Doaju surges forward, the body now an even deeper crimson, faint wisps of evaporating sweat rising like steam.
"Graaah!"
Leading with a shoulder, Doaju charges toward Nia, swinging upward as if skimming the ground toward the sky. The attack slices through the air, missing its mark. A small gust stirs, trailing dust that curls like a tail behind the spiked mace's tip.
Doaju's assault continues. The mace, raised high, slams downward, then swings horizontally toward Nia's side with its massive, spiked weight.
"Kraagh!"
With a groan of pain, Nia tumbles across the arena floor, flung aside by the force.
The shield-like mace, now larger with combined spikes, boasts an extended striking range. Contrary to Nia's expectations, Doaju's attacks have grown faster. Before Nia can rise and regain stance, Doaju's blood-stained mace surges forward again.
The crowd roars as Doaju's strikes—slamming, swinging, cutting through swirling sand and dust—shook the air, and the crowd thundered in response, a wall of sound echoing through the arena.
"Hah! You dodge well!" Doaju pants, voice rough with exertion.
'Must dodge. Must dodge… Must evade the faster mace.'
Nia thinks, blood mingling with dirt smeared across the body.
"Hm? The stance has changed…"
Doaju notices a shift. At the match's start, Nia gripped the two-handed sword with both hands, crouching low, blade extended to counter attacks. Now, the posture is different.
Instead of a low, bent-kneed stance, Nia stands tall, shoulders squared. The long two-handed sword, no longer held with both hands, rests on one shoulder, blade tilted. It mirrors a stance Nia once saw in the circular arena of Ixtarn.
The name was drowned out by the crowd's cheers, but the gladiator—a pirate from the distant southern isles—left an impression. That pirate carried a large, curved shamshir, thicker toward the tip, slung over the shoulder. Light steps kicked the ground, dodging attacks with a unique rhythm, moving like a dance that confounded opponents' sense of distance.
As a oil seller, Nia had spent years carrying heavy jars, stealing moments to practice the swordsmanship of the southern pirate.
Now, Nia was recreating that very technique before Doaju.
Among Nia's many swordsmanship mentors, none surpassed this pirate's skill in evasion. Throughout that match in the arena, the pirate wore a wide grin, never letting a single attack graze even the hem of clothing, felling opponents with ease. Nia had etched that image deep in memory, practicing the technique tirelessly over seasons.
And now, before Doaju stands a small swordsman wielding the southern seas' swordsmanship, long blade resting on the shoulder.
'Sacrificing balance for speed… This is getting tricky.' Doaju thinks.
Nia dodges Doaju's attacks with light, precise movements, narrowly evading each strike. Unlike the earlier wide strides paired with slashing swordplay, Nia now shifts the body's axis rapidly with minimal motion, conserving energy while avoiding attacks.
The ragged breathing steadies, calmed by the regained composure. The frantic mind, once consumed by dodging, settles with the breath.
In contrast, Doaju's breaths grow harsher, shoulders heaving with each gasp.
"Hoo, haa! You think dodging alone will bring me down?"
Doaju shouts, swinging the massive mace with terrifying force. The words, partly spurred by frustration at Nia's relentless evasion, carry some truth.
Though Nia evades with quick axis shifts and agility, the short movements limit the power behind counterattacks. Doaju, recognizing this weakness, shouts with confidence.
"This is fun, Doaju! Fighting in this arena is so, so thrilling!" Nia's voice, silent until now, rings out.
Doaju laughs, responding, "Hahaha! Spoken like a true gladiator!, worthy of our god Rawud, Nia Calagon! I'm enjoying this too—not wounding you, but the act of pitting our honed skills against each other, standing on this stage!"
With that, Doaju grabs the helmet with one hand, yanks it off, and hurls it to the ground. Thick, dark eyebrows, a neatly trimmed beard, deep brown hair, and tanned skin contrast with gleaming white teeth in a broad, sunlit grin.
"Let's settle this, Droko gladiator!"
Doaju's smile shifts. Brows furrow, veins bulge beneath the skin, muscles strain against the armor, radiating heat that seems to warm the surrounding air. The next attack carries the intent to end the fight.
Seeing this, Nia stops the light, dodging footwork, grips the sword with both hands, and lowers it from the shoulder.
The crowd erupts in applause, a storm of cheers like torrential rain on a tempestuous day.
Amid the roaring ovation, the sound of Nia adjusting the sword's grip and Doaju's battle cry go unheard.
In a fleeting moment, a drop of blood trickles over Nia's eyelid. Seizing that instant, Doaju moves.
—Kwoooom!
A strike powerful enough to crater the arena floor shakes the ground. Nia leaps back, barely escaping through a haze of dust. Doaju pursues, leaping after.
"Graaah!"
Mid-air, Doaju swings the massive spiked mace downward. Nia tries to block with the sword, but the mace's spikes are already grazing Nia's shoulder.
"Kraaah!"
Nia's pained groan echoes as blood gushes from the shoulder, pierced through scales by the mace's spikes.
A smile creeps across Doaju's face.
"Finally, the end is in sight!"
Doaju pushed down harder, trying to drive the iron spikes of the mace deeper into Nia's shoulder, crushing it through the blocking sword.
"Hm?"
Just as more force was applied to the grip of the mace, the resistance vanished. Doaju staggered forward, losing balance—then the head of the mace smashed into the ground with a heavy crash.
A sharp pain bloomed in the side. Crimson blood burst out from Doaju's flank, splashing onto the arena dirt with a wet thud.
"Urgh! What—"
Nia had angled the blade, letting the mace slide away. Then, swiftly stepping past Doaju's left side, Nia slashed across the ribs. The grip on the sword twisted, turning the blade mid-motion, and carved a deep cut across Doaju's back.
The weight of the strike cut into flesh, and the shock made Doaju instinctively turn and swing the mace in a wide arc.
But Nia's body, overextended from lunging and twisting through both attacks, had already lost balance. The stance collapsed—too late to recover or avoid what came next.
'Too late! I can't dodge it—'
A brutal crash rang out as the mace connected. Nia hit the ground hard, the weight of the blow crushing into the armor. No scream came—only the sound of metal and dust as the figure rolled across the arena.
The mace's impact, unblocked and unavoidable, sends agony ripping through Nia's body. Limbs convulse, the chest tightens from the ground's impact, and breathing becomes impossible.
"Hrrgh!"
As breath returns, Nia rises, gasping for air.
"It's too soon to end!"
Doaju, bleeding from wounds on the back and side, drags the mace with one hand, the left arm dangling, blood dripping from the hand to the ground.
—Kragagagak!
The mace scrapes the arena floor with a grating roar, then rises, slicing through the air. The wind from the swing alone is enough to stagger Nia, who barely dodges.
Doaju channels mana, unleashing it through the mace in explosive bursts. The swings whip up clumps of sand and dust, chasing Nia like living creatures.
"Doaju! Let's see if you can break me!"
Nia shouts, realizing evasion alone is disadvantageous. The mace's blows and spiked wounds have slowed Nia's movements.
Raising the sword, Nia taunts Doaju. One more hit from the mace would mean defeat—Nia's body can't endure another.
"Hah! Perfect. I'm getting tired myself."
Doaju replies with a grin.
Doaju swings the mace at Nia, who points the sword's tip forward. This final attack, fueled by every ounce of Doaju's strength and resolve, collides with Nia's blade, the impact echoing through the arena.
"This fight is mine! It was a great match, Nia Calagon!"
Nia raised the sword over one shoulder, barely fending off Doaju's hammering mace.
Doaju could feel it through his fingertips—the unmistakable sense of victory. He'd felt it countless times in the arena: the enemy's weapon faltering, being driven back. He saw it already—his triumph, the roar of the crowd, his moment of glory.
But just then—
Nia let the mace's force glide past, spinning with the redirected momentum. The sword turned in a swift arc, accelerated by Doaju's own strike—a perfect diagonal slash from left thigh to right shoulder.
"Urgh! How…?"
Blood filled Doaju's vision, warm and blinding. Realizing it was his own, he felt a searing pain bloom across his chest.
"Victory is mine, Doaju Ramanusa!"
Doaju's knees buckled, crashing to the ground. The crowd erupted in cheers for Nia, who stood steady, leaning on a greatsword planted in the dirt, one fist lifted high toward the sky.
"Did that Droko really beat Doaju?!"
"Amazing, Red Dragon!"
"Hah, damn it!"
"How could that little Droko win?!"
"Nia Calagon! Great match!"
"Fantastic fight, Nia!"
"When's the next match? I'll be back, Red Dragon!"
Whistles
"Today's entrance fee was worth every coin."
"Plenty of time before the next match—shall we grab some food?"
The crowd, which had watched in breathless silence, now erupts with voices from every corner.
Nia stands upright, waving to the cheering spectators.
"Thank you all! Thank you!"