"Whew—"
A heavy breath, as though meant to expel every pent-up feeling in his chest, escaped through Ezekyle Abaddon's clenched teeth.
He gripped his Power Sword so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
He stepped onto the sand at the center of the Gladiatorial Arena, his pace still steady. The dignity of the Luna Wolves' First Captain sustained him, but his rigid spine, his tightly pressed lips, and the eyes beneath his Helmet's shadow, fixed on the figure opposite him, told everyone who knew him that Abaddon was not walking toward a glorious contest. He looked more like a man approaching an execution whose outcome he already knew, each step landing on the cruel knife-edge between dignity and reality.
His opponent, Hercules, simply stood twenty paces away, silent and imposing, just as he had during his previous appearance.
But this time, something was different. His hands were empty. The edgeless greatsword that had knocked both of Akurduana's swords away in a single strike, that symbol of absolute strength, was not in his grasp.
He merely stood there quietly, his enormous hands, capable of crushing tank armour, hanging loose. His thick arms rested naturally at his sides, his muscles relaxed. He had not even adopted a fighting stance.
Bare-handed.
Facing the armed Abaddon, renowned for his martial prowess, he had chosen to fight bare-handed.
That silent gesture was more insulting than any spoken taunt.
Like a heavy, invisible slap, it struck Abaddon hard across the face.
Abaddon's steps came to an abrupt halt fifteen paces from Hercules.
Beneath his Helmet, his breathing suddenly grew heavy, not from exhaustion, but from a blazing anger that threatened to burst out of his chest, mingled with the cold humiliation of being looked down upon.
The weapon in his hand gave a low hum, as