No one in the arena knew what to expect.
That uncertainty grew through the gathered Marshals as Doom and Bellion took their places at the center of the restored floor, an uncertainty that hadn't existed before any of the day's other matches. Doom had proven, fight after fight, that he was simply unstoppable in the most literal sense: stronger than Igris's swordsmanship, more durable than Galatea's raw physical fury, adapting past every strategy thrown at him until his opponents had nothing left to give. And yet Bellion had just done something none of them fully understood had taken H'El's full, relentless assault without so much as raising his blade in defense, and ended the fight with a single strike that none of them had seen coming.
H'El himself stood now among the other watching Marshals, arms folded, his composed expression betraying little of what still had to be turning behind his eyes. He had accepted his defeat without complaint, without argument and simply stepped back, settled among his fellow Marshals, and watched, along with everyone else, to see what would happen next.
The fight began slowly.
Doom did not charge, as he had against every previous opponent. He stood there, his eyes fixed on Bellion with caution, an alertness that hadn't been present in any of his earlier matches. Whatever instinct or adaptation drove him, it seemed to recognize, on some level, that this opponent required a different approach than the ones before.
Bellion mirrored him entirely. Wings folded, blade sheathed, he simply watched Doom in turn, patient, giving away nothing.
The silence stretched.
Then Bellion smiled, and moved first.
He closed the distance in a burst of black feathers and violet light, blade already drawn and shifting fluidly into whip-form as he came, lashing out at Doom's exposed flank. Doom's answer was immediate and immense a backhand that would have ended most fights on contact, forcing Bellion to twist entirely out of its path, wings snapping to redirect his momentum into a spinning retreat that barely cleared a follow-up strike aimed at where he should have landed.
What followed was unlike anything Bellion had shown against Ultra or H'El. He did not press an attack. He did not test Doom's guard with probing strikes the way he had against Ultra, searching for weaknesses to exploit. Every blunt strike he attempted skated off harmlessly against skin that had already hardened past the point his blade could meaningfully trouble; every clean cut he managed to land had already adapted against that sort of attacks, thanks to his fights against Igris and Galatea before him.
So he stopped trying.
He resorted, instead, to pure evasion, wings carrying him through gaps in Doom's assault with the same eerie precision he'd shown in the opening exchanges against H'El, dodging blow after devastating blow, refusing to commit to any strike that might cost him more than it gained. Doom's fists cratered the arena around him again and again, each miss tearing fresh ruin into stone, and still Bellion slipped through, again and again, untouched.
Above, on the platform, Didi watched with a slow smile creeping across her face.
"Your Doomsday is even stronger now," she said, glancing sideways at Arthur. "You had the safest bet all along, it seems. Looks like I really am going to be babysitting your child for two years."
"Don't be too sure," Arthur said, his eyes never leaving the fight below. "Bellion knows exactly what he's doing."
Didi arched a brow, intrigued despite herself. "Are you suggesting he intends to try the same thing again?"
"Yes," Arthur said. "I placed limits and restrictions on all the Marshals for these matches, one of them is relying on my Mana.. every one of them has been drawing on their own personal mana reserves throughout this tournament, rather than my endless one. It means they tire. It means every fight, eventually, becomes a matter of endurance as much as skill." He watched Bellion weave through another crushing blow, his expression thoughtful. "What Bellion did against H'El relied on precisely that limitation. He used his skill, his stamina, and his sheer physical durability to simply withstand everything H'El threw at him, while quietly pouring every last ounce of his own mana reserve into a single, decisive strike. Not a flurry of random all out attacks. Not an escalating exchange. One clean, perfectly timed cut."
Didi tilted her head, considering. "It didn't look powerful. It looked almost casual."
"That was deliberate misdirection," Arthur said. "But make no mistake.. that single blow could have killed one of the Monarchs I've already fought and taken down myself. It took him time to build up to it. It was, by any measure, an enormous risk with the limitations that I put upon them. If he'd mistimed it, or if H'El had sensed it coming, it would have cost him the fight entirely. But it speaks volumes about how he thinks in combat. A single perfect moment, built patiently out of everything that came before it."
"He still looked perfectly fine afterward," Didi said. "Unless he's simply very good at masking exhaustion."
"That," Arthur admitted, "is the part that impresses even me. By any reasonable measure, an attack carrying that much concentrated mana should have left him drained, barely able to stand, let alone walk calmly off the arena floor the way he did. And yet he managed it without so much as a stumble." He allowed himself an appreciative smile. "It defeated H'El regardless, so in the end, it hardly matters whether the fatigue was real or performed. Either way, the result stands."
Didi let out a low, admiring breath. "Such an impressive soldier. It seems Ashborn managed to find quite the being."
"That he did," Arthur agreed quietly.
Below, the fight continued its brutal rhythm. Bellion dodged another crushing blow, wings carrying him clear by inches and then one massive fist finally caught him, square in the chest, the impact sending him skidding hard across the ruined arena floor, pain flashing plainly across his features before his wings snapped out to arrest the momentum, digging furrows into the stone as he steadied himself.
Arthur's eyes sharpened, watching closely now.
He recognized it instantly, the same subtle shift he'd seen building against H'El, a quiet, gathering intensity beginning to pool along the length of Bellion's blade as he rose from the skid, his strength and mana reserves visibly funneling, once more, into a single point of impending violence.
Doom had not yet noticed.
H'El, watching from the sidelines, folded his arms tighter, his composed expression giving way, just slightly, to genuine unease. "He's doing the same thing again," he said. "What is it about that build-up... I shouldn't be able to miss it a second time, and yet I nearly did.."
Beside him, Galatea shook her head slowly. "I was standing right here and I still couldn't figure out how he beat you."
"Doom is in trouble," Igris said simply.
Below, Doom stood motionless amid the wreckage, and then raised one massive arm, almost contemptuous gesture beckoning Bellion forward, daring him to stop standing at a distance and actually fight.
Bellion did not move from his defensive stance.
Above, Arthur's gaze remained fixed on the arena floor.
"Watch carefully," he said to Didi. "Because I am quite sure this fight's ending is going to surprise you."
/-\
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