King Neon's enraged bellow of "AZRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAEL!!!" echoed through the arena, causing a visible tremor in the other contenders. Tusk, his bravado momentarily shattered, stammered, "W-what was that? I thought here was scary, but now... now I don't want to be there more than being here."
Meanwhile, King Neon glared at the belated Azreal. "You're two hours late! We should have begun two hours ago!"
Azreal, unfazed by the King's fury, replied with a frown, "Look, I understand, and I apologize. But you need to calm down, Your Majesty. I am more than just an announcer."
"Calm down?" King Neon shot back, his voice still tight with anger. "There's no time to calm down! We need to find hope before Dextin returns!"
Azreal maintained his steady gaze, his frown deepening as he waited for the King's outburst to subside. Finally, King Neon's shoulders slumped, a flicker of realization crossing his face. "I... I'm sorry," he admitted, his voice softer. "You're right. It's just... I keep seeing Dextin's goal coming to pass in my dreams, and we were powerless to stop it."
Azreal sighed heavily and stepped closer. "You can't keep blaming yourself like this. We are doing our best, and we have formidable warriors here. Let's try to be positive, alright? Besides," a smirk touched his lips, "the tournament is nearing its climax. You wouldn't want to miss it." With a snap of his fingers, he signaled the drummers. The rhythmic beat resonated through the arena, drawing all eyes to the royal chamber above the tournament ring and pavilion.
Standing at the forefront, Azreal announced, "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the tournament we have all been eagerly awaiting!" A wave of cheers erupted from the crowd. As the roar subsided, Azreal continued, "And making his appearance today, taking the eighth spot in our tournament, is Tanker, the former Elite Soldier!" A murmur rippled through the spectators. "No way, he's actually here?" someone whispered. "I thought they were joking about an Elite Soldier participating." "I didn't even see him walk in."
Rider, noticing the hushed whispers, turned to Aingo. "But Tanker walked onto the battlefield. I saw him. How come nobody else did?"
Aingo frowned slightly, folding his arms. "Well, Tanker doesn't give a damn about his surroundings. He tends to use a technique that allows people to overlook him, much like Enshou's."
"Why doesn't he care about his surroundings?" Rider asked.
"Ever since I've known him," Aingo replied, "Tanker doesn't talk to people he doesn't acknowledge or respect. He also adds the word 'Warrior' to the names of people he trusts." Rider recalled the times Tanker had called him 'Warrior Rider' and Aingo 'Warrior Aingo'. Aingo continued, his expression serious, "And if Tanker doesn't know you or finds you weak, he'll be the most disrespectful human alive."
Just then, Azreal's voice boomed, "And now, Tanker, please join the other contenders in the tournament ring."
With a serious expression, Tanker emerged from the contenders' area and strode onto the battlefield, stepping into the ring to stand alongside the others. The crowd gasped at his imposing physique and the massive sword slung across his back. Zack shot him a sidelong glare filled with animosity.
Tusk, trembling slightly, tugged at Rebel's sleeve. "Has he been there the whole time? This guy is terrifying, even more built than Kael!" He tried to hide behind Rebel, who was already marching towards Tanker.
"Oh no," Aingo muttered.
Rebel stopped before Tanker, his usual scowl etched on his face. "So you're Tanker, huh? Elite Soldier or not, you're late. Didn't you notice we had a seven-person last-man standing yesterday? We earned our spot in this tournament, and you just get a free pass!" Rebel's voice was laced with anger at Tanker's tardiness and perceived arrogance. Tusk desperately tried to pull Rebel back, urging him to return to their previous position, but Rebel shrugged him off, his focus solely on Tanker. "Are you ignoring me...?"
Tanker's head snapped towards Rebel, his jovial demeanor replaced by a glare that felt like a physical blow, radiating pure bloodlust. "Huh? Who the hell are you? You better watch your mouth, or I'll kill you right now. Back off."
Rebel's face flushed crimson, veins throbbing in his temples. "What did you say?" He closed the distance between them, spinning his double-bladed polearm, ready to strike. Tusk's attempts to restrain him were futile. The crowd, initially confused, began to chant, "Fight! Fight! Fight!"
Azreal's voice cut through the rising tension. "Enough! Anyone who lands the first blow will be immediately eliminated from this tournament. The bell hasn't rung yet, so maintain yourselves!"
Tanker scoffed, completely disregarding Azreal's authority. "Look, I don't give a damn about your rules. If this brat is still standing next to me when I finish counting to ten in my head, I'll hit him so hard he won't be able to curse for a week."
Tanker's threat only fueled Rebel's fury. His knuckles were white as he gripped his polearm, a primal desire for Tanker's blood welling up inside him. Azreal locked eyes with Tanker for a tense moment before commanding Rebel to step back. Rebel protested vehemently, but Azreal's tone left no room for argument. "Do it now!"
Reluctantly, Rebel backed away, his gaze still locked on Tanker. "I wish I get paired up with you first in this tournament," he spat before storming off, practically hoisting a whimpering Tusk under his arm like a sack of potatoes. "Come on, Tusk!"
Tusk sighed, crushed between Rebel's arm and side. The crowd, however, was displeased with Azreal's intervention, a chorus of frustrated yells erupting. Azreal bowed his head slightly. As the noise died down, the spectators looked at him with confusion. "I apologize for the interruption," Azreal said calmly. "I know you came here to witness a fight, but there will be plenty of action once the bell rings. Until then, I kindly ask for your patience."
As the crowd's anger dissipated, Rider thought to himself, "Wow, he really controlled them. Azreal is amazing with this kind of stuff."
Finally, it was time for the contenders to draw their positions. One by one, each of the seven remaining fighters approached a table and picked up a folded piece of paper before returning to their spot. They were instructed to open them simultaneously. Rebel silently prayed for spot seven, hoping for an immediate showdown with Tanker. But as he unfolded his paper, a frustrated yell escaped his lips. "Damn it! Spot six!"
Tusk opened his, revealing the number one. "Oh, I got the first spot. I wonder who spot two is?" he mused.
From across the ring, Valen called out, a grin on his face, "Well, well, Zack! Looks like you got number two!" The realization hit Tusk like a physical blow. He would be facing Zack. His face paled, and he froze, ignoring Rebel's calls for a response.
Meanwhile, Bianca, on another side of the ring, opened her paper to find the number three. She scanned the other contenders, trying to discern who held the number four. A shadow fell over her from behind. Turning instinctively, she saw Valen smiling, holding up his paper. It read: four. "I guess we're paired together," Valen said, his smile widening. "If you know you can't handle it, you can always go home."
Bianca smirked, her eyes narrowing. "Like hell I will. I'm going to beat you." Valen chuckled softly and strolled away.
Tanker remained impassive, seemingly indifferent to his opponent. But the crowd was eager to know who would face the formidable newcomer. A hush fell as a paper was raised, revealing the number seven. Kael smirked, lowering the paper to meet Tanker's gaze. A roar of excitement erupted from the stands.
"Two powerhouses starting off," Rider murmured from the crowd. "This should be fun."
Rebel looked around in confusion. "Wait... if he's facing him, and he's facing her, and then he's facing him... then who am I facing?"
Enshou casually draped an arm around Rebel's shoulders, a wide grin on his aged face. "That would be me, number five." He showed Rebel his paper.
Rebel forcefully shrugged off Enshou's arm. "Why do I get the old man?"
Enshou's smile didn't waver. "I might be old, but trust me, you're not beating me. I did train Dextin, you know." He gave Rebel a knowing smirk. Rebel scowled back, squaring his shoulders.
With the pairings revealed, a palpable tension settled over the arena. The battle had truly begun. Who would emerge victorious? Who would claim the Red Katana? Who would ultimately defeat Dextin? And who would become the Sword M...