Grand Olympia - Chapter 39: Flame

Grand Olympia: Further Horizon - Chapter 39: Flame

Musashi stood at a distance, his chest rising and falling with slow, ragged breaths. Dust clung to his pink and white gradient robe, and the blood trickling from his temple had long dried into a rusty smear down his cheek. 

But he wasn't focused on his own pain. His eyes were locked onto the scene before him Lapulapu, battered and bloodied, standing tall amidst the ruins of the arena, and Protathlitis, the once mighty champion, brought to his knees.

A strange mix of awe and something sharper twisted inside Musashi.

Admiration, yes. But beneath it… jealousy.

He watched the stoic warrior from the islands hold his ground with nothing but a cracked shield and a single blade. Lapulapu had taken the full brunt of the champion's wrath, had fought through it, endured, and carved his name into the battlefield without saying a word. No flair. No ego. Just willpower and grit.

Musashi clenched his fists. 

That used to be him.

That fire. That presence. That unshakable center that didn't care if the gods themselves stood in his way. 

Once, he had it. When he was younger. When every duel mattered. When every step forward in battle meant defying fate.

But now? Now he wondered if it had dimmed. If time had worn it down.

He could still fight, yes. Still swing his blades like a force of nature. But Lapulapu… Lapulapu fought with meaning. With purpose. Not just for victory but for protection, for pride, for his companions.

And something about that stirred something deep in Musashi's gut.

He let out a quiet breath through his nose and chuckled under it. Not mocking, just accepting.

"Guess this old dog's still got some bite left in him," he muttered, his voice low, a half-smile tugging at the edge of his lips. 

"But damn… maybe I've gotten too used to the dance and forgotten the fire."

His grip on his wooden swords tightened.

Not out of anger.

But resolve.

That flame… it hadn't gone out. It just needed fuel again. And watching Lapulapu, standing blood-soaked and unshaken in front of a fallen champion, was more than enough.

…

Protathlitis staggered back, wings instinctively flaring as Lapulapu dropped to one knee, drenched in his blood, the kampilan still humming with the force of the blow that severed the champion's arm. The once proud warrior of Korox gritted his sharp beak, his eyes twitching with panic, something ancient and long-buried rising within him.

Fear.

The crowd of phantom spectators faded to a dull roar. Even their cheers seemed uncertain now.

Protathlitis stepped back again, his feet skidding slightly against the blood-slicked stone. He wasn't used to retreating not like this. His body screamed from the loss of his arm, his vision blurred from the blood loss and strain, but what unnerved him more wasn't the pain, it was the sight of Lapulapu. Still breathing. Still defiant.

But that wasn't the end.

From the swirling dust behind him, a presence emerged, one sharp, quiet, and burning.

Musashi.

He moved like a shadow, his form blending with the dust and fading candlelight that illuminated the vast arena. Protathlitis barely had a second to react before the ronin appeared behind him, dual wooden blades in hand, slashing horizontally at the champion's exposed back.

Protathlitis twisted just in time, the first strike grazing across his ribs. He hissed in pain, feathers scattering from the sudden motion. Musashi didn't stop. 

He pressed the advantage, spinning low, one blade sweeping for the legs, the other aimed at the side of the neck. Protathlitis jumped, wings beating hard, but Musashi followed, relentlessly.

Every movement was measured. Every step calculated.

He wasn't just swinging wildly he was dissecting.

"Your strength is real," Musashi muttered between gritted teeth.

"But it's time you met your end by me."

Protathlitis lunged with his remaining talons, slicing down with his monstrous claws. Musashi raised both blades in a cross block, skidding backward from the impact. Dust kicked up around him, his feet grinding against stone, but he didn't fall.

The champion roared, charging forward again, this time with fury over precision. His injured pride bled through his every movement. Musashi sidestepped at the last second, ducking low and striking upward, one blade catching Protathlitis across the abdomen, the other hammering into his left shoulder.

The beast howled, stumbling back.

Musashi's breath was ragged now, sweat pouring down his brow. His arms trembled slightly, not from fear, but from restraint holding himself back just enough to not waste movement.

Protathlitis came again, wings sweeping, claws tearing at the air. But Musashi moved like water, flowing with the strikes, deflecting what he could, absorbing what he couldn't.

He darted inside the champion's guard and struck fast one, two, three hits across the ribs, another to the thigh, and a final slash across the chest.

Blood sprayed across the floor.

The phantom audience screamed louder than ever, an echoing hurricane of voices feeding the tension in the air.

Protathlitis reeled back, gasping, his body littered with shallow cuts. He looked around, wild-eyed. The arena spun. Not literally but in his mind, the pride of being unbeaten for thousands of years was crumbling.

Musashi stood still.

He said nothing now.

He didn't need to.

His eyes said everything.

I'm still standing.

You're slowing down.

Come again.

Protathlitis screamed. The void above trembled. He leapt forward, determined to crush Musashi into the stone, but this time, Musashi was ready. He didn't dodge. He stepped into the blow.

Blade met talon.

Strike met strike.

For every inch Protathlitis pressed, Musashi gave him a centimeter of pain in return. Each counter was a sentence in a quiet sermon of violence.

And slowly, the champion began to understand. He wasn't fighting a man.

He was fighting a master.

Musashi's blades blurred, spinning in arcs of polished wood that struck like steel. They cracked against Protathlitis' shoulder, then jabbed into his stomach. He ducked under a wild swipe, sliding low, and stabbed both blades into the back of the champion's leg.

Protathlitis roared and fell to one knee.

Musashi's breathing hitched.

This was it.

He raised both blades overhead. Protathlitis looked up, blood in his beak, disbelief in his eyes.

Musashi brought them down.

And—

The impact didn't come.

Instead, he stopped just before striking.

And smiled.

"You're already done," Musashi said, voice cold and sharp.

Protathlitis collapsed to the floor. Not out of grace. But from the weight of defeat.

His chest heaved.

He stared up at the void.

He had never never felt this before.

Defeat.

Musashi stepped back, slowly.

And the crowd… fell silent.

Not a single phantom voice spoke.

They were watching.

Waiting.

Because now for the first time in centuries their champion had bled.

And their champion had fallen.