It was ti for the last fight, Milo and Buhrama.
The arena was alive with energy, a sea of voices rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore.
The air itself seed to hum, thick with heat and the restless excitent of the crowd.
A hush swept through the audience, a mont of stillness stretching taut like a rope pulled to its limit.
Then, before anyone could fully catch their breath, the first crack split the air, sharp, electric, like a whip striking stone.
The sound echoed through the vast arena, sending shivers through the waiting spectators.
So gasped, others leaned forward, their fingers curling into the edges of their seats.
It was the signal they had been waiting for, the mont when stillness shattered into action.
The fight had begun.
Buhrama’s palm crackled with raw energy, jagged streaks of white and blue weaving between his fingers like living serpents.
The air around his hand shimred, charged with a power so intense it sent a faint hum through the arena.
The crowd barely breathed, eyes fixed on the glowing display.
The electricity twisted and curled, illuminating the determined set of Buhrama’s face.
His muscles tensed, his stance firm, every part of him coiled like a spring ready to snap.
Then, with a sudden flick of his wrist, the storm in his palm roared to life.
Buhrama grinned, his eyes glinting with barely contained excitent as the crackling energy in his palm pulsed brighter.
The flickering light cast sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing the wild confidence in his expression. "Hope you’re ready, Milo," he said, his voice laced with the thrill of the fight to co.
Milo didn’t flinch. He simply lifted his sword, the polished blade catching the glow of Buhrama’s lightning.
With a slow, deliberate roll of his shoulders, he eased into a ready stance, his grip firm but relaxed.
The weight of the weapon felt familiar in his hands, steady and certain. His expression remained unreadable, but there was no hesitation in his voice.
"Let’s do this."
Buhrama didn’t wait, he never liked to.
The instant the words left Milo’s lips, his wrist snapped forward, unleashing a bolt of lightning that roared through the air.
It was blinding, a jagged spear of white-hot energy tearing through the space between them, faster than a blink.
The crackling bolt hissed as it cut through the heat of the arena, illuminating the dust swirling in its wake.
The force of it sent a sharp gust outward, ruffling the edges of Milo’s clothes as it streaked toward his chest.
The crowd gasped, so shielding their eyes from the searing light.
Buhrama’s grin widened, his pulse hamring with exhilaration.
He knew his speed was nearly unmatched, few had ever dodged his first strike.
Milo moved in an instant, his body twisting with fluid precision.
The lightning streaked past, so close that his skin prickled with the heat of it. His sword sliced through the charged air left in its wake, the blade humming from the residual energy.
Sparks clung to the tal for a heartbeat before fizzling out, leaving only the faint scent of ozone behind.
The crowd erupted, so gasping in shock, others cheering at the narrow dodge.
Buhrama didn’t give him a mont to breathe.
The instant Milo steadied himself, Buhrama was already moving, his short fra a blur of speed, closing the distance in the blink of an eye.
His sword was drawn, the steel glinting under the arena lights, crackling with residual energy.
With a sharp exhale, he swung.
The blade cut through the air in a quick, precise arc, aid straight for Milo’s ribs.
It was fast, too fast, the kind of speed that left opponents struggling to react.
The force behind it was undeniable, a strike ant to punish, to overwhelm.
Milo barely had ti to shift. Instinct kicked in, his muscles tightening as he raised his own sword, angling it just right, just enough to et Buhrama’s strike head-on.
Milo t the strike cleanly, his sword flashing up just in ti.
tal clashed against tal with a sharp, ringing sound that echoed through the arena.
The impact sent a jarring vibration up Milo’s arm, rattling his bones, but he held firm.
His stance remained solid, his grip unwavering.
He absorbed the force, his muscles tensing to steady himself, refusing to be pushed back.
As their blades slid apart with a harsh scrape of tal, Milo wasted no ti.
He moved with practiced precision, his body flowing into the next motion like water rushing through a narrow gap.
Before Buhrama could fully reposition, Milo was already striking back.
A sharp thrust, aid straight for Buhrama’s shoulder.
The attack was clean, efficient, leaving little room for escape.
His sword cut through the air with lethal intent, the polished steel glinting under the bright arena lights.
But Buhrama wasn’t easy to catch off guard.
He reacted instantly, jerking his hand up as a sudden burst of electricity leaped from his palm.
The charged energy lashed out, colliding with Milo’s sword mid-strike.
A sharp crack split the air as the current danced along the tal, sending a bright flash across the arena.
Milo’s instincts scread at him, move. With a sharp breath, he yanked his blade back just before the electricity could race down to his grip.
The heat lingered in the air between them, sharp and biting, leaving a faint tingle in his fingers.
The attack had been close, too close.
The crowd roared as the fighters separated, their clash leaving the air charged with both energy and tension.
Buhrama grinned, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the brief exchange. "Not bad," he said, his voice carrying over the noise of the crowd.
Milo exhaled, flexing his fingers to shake off the lingering tingle from the near shock. His grip on his sword remained steady, his eyes sharp and focused. "You talk too much."
Buhrama smirked, tilting his head slightly. "And you block too much."
Milo just adjusted his stance, his expression unreadable.
Lightning exploded from Buhrama’s hands once more, but this ti he didn’t just hurl it, he moved with it.
He surged forward, his body a blur of speed, the electricity wrapping around his arms like living energy.
The air itself seed to vibrate around him.
But Milo’s eyes remained sharp. He saw through it imdiately.
A feint.
The lightning, the aggressive rush, it was ant to distract, to draw his focus away from the real attack.
Buhrama was fast, but his intentions were faster.
There was a second strike coming, hidden within the chaos of his charge.
Milo’s grip tightened on his sword, his muscles coiling like a spring. He wouldn’t fall for it.
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