For our next match...It is....
Ayato vs Yanqing!
"Go Ayato!!" Firefly yelled out
March 7th bumped her shoulder into Ayaka as she smiled.
"Your brother facing you in the finals would be a story wouldn't it?!"
Ayaka smiled back "It would be...I do hope that end's up being the case! I would love to fight Ayato."
"Yo! Yuri pass me some popcorn yeah?" Kevin asked.
Two figures stood at opposite ends of the arena, separated by the vastness of the sand-covered battlefield.
Yanqing, the prodigious swordsman of Xianzhou Luofu, stood with his blade resting in a loose grip, his posture deceptively relaxed. His golden eyes gleamed with youthful confidence, his expression tinged with both curiosity and excitement. Clad in his sleek, traditional robes, he exuded an aura of effortless grace, his sword an extension of his very being. Despite his youth, there was no mistaking his prowess—the blade in his hands had tasted victory more times than his age would suggest.
Across from him, Kamisato Ayato stood in eerie stillness. He was a contrast to the younger swordsman—where Yanqing carried himself with playful arrogance, Ayato was unreadable, his face an unbroken mask of cold precision. His blue robes, adorned with the insignia of the Kamisato Clan, were stained slightly with the remnants of past battles. A katana hung at his side, the glimmer of its edge catching the arena torches in brief flashes of silver.
The announcer's voice boomed across the vast expanse, cutting through the noise.
"Warriors, prepare! This duel is bound by no restriction save the will of your own blade! Yanqing, the youthful prodigy of Xianzhou! Ayato, head of the Kamisato Clan! No mercy is expected! No surrender shall be given!"
A hush fell over the arena, the tension suffocating. Yanqing exhaled, adjusting his grip on his blade as he settled into his stance. "Kamisato Ayato," he called across the battlefield, his voice carrying a mix of admiration and curiosity, "I've heard stories of your technique. I wonder, will your blade match its reputation?"
Ayato did not respond. He simply drew his katana, the whisper of steel against its sheath the only answer. His grip tightened, his knuckles paling. His eyes were void of emotion—save for something lurking beneath, something dark. Unlike his usual measured demeanor, there was something different about him tonight. He did not bow. He did not offer words of respect. He simply raised his blade in silent challenge.
The gong sounded.
Yanqing moved first.
Like a streak of lightning, he dashed forward, his blade a blur of silver as he aimed for Ayato's center. His strikes were fluid, seamless, dancing between speed and precision. Ayato barely shifted, his katana flicking up at the last possible moment, deflecting the assault with calculated efficiency. Sparks flew as steel met steel, each clash ringing like thunder in the night.
Yanqing grinned. "Not bad. But—"
He twisted, shifting his attack mid-motion, his blade carving a sharp arc toward Ayato's shoulder. A standard opponent would not have had time to react. But Ayato was no standard opponent.
With a brutal lack of hesitation, Ayato stepped into the attack instead of retreating, parrying with a single vicious movement that sent Yanqing's blade skidding off course. The force of it sent a jolt up Yanqing's arm, forcing him to retreat a step.
Ayato pressed forward immediately, his strikes sudden and unrelenting. Each movement was sharper, faster, more violent than necessary. There was no grace in his technique tonight—only raw, unfiltered aggression.
Yanqing barely had time to counter, his eyes widening as Ayato's katana crashed against his defenses over and over, each strike carrying the force of a hammer. He felt his footing slip, his stance disrupted by the sheer force of Ayato's offense. This was different from what he had expected. He had imagined precision and control, but this? This was something else. Something ruthless.
Ayato said nothing. He never did. His silence was a weapon of its own, unnerving in a way that words could never be.
Yanqing gritted his teeth, regaining his footing. "You're a lot meaner than I expected." He exhaled, his body shifting as he activated his technique. His form became a blur, splitting into multiple mirages, his afterimages darting around Ayato in unpredictable movements. "Let's see how you deal with this!"
For the first time, Ayato's eyes flickered with something—mild interest, perhaps, or something close to amusement. But instead of waiting for the mirages to strike, he moved first.
He disappeared.
A step technique. Faster than the eye could follow, Ayato reappeared behind Yanqing, blade already mid-swing.
Yanqing barely managed to pivot in time, raising his sword to block. The impact rattled his bones, the sheer weight behind Ayato's strike knocking him off balance once again. He stumbled, his vision swimming.
Ayato did not relent. He was already upon him again, a relentless storm of steel. This was not a duel—it was an execution.
Yanqing deflected, dodged, parried—but it was clear he was losing ground. Ayato's attacks were merciless, each movement designed to dismantle his opponent with cold, systematic brutality.
Yanqing took a deep breath, shifting into an aggressive counterattack, his sword weaving a brilliant arc of light as he unleashed a flurry of rapid slashes. He aimed for Ayato's exposed flanks, testing his defenses, forcing the Kamisato heir to react rather than dictate the flow of battle.
Ayato met every strike with a perfect response, his blade an impenetrable wall. Then, without warning, he changed tactics. Instead of merely blocking, he twisted his body and delivered a brutal palm strike to Yanqing's chest, sending him skidding backward across the sand.
Yanqing gasped, struggling to rise as Ayato advanced. There was no hesitation in the older swordsman's step—no recognition of his opponent's struggle. There was only the next strike, the next opening, the next cut.
Finally, Ayato's blade found its mark.
A clean, diagonal slash tore through Yanqing's side, crimson staining his pristine robes. The pain came a second later, sharp and burning. Yanqing staggered, barely keeping his grip on his sword. His vision wavered, his strength slipping away.
Ayato stepped forward, raising his katana for the final strike. The crowd was silent, watching, waiting.
Yanqing's knees buckled. He tried to lift his blade, but his body refused. For the first time, his confidence wavered. "Damn… you're…"
Ayato didn't wait for him to finish.
With one last, brutal strike, he knocked Yanqing's sword from his grip, sending it clattering across the arena. The prodigy of Xianzhou collapsed to one knee.
This fight was over.
Ayato did not gloat. He did not even look at Yanqing. His expression was completely unreadable.
Then, he turned.
His gaze found Ayaka in the stands, his eyes dark and unreadable. He did not smile. He did not speak.
He simply stared.
And in that moment, the chill of his presence reached even her.
The crowd erupted, but Ayato heard none of it. His victory was unquestionable, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The fight had been nothing more than an obstacle, a step toward something else.
Something inevitable.
Ayaka felt her breath hitch, her hands tightening around the fabric of her sleeve. Firefly and March 7th shifted uneasily beside her, exchanging worried glances. Firefly placed a light hand on Ayaka's shoulder as she stared on.
Kevin, however, clenched his fists. "What is wrong with Ayato?!"
"A-Ayato?" March questioned.
Yuri, calm and impassive, merely observed.
Ayato glanced towards what appeared to be Yuri's direction, similar to Boothill.
In that moment, Ayato noticed a red sigil pop up hovering in front of Ayato's face.
"What?!" Yuri was caught off guard by this.
"What is it Yuri?!" Kevin asked because of the sudden emotion from Yuri.
"That...sigil..." Yuri was pertubed.
The other's could only stare at Yuri in confusion as no sigil ever made its way to their vision.
The air between them remained heavy, the weight of Ayato's actions pressing down on them all.