Agent047
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765 - The Hunted
🕑 Added 2024-10-21 09:54:10 +0000 UTCThe moment Aron disappeared from the cloud of dust and smoke, he appeared on the Feryn fighter’s right side. Without hesitation, he seized the fighter’s wrist, twisting his body to slip behind him. In a fluid motion, Aron forced the captured arm upward until it locked at the shoulder, then pulled back sharply, tearing ligaments and dislocating the joint.
Before the Feryn fighter could react to the pain, Aron’s left arm snaked around his neck, securing a chokehold, while a swift kick to the back of the fighter’s right knee brought him crashing to the ground. He then tightened the chokehold with unrelenting force while simultaneously pulling on the dislocated arm, further constricting the fighter’s windpipe and compressing his carotid artery. The restricted blood flow to the brain caused the Feryn fighter to slump unconscious within moments, the fight brought to unexpected reversal.
CRASH!!!!
The only sound heard was the Feryn fighter slamming into the ground, unconscious and unable to control his suit or the enormous wings that collapsed beside him.
The entire sequence had unfolded in just a second, an almost imperceptible blur of movement. Nova had adjusted Aron’s perception thousands of times during the fight, synchronizing each shift perfectly. She exploited micro-moments when his actions were already in motion, accelerating them further to grant Aron extra time to think, anticipate, and gauge the fighter's reactions. Each adjustment allowed Aron to seamlessly counter any potential threat, ensuring that every move landed with precision and finality.
"Do I have to kill him to be declared the winner?" Aron asked, his voice slicing through the suffocating silence that filled the arena and the homes of countless spectators. Moments ago, some had been celebrating victory, while others mourned what they thought was defeat. Now, with the fight flipped on its head in under a second, no one dared to breathe.
{Unless he surrenders verbally, the only remaining path to victory is through his death,} the AI referee answered without materialising.
"Got it," Aron muttered, without hesitation or flair. He dropped altitude in a sharp descent, wasting no time on theatrics or grand gestures that could cost him later. Problems always arose from unnecessary drama.
Following his landing, he swiftly drew his sword, channeling mana through it until the blade shimmered with deadly energy. With one smooth, practiced motion, he slashed the Feryn fighter's throat. The crushed armor around his neck—still partially constricting from the earlier chokehold—offered no resistance. Blood spilled, ending the fight in a cold, efficient instant.
There was no fanfare, no hesitation—just the cold reality of the battlefield.
{Match over. Winner: Terran Empire, Aron Michael.}
The AI referee declared the end of the fight without hesitation. The moment the Feryn fighter was decapitated, the outcome was sealed—advanced as they were, none of these civilizations had yet achieved survival without a head.
Aron wasted no time after the announcement, immediately striding over to retrieve the fighter's severed head. The precision and urgency in his actions suggested a purpose beyond mere theatrics, though what exactly drove him remained unknown to the audience as the referee quickly switched to the replay, leaving the crowd to ponder the mystery.
The slow-motion replay laid bare the brutal efficiency of the battle. It highlighted just how helpless the Feryn fighter had been—fainting before he could even mount a defense. What stood out most was the sheer force Aron exhibited. He had executed a chokehold through the magically reinforced armor, deforming it with nothing but his hands. The realization sent ripples through both the spectators and fighters alike; the armor was designed to withstand immense force, yet Aron had crushed it with unsettling ease.
When the cameras returned to the arena, Aron was already done collecting his war spoils. Standing amidst the blood and dust, he raised his voice with a cold tone.
"Next fighter. Now."
There was no celebration, no pause—just an unyielding demand for the next opponent, leaving everyone with the unsettling impression that Aron was only just getting started.
{May the next contender enter,} the AI announced promptly, and the shield parted to allow the next fighter inside. This time, no weapon container arrived for Aron—he still gripped the sword that had ended the Feryn fighter's life, its blade now glowing with a golden radiance, pulsing softly as if resonating with the mana it had absorbed. Aron stood still, his expression cold and unreadable, ready to meet whoever came next.
The next fighter did not arrive aboard a ship but descended gracefully from the opened shield, where his vessel had dropped him off. It was Elara’s fighter—belonging to the same race as the one responsible for starting all of this, Xalthar. Many had seemingly forgotten about Xalthar, if not for the critical clause stating that, should the Conclave secure a majority victory, he would be returned. However, judging by the situation in the arena, it was clear that achieving that outcome would be anything but easy as the empire was on a winning streak and was dangerously close to achieving the minimum requirement for the majority win.
{As usual, you have five minutes to complete your preparations,} the AI announced.
The moment the announcement echoed through the arena, Elara’s fighter sprang into action. Despite his outward calm, he was anything but relaxed; the unexpected loss of his Feryn counterpart weighed heavily on him. Like all his predecessors, he knew he had to make the most of this preparation period.
One by one, spells began to materialize around him, each shimmering with potent energy. Anyone familiar with the Elara fighters understood that allowing them time to prepare was one of the gravest mistakes an opponent could make. This time, he had a full five minutes to set his strategy.
As he worked, he was enveloped in layers of protective gear, enhanced by advanced technologies. Though they harbored resentment toward the Feryn for corrupting the sanctity of mana, the dire circumstances left little room for such feelings. Thus, he activated more than three shields from different civilization's devices, determined to survive whatever assaults the Terran Empire might unleash.
As he focused on his preparations, the scene shifted to Aron, who was slowly raising his sword vertically above his head. With his eyes closed, he held that stance as if he were practicing rather than preparing for an actual fight. However, the mana swirling in the air around him told a very different story.
His eyes remained closed until the AI's voice cut through the tension: {You may begin.}
In an instant, Aron opened his eyes and swung his sword down with tremendous force.
FWOOOOOOM!
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