Opposite him, Anton remained unshaken, his composure intact despite the mounting pressure, and it was evident that he had been the one dictating the flow of the exchange until now. There was no strain in his posture, no urgency in his movements, only a quiet dominance reflected in the calm steadiness of his gaze, the advantage unmistakably his.
His eyes shifted with measured precision as he surveyed the battlefield, and around him, his Reira flowed outward in faint, sweeping arcs, moving like a living current beneath water, fluid, responsive, and ever-adaptive. It granted him seamless pathways of motion, a constant means of evasion that functioned as both shield and escape, a safety net that had not faltered once.
Then Viktor's charred elbow hissed.
From it, black tendrils unfurled, slick, sinuous strands that coiled along his arm before converging with unsettling cohesion, thickening as they hardened into form. Whatever restraint he had held until now dissolved in that instant, forcing him into a complete release of power, his earlier arrogance collapsing under the weight of necessity.
The tendrils compacted into a dense, pitch-black barrel that encased his forearm and palm entirely, replacing his hand with something mechanical, something unnatural. A low hum stirred within it, deep and steady, as though an engine had come to life beneath the surface, and inside, metallic structures ground against one another in continuous motion, glowing with an ominous yellow light that pulsed faintly through the construct.
It seems I have no alternative.
"Yamishoku."
The activation was immediate. The barrel whirred faster, its rotation intensifying as its surface shifted with something that resembled flame, yet it was not flame — nor any known element, but darkness itself, alive and moving. Tendrils extended from the base, spiraling wildly around his arm like living circuitry, writhing with a will of their own.
"I don't need commentary from you."
The hostility in his voice was low, restrained, yet unmistakable, though the truth beneath it remained clear, Moshi's taunt had not been unfounded. Viktor had boasted, and now he was being forced to commit everything simply to keep from losing.
Anton's expression shifted, if only for a fraction of a second, yet it was enough. He recognized the danger immediately, too great to meet directly. His stance adjusted with quiet precision, his reliance settling fully upon the flow of his Reira. As long as it moved freely, as long as it continued to surround the field, Viktor would never land a decisive blow.
Viktor's gaze sharpened, his tone lowering further, cold to the point of stillness, while the barrel's hum escalated into something far more violent, its rotation growing louder, heavier, enough to unsettle even Anton.
I still can't discern how he moves that quickly…
Then aloud
"Run if you like, weakling. It seems to be the only thing you excel at."
The words had barely settled before Viktor surged forward, the barrel leading his advance, spinning with a malevolent sheen as he cut through the space between them with predatory speed, his movement reduced to a blur that resembled a shadow given form.
Anton reacted instantly, leaping to reposition, expecting to slip seamlessly through the flowing currents of his Reira, but the moment he reached for it, something broke. The currents twisted, no longer fluid but erratic, shifting in violent, unstable arcs that refused to align.
He tried again as gravity pulled him downward, yet his body failed to vanish, flickering instead within the disrupted flow, never completing the transition. Around him, the Reira shuddered, its once smooth movement collapsing into chaos, caught within an invisible web that strangled its coherence.
Realization struck with sudden clarity.
He could no longer escape.
The barrel was not merely a weapon, it interfered, consumed, distorted the very energy he depended upon, drawing it inward as though devouring it, pulling it in with the force of a vortex.
"Impossible…"
The word left him tight, strained, the first true fracture in his composure.
Viktor's strike followed immediately, his fist crashing into Anton's raised arm with a sickening crack that echoed across the arena, the force driving him back several steps as the impact reverberated through his frame.
"Give up."
There was no need to pursue further. Viktor remained where he stood, certain of his position, the advantage now entirely his, not simply because of the damage dealt, but because he had fully unveiled his power.
Anton forced himself back, his muscles tightening against the pain that surged through his shattered arm, his Reira flaring in unstable bursts around him, no longer controlled but scattered, resisting him as though it had turned against its own master.
Each movement sparked with imbalance, the disruption from Viktor's construct embedding itself deeper with every passing second.
Viktor watched in silence, the earlier grin gone, replaced by a calm, almost irritated stillness. He had acknowledged Anton as worthy, yet that acknowledgment came with an underlying frustration, had Anton understood this ability beforehand, the outcome might have been different. That thought lingered, sharper than any satisfaction.
The barrel continued to accelerate, its tendrils writhing and coiling, black as void, alive in their motion.
Across the arena, the two Emperors observed without distraction.
"Hey… Nemey, what is that?"
Leonidas' voice carried quiet astonishment, his gaze fixed firmly on the clash.
"That," Nemesio replied, his eyes narrowing slightly, "is a dangerous ability.
For someone his age to wield something so ominous.
The thought trailed, unspoken yet clear.
Such a presence… who is this child?
On the field, the barrel's hum deepened into a resonant vibration, the shadows around Viktor's arm twisting with heightened intensity as he straightened, his focus locking once more onto Anton with unwavering precision.
"Give up."
The words cut cleanly through the arena, cold and absolute, leaving no room for ambiguity, no space for denial. Anton's chest rose and fell in uneven bursts, each breath strained, his pride clashing against the reality closing in around him.
"I… I refuse."
The response came faint, strained beneath the weight of pain, yet it held. His arm hung broken, his Reira destabilized, and still he stood, even as a sharp, piercing agony cut through him, relentless and unforgiving.
Viktor raised his arm once more, the black barrel aligning with quiet precision despite the distance between them. He did not need to close the gap. Yamishoku did not require contact, it consumed whatever it touches, distance rendered meaningless as the tendrils unfurled, spiraling outward like living shadows, gathering with intent.
"…Nomu… Yamikui!" 'Swallow… barrel of darkness'