first.
He drove forward, body tight, muscles coiled. His right hand shot for Dark's jaw—caught. His left swung for the gut—blocked. Dark stepped in, shoulder forward, and slammed his forearm into Rykaou's chest. The hit was clean. Hard.
The sound echoed through the arena.
Rykaou staggered, his heel scraping against stone. He caught himself and came right back, low and fast.
He threw a knee to Dark's side. It landed. Flesh hit flesh. Dark's breath shifted but he didn't break. He grabbed Rykaou's leg, twisted, and drove an elbow into his back.
Rykaou hit the ground with both hands, rolled out, and sprang back up. His soles burned against the floor. His body shook. His grin stayed.
They met again.
Fists. Knees. Elbows. No pauses. Every second another impact.
Dark's strikes were tight, heavy, controlled.
Rykaou's were wild, fast, violent.
Dark ducked under a kick, drove a palm into Rykaou's stomach, then caught him by the shoulder and slammed him back. Rykaou hit the ground, bounced once, twisted, and threw dirt into the air as he turned with another swing.
Dark sidestepped. The punch cut through dust.
Dark's heel snapped forward—short, brutal. It caught Rykaou in the chest. The air burst out of his lungs.
He stumbled back, coughing, wiped his mouth, blood on his wrist. His toes curled against the stone.
Rykaou: (thinking) He's reading everything.
He went again. No words. Just movement.
He feinted high, spun low, his leg cutting a circle across the ground. The stone cracked under the sweep. Dark jumped, landed behind him, and struck the back of Rykaou's neck with a sharp chop.
Rykaou fell to a knee, swung upward blindly, fist connecting with Dark's ribs. The hit landed deep. Dark stepped back, breathing steady, eyes fixed on him.
They stared at each other for a second. Then both moved at once.
Rykaou dashed forward, cutting the distance in a blur. His foot slammed into the ground, the sound sharp, dry, echoing through the arena. Dark's hand came up for a guard, but Rykaou twisted his torso and hit him square in the ribs with an open palm. It wasn't clean, but it landed.
Dark slid half a step back, head lowering slightly. The hit didn't hurt him. It just made him focus.
He stepped in. Short, fast. His hand wrapped around Rykaou's wrist and yanked him forward—right into an elbow that cracked against his cheek.
The noise was dull, a real hit. Skin split. Blood followed.
Rykaou didn't fall. He used the pull to spin, driving his knee into Dark's stomach. The hit forced air out of Dark's chest. Rykaou followed with another elbow, then another. Both blocked.
Dark caught the next strike mid-swing, twisted Rykaou's arm, and threw him over his shoulder.
Rykaou hit the floor hard, shoulder first. His breath left his lungs in one rough exhale. He rolled and came up, wiping blood from his mouth.
Dark didn't rush him. He just walked forward, step by step.
Rykaou's toes dug into the cracks in the floor. His breathing changed. Slow. Focused. His stance sank lower. His muscles locked tight.
He burst forward again.
He didn't punch this time. He slammed his shoulder into Dark's chest and drove him back. The sound was like a wall breaking. Dust jumped off the floor.
Dark caught his balance, arm shooting out. His palm met Rykaou's jaw. Rykaou's head snapped back, his body twisted with it, but his foot came up at the same time. His heel dug into Dark's side.
Both stepped back.
Blood hit the floor between them.
Dantero was leaning on the railing now, smirking, eyes wide.
Dantero: Damn. They're actually even.
Dark exhaled through his nose, the air steady but heavy.
Rykaou spat to the side, wiped his mouth again, and smiled — teeth red.
Rykaou: Come on. I'm not done.
Dark said nothing.
He just raised his hand, motioning for him to come.
Rykaou charged.
Dark met him head-on.
The next few seconds were a blur of pure sound. Hands, feet, knees, backs hitting stone. The arena floor cracked under every step. Every strike was answered immediately. There were no clean hits — just pressure, reaction, impact.
Dark ducked under a right hook, drove a punch into Rykaou's ribs. Rykaou turned with it, countered with a backfist that grazed Dark's temple. Dark moved in, hit him twice in the chest, once in the throat. Rykaou gagged, then slammed both palms into Dark's jaw, forcing him back.
They broke apart again, panting, skin marked red.
Dust rose between them, thin and gold in the light.
For a moment, no one in the arena moved.
Then Rykaou's body shook — not from pain, but from adrenaline. His pupils narrowed, breathing rough, animal-like. He dropped lower, one hand touching the ground, back curved, body ready to spring.
Rykaou: (thinking) If I can't overpower him... I'll overwhelm him.
He shot forward.
The floor shattered.
Stone and dust burst upward like a wave.
Rykaou was already in motion.
He vanished inside the cloud, moving low, feet barely touching the ground. The sound of his steps was quick, uneven — too fast for normal ears to follow.
Dark tilted his head, eyes tracing the blur. He raised his arm just in time.
A fist slammed into his forearm. Another hit followed — ribs, shoulder, throat, hip — every strike wild but precise, each one sharper than the last.
Dark blocked three. The fourth slipped through and hit his jaw again.
He staggered half a step, then caught Rykaou's wrist mid-swing and twisted.
The sound of bone grinding filled the air.
Rykaou dropped to a knee, heel spinning. His foot cut across the ground and hooked Dark's ankle, sweeping him off balance.
Dark caught himself, planting a hand on the stone, twisting his body in midair, and flipping backward. He landed clean — bare dust on his cloak, no break in stance.
The crowd screamed.
Rykaou exhaled sharply through his nose, the veins in his arms tightening. His breathing changed again — deeper, faster, heavier. His aura started to flicker.
Dark: (thinking) His body's adapting mid-fight.
Rykaou shot forward again.
He threw a left jab — Dark leaned. Right hook — Dark ducked. Rykaou switched his weight, spun, and hit with a back kick straight to Dark's chest. The hit sent a ripple of force through the air.
Dark slid backward, boots carving a line into the cracked floor.
Rykaou didn't stop.
He was already there again — shoulder colliding with Dark's torso, driving him back before throwing an uppercut that broke through Dark's guard.
Dark's head tilted upward. Blood fell from his lip.
For a heartbeat, Rykaou saw it — his hit landing. He grinned, wild, feral, teeth red.
Dark looked down at him slowly.
Dark's eyes glowed faintly crimson.
Then he moved.
One strike.
A straight punch to Rykaou's chest.
No flair. No wind-up. Just force.
The sound wasn't a crack. It was a boom — like a door slamming shut in the soul.
Rykaou flew backward, body twisting midair before crashing through the stone. Dust and fragments erupted around him. The floor caved in where he hit.
Dark stood still, lowering his hand. His breathing stayed calm.
Rykaou's body slid across the fractured floor. He stopped just short of the arena's wall, coughing, clutching his ribs. Blood filled his mouth. His body shook — pain, exhaustion, adrenaline.
And still... he smiled.
Rykaou: (thinking) That power... that control... He didn't even try.
He pressed a hand to the ground and forced himself up. His fingers dug into the cracks.
Then.
The floor shattered.
Rykaou slid back, bare feet scraping against the fractured stone, blood dripping from his mouth. The taste of iron filled his throat. He didn't wipe it off. He grinned.
Rykaou: (thinking) He's faster than I can see. Stronger than I can measure.
Good. That means I'm exactly where I need to be.
He crouched low again, breathing through his teeth, eyes wide and alive. The pain in his ribs burned, but the fire behind it only fed him. He could feel his muscles tightening, adapting, learning every strike Dark threw at him.
Rykaou: (thinking) I've felt this before. When you're staring at something you can't beat... you stop thinking. You stop doubting. You just move.
He stomped forward. The stone cracked under his heel.
He lunged. Not graceful, not planned — pure instinct. Every strike was a question. Every dodge, an answer. He closed the distance in a blur, his right hand shooting out like a spear. Dark caught it with one hand, twisted his wrist, and drove an elbow toward his neck.
Rykaou ducked, sliding underneath, kicking at Dark's ankle. Dark stepped aside, grabbing his shoulder, trying to pin him down. Rykaou twisted his body, his hand planting on the ground, spinning his entire frame with a wild heel kick that whistled through the air.
Dark blocked it. The ground beneath them cracked again from the sheer force.
Rykaou used the rebound to flip backward, landing crouched. His chest heaved, sweat mixed with blood running down his arms. He tilted his head and laughed under his breath.
Rykaou: You're holding back, Emperor. I can smell it.
Dark didn't reply. His eyes followed Rykaou's movements like he was studying something.
Rykaou: (thinking) That calm look... it pisses me off. Like he's already figured me out.
He straightened, shoulders rolling, his stance lowering even more, closer to the ground. His fingers twitched, his breathing steadied.
Rykaou: You think I can't touch you? You think I'm another fighter in your story?
You're wrong. I don't care about winning. I just need to close the gap between what I am... and what I should be.
He vanished again.
This time, his movement tore the air apart. The floor dented where he stood a second ago. He reappeared right in front of Dark, shoulder-first, slamming into him with brutal precision.
Dark blocked, but the impact still sent him sliding back half a meter. The crowd gasped — the first time Dark had been moved.
Rykaou didn't stop. He spun into a knee strike, caught by Dark's arm. Then a headbutt — both skulls cracked together with a dull thud. Dark didn't flinch. Rykaou barely smiled, blood running down his forehead.
Rykaou: (thinking) Yeah. That's it. That feeling. Every part of me screaming, but I'm still standing.
Dark countered with a clean punch to the ribs — sharp, efficient, devastating. Rykaou felt the air leave his lungs, bones shift, but his body moved anyway. His arm snapped up, blocking the next hit, his knee swung wide and caught Dark's side.
The sound was sickening. Flesh against flesh.
Dark stepped back slightly. Rykaou pressed forward, eyes wild now, grin stretched, voice low and trembling from adrenaline.
Rykaou: You don't get it, do you? The more I break, the more I learn.
He swung again.
Dark caught his wrist, but Rykaou didn't stop. He twisted his body, using his entire weight to force Dark's arm down, then slammed a fist straight into his jaw.
The impact echoed through the arena.
The crowd erupted.
Dantero watched, arms crossed, eyes gleaming.
Dantero: That's it, kid. Keep pushing him.
The dust settled.
Dark's head tilted slightly from the impact of Rykaou's strike. A thin line of blood slid down his lip. He didn't wipe it away.
His eyes shifted — cold, sharp, and silent — cutting through the smoke. He looked at Rykaou from the corner of his eye, the kind of look that crushed confidence without saying a word.
Then he straightened his neck.
The sound of bone cracking echoed faintly as his gaze locked forward again.
The arena stilled.
For a heartbeat, everything froze.
The camera lifted slowly, tracing the fractured sky, rising past the clouds until the light itself seemed to fold away...
Then everything changed.
Another timeline.
Another world.
Somewhere far beyond where Dark stood, yet closer than any mind could measure.
A throne sat at the center of a black world. Its surface was made of glass-like stone, alive with slow, red veins that pulsed in rhythm with a heartbeat that did not belong to man or god.
Upon it sat a figure.
Sukojo.
The True Devourer of All.
He leaned back, one arm resting on the throne's edge, the other loosely hanging by his side. His crown, a crooked band of dark metal and crystal, floated just above his head, turning slowly in the dim red light. His eyes glowed a deep scarlet, not bright but burning, the kind of light that ate the soul of whoever stared too long.
The air around him bent.
Every breath, every blink, every small motion distorted the world itself.
To be continued.
End Of Chapter 8.