Buhrama sprang forward with explosive speed, his muscles tensed like coiled springs, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
His eyes blazed with fierce determination, and his breath ca in short, sharp bursts as he closed the distance between them in an instant.
But this ti, Milo was ready. He had been watching, waiting, studying every movent, every shift in Buhrama’s stance.
The mont Buhrama launched himself forward, Milo reacted.
He planted his feet firmly, his body light yet steady, like a leaf braced against the wind.
His sharp eyes tracked every motion, Buhrama’s flexing arms, the twist of his torso, the slight change in weight as he prepared to strike.
As Buhrama’s fist ca hurtling toward him, Milo moved before the lightning ca.
Instead of stepping back, he surged forward, straight into Buhrama’s space, closing the gap between them in a single heartbeat.
Buhrama’s eyes widened in surprise. He had expected Milo to dodge, to retreat as any sane fighter would in the face of overwhelming force.
But Milo did the opposite, he advanced.
The air crackled around them, thick with the energy of Buhrama’s impending strike, but Milo was already inside his reach.
Milo’s sword slashed. Not wide, not reckless, but sharp, precise.
The blade cut clean through the air, a silver flash in the dim light.
It struck Buhrama’s sword hand with asured accuracy
The steel t flesh, and another cut followed, quick as a whisper, deliberate as a heartbeat.
Buhrama’s fingers twitched, his grip faltering for the first ti.
A sharp breath left his lips, not quite a grunt, not quite a growl, just a brief, involuntary sound of surprise.
He had felt the sting of blades before, but there was sothing different about Milo’s strikes.
Every movent had a purpose, a rhythm, a cold certainty that sent a ripple of unease through him.
Lightning flickered.
It crackled in the space between them, an electric pulse responding to Buhrama’s pain.
The air grew heavy, humming with energy.
And then, for just a second, Buhrama’s fingers slipped.
His grip, once unshakable, faltered. His fingers, slick with sweat and blood, lost their hold.
The sword fell.
It clattered against the ground with a sharp, ringing sound that cut through the tense air.
The once-mighty weapon, crackling with power, now lay motionless at his feet.
Silence.
The electricity that had danced around them, alive and untad, began to fade. The crackling sparks that had once leapt from Buhrama’s fingertips flickered and dimd, as if the storm itself had lost its breath.
The charged air, heavy with tension, slowly began to settle.
For the first ti in the fight, the battlefield was still.
Milo exhaled, slow and steady. His sword remained raised, unwavering, as if he expected another attack.
His stance did not loosen, his grip did not waver.
But Buhrama stood motionless. He stared down at his empty hand, fingers slightly curled, as if his mind was still catching up with what had happened.
His sword lay at his feet, useless now, stripped from his grasp not by brutal force, but by precision, by skill.
He lifted his gaze back to Milo, his expression unreadable. There was no anger, no frustration. Just silence.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Buhrama raised his hands. His voice, when it ca, was quiet, steady.
"I surrender."
The words hung in the air, final and unshaken. The storm had passed.
"THE WINNER IS MILO!"
The announcer’s voice rang through the arena, loud and triumphant, barely able to contain his excitent after witnessing such an intense battle.
His energy was infectious, his words almost breathless as he gestured toward the victorious fighter.
The crowd erupted.
A wave of cheers and applause swept through the stands, a roar of excitent and admiration.
Spectators jumped to their feet, shouting Milo’s na, their voices blending into one deafening chorus.
So clapped, so whistled, others simply stood in stunned awe at the skill and composure he had displayed.
Milo, still gripping his sword, took a slow breath.
As the announcer declared Milo the winner, Gon heaved a deep sigh, his chest rising and falling heavily with exhaustion.
The adrenaline that had carried him through the fight was wearing off, leaving behind a deep, aching fatigue.
His limbs felt heavy, his muscles burning with the strain of battle.
The world around him seed to shift slightly, tilting at odd angles, and his legs wobbled beneath him.
But Gon refused to fall.
He clenched his fists, forcing his body to obey him. His breathing steadied, his stance tightened. He willed his mind to stay clear, to fight off the creeping haze of exhaustion.
This wasn’t the ti to show weakness.
He knew why many of the spectators had co.
They weren’t just there to watch a fight, they were waiting for a show.
They wanted to see him collapse, to confirm the rumor that the heir always passed out after a hard match.
They wanted the image burned into their minds: Gon, drained and broken, crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.
Gon smirked. Well, they were in for disappointnt today.
He straightened his back, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of exhaustion.
His legs still felt weak, his breath still ca a little too fast, but he refused to let it show.
Every muscle in his body scread for rest, but he silenced them with sheer will.
He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
Instead, he lifted his chin and took a slow, steady breath, stood upright, his head held high, shoulders squared with quiet defiance as the announcer’s voice echoed through the arena, listing the nas of the remaining contestants.
"Gon. Sera. Dina. Milo."
The crowd responded with a mixture of cheers and murmurs, their excitent growing as the tournant moved forward. These were the four mages who had qualified.
The ones strong enough, skilled enough, to make it to the next round.
As the announcer spoke with growing excitent about the upcoming final round, Gon felt the weight of the mont settle over him.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Milo staring at him.
Their gazes locked.
Milo’s smirk was subtle but unmistakable, a quiet challenge hidden beneath the curve of his lips.
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