(Heavenly Dipper Judo)
The ground trembled violently as the concrete tried its best to hold on, but the forces atop it were not helping matters.
Swoosh!
Swoosh!
They moved with precision, each dodging the other's attack as if it were only natural to do so.
Both were draped in the same outfit—a black and yellow uniform that represented the Heavenly Dipper Dojo.
The silhouette on the left was a young teenager with red hair and ocean-blue eyes, while the other figure had black hair and charcoal-black eyes.
They were both wielding metallic sticks as they weaved through the platform unchallenged while challenging each other. Their weapons hummed softly in their grips as if encouraging them to press harder.
Surrounding them were the spectators—the other members of the Dojo, members from other Dojos, influential figures in the City of Chania.
Their eyes glimmered with interest as they watched the two challengers. Each and every one of them had already chosen their favorite, or perhaps the one favored to win.
Silent murmurs and hushed whispers scattered through the air as the excitement bubbled even more when the fight reached a stalemate.
"It's surprising how Socrates has managed to hold up till this moment," one of the nobles stated.
"Pan was just warming up with him. Watch closely—the real fight has just begun. You'll see the difference between a Late Stage Apprentice and a Mid Stage Apprentice," the noble seated beside him replied as he grabbed a bottle of wine before turning his attention back to the platform where the two challengers stood, staring at each other.
...
"Junior Brother is truly amazing. No doubt it wasn't just luck that made you reach the finals," Pan, the dark-haired fighter, appraised his opponent.
His opponent, the red-haired teenager, gave a soft, meek bow. "Junior Brother is really flattered to be praised by Senior Brother."
"Good." Pan nodded. "Why don't you give up now? This Senior Brother really doesn't want to hurt you." He continued, compelling his opponent to surrender while providing a reason for it. "After all, Junior Brother is still in the Mid Stage Apprentice. If you cultivate diligently, you'll reach the Late Stage in less than six months and can still win the competition next year."
"This..." Socrates gritted his teeth, his eyes staring at the floor as he weighed the offer before him. If he gave up now, then what? Wait till next year again... spend another year rotting in this mediocre city? He wanted to join the Academy. He wanted to grow stronger, and the easiest path before him was to be the winner of this competition. But his cultivation was lower than that of his opponent, placing him at a disadvantageous position. In this world, cultivation is everything. Strength is everything.
He sharpened his gaze as he pondered Pan's words. The look on everyone's face said it all. No one expected much from him. No one expected him to win. Their gazes urged him to give up the fight and accept defeat as if that was the only way out.
But if he did, he'd lose his best chance of joining the Academy. And if he didn't join the Academy, he'd lose his best chance of becoming a great warrior.
'I can't give up...'
He raised his head and straightened his back, his gaze meeting Pan's.
"I'll like to exchange some pointers with Senior Brother, then," Socrates replied in the most convincing tone he could muster, and the smile on Pan's face crackled, slowly turning into a frown.
"Seems you don't know how far the heavens are... I'll ingrain it into your memories," Pan replied as he released his aura—the aura of a Late Stage Apprentice—before charging at Socrates.
"And who developed the idea that someone with lower cultivation can't defeat a higher cultivator?" Socrates roared as he charged forward as well.
The two were about to clash again, causing the air to bubble with excitement.
CLANG.
Their metallic sticks clashed against each other, causing the air to fold inward before letting out a rippling sound.
A thick yellow wave surrounded Pan as he enveloped his weapon with his energy. He took a step back before launching another attack without giving Socrates the chance to do the same.
Socrates was about to extend his energy into the metallic stick when he saw Pan's weapon descending toward his head. He had no choice but to abandon his plan and defend himself with his own weapon.
GBAM...
Pan's metallic stick landed on Socrates' own as the force from his energy burned through the metal. The weapon vibrated violently in Socrates' grip as it melted, allowing Pan's weapon to cleave through it. Socrates had to let go of his weapon as he retreated backward at that instant.
In the next moment, the weapon crashed onto the floor, splitting it into many pieces as the concrete broke into debris.
Socrates' eyes widened as he stared at what remained of his weapon. It was half-melted, bent, and folded inward while lying beneath Pan's feet.
He looked at Pan, who pointed his metallic staff at him. "You're next..." he whispered, causing Socrates' heart to skip a beat. Socrates could clearly see the useless state his weapon had been reduced to. If he was next, then his own ending would be far worse than this.
'Stop faltering. You can do this... You're Socrates, a genius...' Socrates reminded himself.
"Junior Brother..." Pan called as he rushed forward in slow momentum. "There's still time for you to surrender. All you have to do is bow down and be my footstool, and I'll let you go without harming you."
"Bow down and be your footstool?" Socrates asked, unsure of what he had heard.
"Yes, of course. That's my requirement. Or is it too trivial? You see, I'm not a—" Pan ceased talking when he noticed Socrates had appeared behind him.
He quickly sidestepped, dodging a punch meant for his skull.
'That's fast.'
Socrates didn't stop there but followed up with an elbow strike, which Pan blocked with his palm. The force caused his hand to go numb as Socrates turned to deliver a straight blow.
Pan counterattacked by pressing down with his weapon, wanting to cut off Socrates' arm with his energy-infused staff, when Socrates unfolded his fist and concentrated the energy in his body into his hands, causing a blue wave to wrap around them.
In the next moment, he grabbed the metallic staff, stopping its momentum as jolts of pain shot through his body, but he gritted his teeth.
The duo was in close proximity. Although Pan's energy was higher than Socrates', the latter was grabbing his weapon with one hand.
Meaning it was only one hand supplying the staff with energy. Whereas Socrates was holding the other end of the staff with both hands. Combining the energy from both hands, he was able to push Pan's energy into a stalemate.
Only if Pan placed his other hand on the staff would his energy outclass Socrates', sending him hurtling backward with a heavy backlash.
They were both aware of it. And while Pan tried to regain control of his other hand, which had gone numb, Socrates pulled him forward, bringing their heads closer.
BANG...
Socrates' forehead collided with Pan's head, producing a crackling sound as if Pan's skull had fractured at that instant.
His expression wavered as his energy flickered. A headache enveloped him as he staggered back with a battered expression, his grip on his weapon loosening. All of this happened within seconds.
And that second was enough for Socrates. Despite the splitting pain that made it seem as if his own head would split apart, his grip on the staff tightened as he dragged it out of Pan's grasp and twirled it at that instant.
His legs moved before his mind could command them, blue energy wrapping around the metallic staff as it tore through the air and—
GBOS...
Landed on Pan's head.
The weapon flew out of Socrates' grip as Pan's head bent to one side, causing him to roll before stumbling to the floor with a heavy thud.
"...That person is foolish," Socrates completed his earlier quote as he placed his foot on the back of the semi-conscious Pan, who was losing a lot of blood, while he stared at the spectators who were shocked, flabbergasted, and dead silent.
His gaze returned to Pan. "Your back isn't even smooth enough for a footstool." He spat as he pressed down his weight on the body under the different gazes—both friendly and hostile.