Burning blood

Musaka, the Master of Water, steps onto the platform with a glint of amusement in his eye. He meets Mukai's gaze with a knowing smirk. "Don't expect me to go easy on you just because you're my nephew."

"Are you trying to make me angry?" Mukai retorts, his voice even.

Musaka grins. "Is it working?"

Mukai raises his hand, four fingers extended. Four precise water bullets fire instantly, striking Musaka's chest. But his form merely dissolves into water, reconstituting midair—untouched.

"You know this already," Musaka says, a casual wave of his hand. "Nothing you throw at me works."

Mukai forms a water spear and hurls it. It, too, dissolves harmlessly into Musaka's expanding body. His figure grows denser, more muscular, absorbing the incoming water. From the sidelines, Sukai murmurs, "Our uncle can liquefy himself completely. The more water he absorbs, the stronger he gets."

Mukai, undeterred, creates three floating water cylinders that begin firing rapid streams of water bullets. Musaka stands still, absorbing each one, visibly growing with every impact. Some bullets miss, burrowing into the ground, but most are swallowed into his expanding form. Musaka's frown deepens. Something feels off. He knows Mukai is a tactician; there's no way this is just brute force. He watches Mukai's face: calm, focused, unreadable.

Then it clicks.

Musaka leaps back just as the cylinders adjust, their streams intensifying, tracking him like heat-seeking jets. He disperses some of his own mass to dilute the absorption. "You clever little—" Musaka's eyes widen. "You're trying to overload me! Push me over ten percent so you win by default!"

Before the words finish, Mukai appears before him, a blur of motion. He lands a swift, powerful punch straight to Musaka's face. His watery skull bursts, reforming moments later, disoriented.

"Not bad…" Musaka concedes, shaking his head, "but still not enough."

Mukai doesn't flinch. He keeps pressing, striking, vanishing, reappearing. Again and again, Mukai bursts and disrupts his uncle's form, keeping the pressure constant, a relentless barrage of precise blows.

Finally, Musaka steps back, a hint of genuine effort in his movements. "Alright. Two minutes left. Let's end this." He expands again, his form growing even larger—now clearly at nine percent power.

Then he moves. Smoother than ever, as if his body is part of the very air. Mukai strikes, but his blows are effortlessly redirected. Three quick punches snap out, catching Mukai hard in the ribs, sending him stumbling. A blur—Musaka appears behind him, driving a heavy punch into his spine. Mukai instinctively creates a Nox Pool to repel him. Musaka twists away, slipping effortlessly around the defense, and hits again. His watery fist flows around Mukai's desperate block, knocking him across the platform.

Mukai steadies himself, breathing hard, pain etched on his face. "I'm done playing," Musaka declares, his voice deeper, more powerful.

Mukai, panting, manages a grim smile. "Good. So am I." He forms his largest water spear yet, shimmering with condensed power.

From the stands, Moto shouts, "You've got this, Mukai!"

Musaka closes the gap, a confident smirk on his face. "I told you, it won't work."

Mukai fires. The spear sails forward—straight through Musaka's liquid body. It disappears behind him. Musaka's smirk widens. He rushes forward, his fist cocked back for the final hit—

Just as Mukai clenches both fists.

Musaka's punch halts midair. Frozen.

"...What is this?" Musaka breathes, stunned.

Mukai grins, a triumphant, almost mischievous glint in his eyes. "A technique I picked up from a certain assassin." He remembers Kangetsu—how the assassin had turned Mukai's own Nox Pool into a trap by saturating it with blood. Mukai learned from that moment. "Your body is now made of water I conjured," Mukai explains, his voice resonating with newfound control. "Which means—I control you."

Musaka stares, utterly stunned. "You… swapped out my natural water, bit by bit… That's what all those hits were for."

Mukai simply nods, pride swelling in his chest. "I'd expect no less from my sister's son. You've learned well." Musaka sighs, a hint of genuine admiration in his voice. "Of course, this wouldn't work if I wasn't holding back…"

Mukai's grin softens. "I know. I still have a long way to go."

The timer ends. Mr. Jumbo's voice booms across the arena. "Mukai Emir: Victory!"

Musaka shrinks down, returning to his normal size, a genuine smile on his face. "Looking forward to training you, nephew."

Mukai's brow furrows slightly. "Don't call me that. Makes it sound like I didn't earn this."

Musaka laughs. "Oh, get over yourself. Everyone who matters saw the work you put in." They walk off the platform together, a newfound respect between them. Moto stands waiting, his face beaming with pride.

Musaka glances at Moto. "Is this the kid facing Gwen?"

"Yeah," Mukai confirms.

Musaka raises a brow, a faint smirk. "Yikes. I feel bad for you, kid."

Moto looks down, then his eyes snap up, blazing with fierce resolve. "I can do this." He gestures toward the arena.

Across the battlefield, a sudden burst of searing flame erupts. One of the terraces visibly buckles, then explodes as Gwen steps into view, flames licking at his shoulders, his presence radiating raw heat. He walks slowly onto the platform, his power already flaring, visibly at ten percent.

Mukai places a hand on Moto's shoulder, a silent gesture of solidarity and warning. Moto nods, then turns to Sheu. Her face is a mask of deep concern. He offers her a quick, reassuring nod and walks onto the field.

Gwen narrows his eyes, a predatory glint within the firelight.

King Douglas's voice booms across the arena. "Begin!"

The Flames Awaken

Moto charges forward, a blur of desperate motion. Gwen's muscles tense, flames surging from his arms. His body heat intensifies, radiating a warning that dares Moto to approach. Moto ignores it, driven by an inner fire. He darts in, launching a quick jab. Gwen swings—a powerful miss. Moto barely evades, backing off, his arms already bruised from the sheer heat radiating from his opponent.

Gwen conjures two blazing tennis balls, perfect spheres of condensed flame, and a cruel smirk touches his lips. Moto plants his feet, readying himself. The first ball comes screaming at his face. He ducks. The second flies just over his shoulder. Both strike the arena wall with fiery impacts—then rebound, hurtling back. Flame racket in hand, Gwen bats them back—faster this time, a blinding blur of fiery speed.

They're too fast, Moto thinks desperately. I need to blind him—maybe a smoke screen. He exhales smoke, but a stray fireball zips past, igniting it midair. A fiery burst engulfs him. Moto staggers, disoriented, dazed.

Then—impact. The second rebounded fire ball crashes directly into his forehead. He hits the ground hard, a sickening thud.

"This is a joke!" Gwen sneers, his voice laced with contempt. "A warm-up at best. Why are you even here?" He dashes forward, preparing a finishing blow.

Moto rolls, flips away, scrambling to create distance. Three new tennis balls form in Gwen's grip, radiating intense heat. "At least this sport scales down well," Gwen taunts. "Small power—but still more than enough for someone like you." He fires all three. Moto weaves, dodging, remembering Mukai's grueling evasion drills. But the fireballs come faster now—bouncing, rebounding, relentless. And Moto can't use his smoke, not safely, not here.

He charges straight in, abandoning all pretense of evasion. Gwen jabs. The rebounded fireballs close in from behind. Moto ducks, a desperate, last-second movement. The fireballs collide directly with Gwen's face. No effect.

Moto stares, bewildered—then spots the incoming punch, a blurring fist coated in raw flame. A punch that could obliterate him. Sukai covers his mouth in horror. Sheu's eyes brim with unshed tears.

At the absolute last second, Moto, a desperate gambit, kicks his shoe into the air and crosses his arms to block. The shoe chars instantly, vaporizing in a puff of smoke, but it blunts the punch just enough. Moto, seizing the fleeting opportunity, grabs Gwen's hand, pulls himself in—and delivers a vicious heel kick directly to Gwen's jaw.

Gwen staggers, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.

"He actually landed a hit!?" Zed, the Master of Earth, yells from the stands, his voice filled with disbelief.

But the joy is short-lived. Gwen plants his foot, stopping his momentum. He snatches Moto, his grip like iron, and slams him into the ground. He begins to kick, a relentless, brutal assault.

"You filthy brat!" Gwen roars, each kick landing harder than the last. "You think this is a game?! You all came here to waste our time?! You think any of you matter?!"

Moto flinches, each impact triggering a cascade of painful memories. Nawick. Mukai. The same soul-crushing feeling. Powerless. Broken. Then, he remembers Amber. Her innocent face. His promise.

Through bloodied lips, he grabs Gwen's leg, his grip surprisingly strong. Thick, black smoke, heavier and darker than ever before, bursts violently from his body.

"This again?!" Gwen snarls, recognizing the ominous transformation. He tosses a flame marble into the swirling darkness—it explodes on impact, scorching Moto's arms. Still, Moto holds on, his grip unwavering.

The smoke thickens further, growing impossibly denser, its blackness absolute. Mukai watches from the stands, his eyes wide, recognizing the terrifying, uncontrolled transformation. Sheu grips the rails, fear a cold knot in her chest. She's seen this twice before. And both times, Moto refused to talk about it afterward.

"Father, stop this!" Sukai screams, his voice cracking with desperation.

But Gwen doesn't listen. He keeps kicking, his rage a blind, all-consuming fire. Moto's vision blurs, the world dissolving into a haze of pain and dark memories. He sees Gwen's boot, now soaked in a sickening crimson.

And suddenly—he's somewhere else. A doorway. Screaming from beyond. Blood splattered on the floor. His brother's voice, distant but clear, calling to him.

Gwen feels the grip on his heel tighten, impossibly strong.

Then—from Moto's arm, not black smoke, but a terrifying, raw maroon flame erupts.