The Dome arena was a lion's den. The spotlights tracked every movement, every imperfection. And today, under that cruel light, Kotobe felt naked.
His appearance was never a secret. The asymmetrical jaw, a legacy of a childhood fall in a rubble-filled construction site, was there, exposed. The left cheekbone higher than the right. One eye that always seemed slightly more closed. He had never hidden it. But here, under the gaze of sixty thousand people, every flaw became a target.
On the other side of the circle, Dante stretched with studied nonchalance. Perfectly proportioned, hair artfully messy in a way that required three hours of styling, he belonged to another world. The world of the Salvatoris, where being a hunter was a tradition, not a choice of survival.
"And for this delightfully... contrasting match!" Lola, the presenter, tried to mask her awkwardness with a cheerful tone. "In the... uh... determined corner, KOTOBE!" The cheers were a polite, embarrassed noise. Murmurs rose immediately.
"— Who is that guy? Looks like he fought a truck."
— He's really a candidate? Is this a joke?"
— Next to Dante, he looks like a trash bag."
— They could have at least had him get surgery first, it's awkward to look at."
Kotobe heard. He had always heard. The laughter in schoolyards. The averted glances. The "he's nice but..." His face was a calling card he hadn't chosen. But today, it wasn't his face that would fight. It was his brain.
Dante yawned ostentatiously, covering his mouth with a hand. "Sorry, it was a long night." He looked at Kotobe, a weary smile on his lips. "So, you're the... analyst, right? Gonna analyze me while I put you on the ground?"
The crowd snickered. Even those not against Kotobe found the remark funny. It was so easy to laugh at the one who was different.
Kotobe didn't answer. He took his stance. A low, defensive guard, arms protecting his torso and head. Not pretty to look at. Effective.
"READY?"
Dante gave a dismissive hand wave. Kotobe nodded, his eyes, one more closed than the other, already scanning: posture, weight distribution, breathing.
— FIGHT!
Dante attacked. Not with Rex's brutality, nor Viper's cunning. With a contemptuous elegance. High, spinning kicks, more meant to impress the crowd than to connect. Fluid combinations, inherited from generations of protocol duels.
Kotobe tried nothing brilliant. He parried. He blocked. He retreated. Every impact against his forearms resonated in his bones. Dante was strong, well-trained, and his Ether—a cold, aristocratic blue—reinforced every move.
"KOTOBE IS ON THE DEFENSIVE!" Lola commented, without much conviction. "A... PRAGMATIC STYLE FACING THE GRACE OF THE SALVATORI!"
Pragmatic. A nice word for "ugly to watch."
Dante sped up. A jab. A hook. A low-kick that nearly swept Kotobe's legs. Kotobe narrowly dodged but lost his balance, rolling over his shoulder. The crowd let out an "Oh" of pity more than surprise.
"Come on, get up," Dante called, circling him like a predator playing with its prey. "Show me this famous analysis. Analyze this."
An Ether-charged blue roundhouse kick whistled toward Kotobe's head. Kotobe raised his arm. BLOCK! The impact was violent. Kotobe felt a bone in his forearm crack. The pain, sharp and precise, knocked the wind out of him.
He stumbled back, his right arm now useless, dangling at his side.
"OUCH! THAT LOOKS PAINFUL!" exclaimed Lola, her tone becoming vaguely sympathetic.
The laughter in the crowd had died, replaced by an awkward silence. It had become cruel. Unfair. But no one was shouting for Kotobe. No one was chanting his name. It was just a sad spectacle.
Dante stopped, looking at his injured, panting opponent. "Give up. You don't have to prove anything. You're already here. That's more than your kind should have achieved."
Your kind. The words fell like stones. Kotobe lifted his head. The pain was a red fog, but his mind, strangely, was ice-clear. He saw everything.
The way Dante always repositioned his right foot after a combination.
The micro-second he lowered his left guard after a jab, confident in his superiority.
His breathing, slightly ragged—he was playing for time, he was bored, he wasn't pushing his cardio.
Kotobe spat some blood onto the metal floor. He pushed off with his left foot, rising slowly, painfully. His right arm hung limp. He raised his left arm, alone, in a pitiful guard.
The crowd held its breath. It was no longer scorn. It was disbelief. Why is he still going?
Dante sighed, annoyed. "Fine. Let's end this."
He charged, to finish it. A straight, powerful movement, his blue fist aiming for Kotobe's already battered face.
Kotobe didn't try to parry. He couldn't.
He stepped in.
A short, precise step that placed him not facing the fist, but to the side, inside Dante's guard.
His good arm, the left, shot out. Not to strike the body.
To strike Dante's elbow, as his punch was mid-flight.
CRACK.
The sound was different. Sharper. It was a joint giving way under perfect pressure, applied at the worst possible angle.
Dante screamed, a cry of surprise and pure pain. His arm twisted, his attack disintegrated into agony. He staggered back, clutching his elbow, his perfect face contorted in anguish.
Kotobe, exhausted, swayed on his feet. He had one shot. Just one. He'd landed it. But the price...
The pain in his broken arm had become a burning tide. His vision blurred. The floor seemed to give way beneath him.
Dante, furious with rage and shame, gritted his teeth. With his good arm, he gathered a final burst of blue Ether and projected it in a brutal gust that struck Kotobe square in the chest.
THUD.
Kotobe was lifted off the ground, landing heavily on his back. The air left his lungs. He lay there, eyes wide open, staring at the blinding spotlights, unable to move, a newly cracked rib piercing his breath.
The referee approached, counting.
Dante stood victorious but humiliated, his elbow dangling at a grotesque angle. He had won, but he looked like a spoiled child who had hurt himself trying to crush a tenacious insect.
The referee was about to blow the whistle.
That's when Kotobe, on the ground, his mouth full of the metallic taste of blood, managed to turn his head toward Dante. His voice emerged, weak, hoarse, but perfectly audible in the Dome's sudden silence.
"A real hero..." He spat blood. "...doesn't crack under pressure. Or pain. He must remain... indestructible."
This phrase did not come out of nowhere. It carried real weight; it was not a random remark, but one full of consequence.
Captain Man, watching the fight from a private box, started to laugh.
— That was his catchphrase.
This fight is taking an unprecedented turn. Kotobe must now prove he is worthy of those words...