Chapter 23: The Final Strike

  The crowd roared, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the arena, vibrating through Marcus’s chest. His heart pounded, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Across from him, Vealeth—the drake warrior—stood tall, scales gleaming like armor under the midday sun. His golden eyes were sharp, calculating, and his every movement precise—a testament to years of experience. The referee raised a hand. "Begin!" Vealeth lunged forward like a cannonball, claws extended. Marcus reacted on instinct, sidestepping at the last second. The wind howled as the drake’s claws slashed through empty air where he had stood a heartbeat ago. "Not bad," Marcus muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow. Vealeth smirked, his teeth gleaming. "You're quick. Let’s see how you handle this." With a twist of his massive frame, Vealeth’s tail swept in a low arc. Marcus barely managed to leap over it, using Ki to reinforce his legs. The moment his feet hit the ground, he turned, fists raised. But Vealeth was already in motion. His heavy fists came crashing down like falling boulders, forcing Marcus to block. The impact rattled his bones, forcing him back a step. "I've fought against all manner of opponents, but you’re different," Vealeth said, circling. His golden eyes gleamed with intrigue. "You don’t fight like any human I’ve faced before. What are you?" Marcus grinned, blood dripping from his lip. "That’s for me to know." He snapped forward, throwing a lightning-fast punch at Vealeth’s chest. The drake grunted but barely moved, his scaled muscles absorbing the blow with ease. Then, the air shifted. Vealeth’s aura flared, Psycha energy rippling from his body in golden waves. His muscles expanded, veins pulsing with raw power. Marcus felt it immediately. The weight of Balanced Scales latched onto him like invisible chains, his energy fluxing as Vealeth’s blessing activated. Their stats were evening out. Vealeth grinned. "Let’s see if you can keep up now." Marcus tilted his head, rolling his shoulders as he assessed the change. His smirk never faded. "You really shouldn’t have done that." Vealeth charged, his increased power sending cracks through the stone beneath his feet. He was faster now, stronger. To anyone watching, it looked like Marcus was doomed. Then Marcus began to move. His guard lowered, his body loosened, and suddenly—he was dancing. His footwork became fluid, each step gliding across the arena floor like a shadow. Vealeth’s fists swung like war hammers, but Marcus slipped through them effortlessly. Jab. Weave. Step. Pivot. It was beautiful. "You don't get it, do you?" Marcus taunted between dodges. "You think this blessing makes us equals, but you made a fatal mistake." Vealeth growled, his tail snapping forward, but Marcus was already gone—a blur of motion. A sharp crack echoed through the arena as Marcus’s fist struck Vealeth’s jaw, staggering him. "You’re slower than before," Marcus noted, eyes gleaming. Vealeth snarled, pushing himself harder, but his strikes became more desperate, less precise. His raw power meant nothing if he couldn’t land a hit. Marcus could see it—Vealeth’s frustration growing. He had fought many battles where Balanced Scales gave him the edge, allowing him to match his opponents in raw stats. But Vealeth had never faced someone like Marcus. Someone who didn’t need stats. "You know," Marcus said, dodging another wild punch, "your blessing is only beneficial when your opponent is stronger than you. It equalizes strength, endurance, speed, agility... all of it." Vealeth hesitated. Marcus smirked. "But what happens when you fight someone who’s never spent a single stat point?" Vealeth’s expression twisted. "What did you just say?" Marcus locked eyes with him. "I haven’t spent a single stat point." For the first time in the fight, Vealeth froze. His golden eyes widened in shock. "Impossible… You... You’ve been fighting me like this—without any stat boosts?" Marcus’s grin turned predatory. "And you just made the worst mistake of your life. You made us equal. But in a fight where everything is balanced, only skill matters." He surged forward, fists moving faster than Vealeth could react. A jab—lightning-fast—cracked against Vealeth’s head. Another. Then a hook, a cross, a brutal uppercut—each one finding its mark with ruthless precision. Vealeth’s head snapped back, his body faltering. Three mach-speed jabs slammed into his skull. A right hook. A left. A right again. Vealeth’s body lurched from side to side like a ragdoll. Then came the final blow. Marcus drove his fist downward in a brutal overhand punch. His knuckles connected with Vealeth’s head like a sledgehammer, sending the drake’s body crashing into the stone floor. Before Vealeth could even react, Marcus launched forward, his fist glowing with raw power. BOOM! The last punch struck with the force of a battering ram. Vealeth’s massive body soared through the air, crashing through the arena wall. For a moment, everything was silent. Dust settled. Vealeth’s body lay motionless amid the rubble. The referee hesitated, staring at the destruction in disbelief. Then, finally, he raised his hand. “The Winner... Marcus Elder!” The arena erupted. Cheers, shouts, and deafening applause filled the air. Marcus stood still, his breath heavy, his fists bloodied. But in his mind, one thought rang clear: I did this. Not with stats. Not with system tricks. With skill.

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