A monkey-like beast man landed ahead of her, staff spinning in effortless circles.
His Divine Stage pressure didn’t flare wildly like the others; it compressed inward, focused and sharp. He watched Nikko with bright, steady eyes, tail swaying behind him with a calm rhythm.
He wasn’t nervous.
He wasn’t impressed.
He wasn’t even curious.
He was simply ready.
Nikko slowed her steps, claws retracting slightly as she asured him.
That brief mont of stillness said enough, the first real roadblock since she’d entered the arena.
The monkey beast man rested his staff on one shoulder, his voice carrying just enough to reach her.
"You’re strong," he said, not as praise, but as fact. "But this is as far as you go."
Nikko’s eyes narrowed, a spark of excitent flickering beneath her calm exterior.
The air tightened between them, the noise of the arena fading behind the pressure gathering at their feet.
She slid one foot back, her stance lowering.
"Try ."
The distance between them vanished as both fighters moved.
****
The crowd had thinned into focus. With so many contestants already erased from the stage, the remaining fighters stood out like constellations on a dark sky, each one studied, whispered about, even argued over.
Faces beca familiar. Nas were shouted. Legends—true or exaggerated—ford on the spot.
Yet two of them overshadowed the rest.
Nikko Yamamoto, the hooded phantom who carved her way across the arena with frightening precision.
And the monkey-like beast man.
From the mont the tournant started, the spectators couldn’t ignore him.
His armor resembled the ceremonial gear of Arman’s imperial guards, though worn with a personal twist.
A narrow tal headband sat above his brow, catching the arena light.
And his staff—ordinary at first glance—had already sent seven fighters off the stage.
But what gripped everyone wasn’t the number seven.
It was how he reached it.
He never chased.
He never hid.
He never rushed.
Every ti he took down a challenger, he simply sat in the center of the stage, legs crossed, staff balanced across his knees, eyes closed.
As if daring soone to interrupt his rest.
And once an hour passed?
He rose, found a fighter, and ended the match with brutal efficiency.
Only two contestants had ever tried jumping him mid-rest.
They didn’t last long enough for spectators to blink.
After that, no one went near him unless they had a death wish.
Even the goat man, who’d been watching with a sharper eye than the audience, had noticed.
His presence didn’t bother the announcer. If anything, it pleased him.
Dominance.
Not luck.
Not timid cunning.
That was what the Hallow needed.
The goat man muttered under his breath,
"A slave bought by imperial guards... and now look at you. Who would’ve thought stealing a Basic art would carry you this far?"
He didn’t elaborate, but the words hinted at a story only a handful knew.
Now that sa fighter stood before the supre heir.
The monkey man tapped his staff once against the arena floor.
A spark of force rippled outward, faint but sharp, like a promise. He didn’t rush her. He didn’t posture.
He simply settled into a stance honed through countless battles.
Nikko lowered her center of gravity, claws glinting as they extended.
Her hair lifted behind her from the circulating primal wind.
Two oppressively calm fighters facing one another in the middle of chaos.
The spectators tightened their grips on their seats. The screens zood in, every lens focusing on the mont. Even the noise of the arena dimd in anticipation.
And then—
In a flash—the supre talent and the self-proclaid king of the hour stepped in, their first exchange cracking through the stage like thunder.
****
From the first clash, they tore across the arena like two storms colliding.
Every step shattered stone. Every swing sent shockwaves spiraling through the warped battlefield.
Nikko moved like a sharpened gale—silent, fast and relentless.
The monkey man moved like flowing ink—smooth, unpredictable, his staff carving arcs so clean they looked painted rather than swung.
When his staff spun, the air bent with it.
When her claws sliced, the arena hissed under the pressure.
The spectators couldn’t keep up.
Even the screens struggled to track them, blurring as two lights, one black, one gold—wove a violent dance.
The monkey man didn’t let up. His attacks chained together in a rhythm that felt almost playful, as if each strike were part of so elegant performance only he understood.
He pressed forward without giving Nikko room to breathe.
But Nikko didn’t need room.
She t each blow, redirected each jab, slipped under each sweeping arc.
Sparks trailed behind her. Her primal energy humd through her limbs, reinforcing every counter.
A grin broke across the monkey man’s face mid-swing.
"You’ve got near perfect control of your primal energy!" he shouted, staff carving a golden path toward her ribs.
Nikko deflected it and shot forward, claws arcing straight for his neck.
He bent backward, spine curving like liquid, letting the attack pass a hair’s breadth above him before he rolled away and ca up swinging again. His voice followed each blow, almost conversational despite the speed.
"But there’s sothing strange about you," he said.
Crack.
His staff found an opening and slamd into her side.
The force blasted her across the arena, her boots carving twin trenches in the stone before she skidded to a stop.
The hit stung, but she steadied herself imdiately, primal energy swirling as she prepared for the follow-up.
But it never ca.
The monkey man stood several paces away, staff planted against the ground, body relaxed as if he’d simply decided to pause the fight.
His gold eyes narrowed—not with hostility, but curiosity.
"You’re human," he said. "And yet you wield primal energy."
He angled his chin, studying her like a puzzle begging to be solved.
"So," he continued, tapping the staff lightly against his shoulder, "why don’t you tell how you managed to get it?"
Nikko held his gaze, her pulse steadying, the primal energy curling tighter around her limbs.
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