Rider sat hunched on the sterile medical bench, the dried tears on his cheeks a testament to his recent anguish. His face was turned down, etched with a quiet, steely resolve. Aingo, still seated beside him, looked up, his gaze soft but questioning. "Where are you going, Rider? Don't you want to check on her aga..." Aingo's voice trailed off, a note of surprise entering his tone as he saw a faint, determined smile flicker across Rider's lips.
"She'll push through," Rider said, his voice quiet but firm, imbued with an unshakeable faith. "She always does. I can't sit here and keep bawling my eyes out. She fought this hard for me, so I have to win this tournament and show her that her sacrifice wasn't in vain." He pushed himself to his feet, the fatigue still evident in his posture, but overridden by his newfound resolve.
Aingo watched him, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "So, where are you going?" he asked, though a subtle understanding was already dawning on his face.
Rider paused at the exit, then turned back, his gaze direct. "Where else? I'm going home." With that, he exited the building, his steps firmer now. Aingo watched him go, a slow sigh escaping him, which then morphed into a rare, knowing smirk.
Meanwhile, in Zack's sparsely furnished room in the contenders' quarters, Leo was dozing fitfully on Zack's bed, the first aid kit still open beside him. He was startled awake by the rhythmic, sharp clang of metal on metal. He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his gaze drawn to the window. The sounds were coming from outside. Concerned, Leo followed the noise, stepping out into the cool evening air. He found Zack in a secluded training yard behind the contenders' area, moving with a chilling, relentless intensity. Zack swung a heavy, unsharpened blade against a thick, iron pole, the impact echoing like thunderclaps. He moved back and forth, weaving intricate patterns, each strike delivered with a force that seemed to jar the very air, executing demanding sequences that would take an immense toll on any normal body. His movements were fluid, precise, and utterly devoid of hesitation.
"What are you doing?!" Leo exclaimed, rushing towards him, his voice laced with concern. "You haven't fully recovered yet! Plus, the tournament finals are about to start; you need to rest!"
Zack ignored him, his focus unwavering as he continued his brutal regimen, sweat plastering strands of dark hair to his forehead. Each swing against the iron pole was a testament to his unyielding will.
Leo frowned, his voice rising in frustration. "What you should be doing now is rest, not this!"
Zack finally stopped, his blade suspended mid-air, inches from the pole. He turned, his eyes cold and unwavering, devoid of any visible fatigue. "I don't have time to rest," he stated bluntly, his voice flat. "I'm at a point of no return, and victory is now only at my grasp. My body is fine. I stopped feeling pain years ago. I'll be fine." With that, he resumed his relentless training, the clang of metal echoing once more. Leo sighed, knowing arguing was pointless, and found a spot nearby to sit, watching him with a mixture of worry and reluctant admiration.
Miles away, at his own home, Rider was also deep in his private training space. He moved with a focused intensity, his breathing deep and even, his own sword a blur in the twilight. Unbeknownst to them, Rider's training and Zack's intense regimen synced, a strange, unspoken harmony connecting the two warriors. Their movements, though physically separate, were alike in their precision, their drive, and their singular purpose. Each block, each thrust, each shift of weight mirrored the other, a silent duet played across the vast distance.
Rider, pushing himself to his limits, had a sudden, vivid flashback, continuing from when he and Bianca were children.
(Flashback: 10 years ago, Rider is 8, Bianca is 7)
Rider sat slumped on a plush, velvet chair in the Grand Hall, a vast, echoing space filled with hushed whispers and the scent of old wood and polished stone. He had managed to sneak away from Aingo's stern gaze for a few precious moments, hoping to find solace in the quiet solitude. He stared at the intricate patterns woven into the tapestries on the walls, lost in thought.
Suddenly, a small, bright figure burst into the hall. It was Bianca, her braids bouncing as she skipped towards him, her voice echoing loudly in the reverent space. "Rider!" she yelled, her grin wide and unrepentant.
Rider startled, his head snapping up. That voice. He knew that voice. A familiar sense of dread mixed with a strange fondness washed over him. He instinctively tried to escape, pushing himself off the chair, but Bianca was too quick. She was already there, grabbing his arm firmly, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Where are you going to?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with amusement.
Rider sighed, slumping back into the chair, defeated. "What now?" he mumbled, resigning himself to whatever chaotic plan she had devised.
"Oh, don't worry!" Bianca said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, though her eyes still danced with mischief. "I didn't come to cause trouble."
Rider looked at her, one eyebrow raised in deep suspicion. "I find that hard to believe," he deadpanned.
Bianca giggled, a sound like tiny bells. "You're the only friend I have," she confessed, her voice softening slightly, a rare moment of genuine vulnerability. "So I came to talk to you and get to know you better. We could even grow up and marry each other!"
Rider's face instantly flushed crimson. He spluttered, caught completely off guard. "Wait, what?! I'm not so sure about that! I mean, don't you think we're still too young to talk about that?!" he stammered, flustered, his words tumbling over each other.
Bianca burst into laughter, her head thrown back, clearly amused by his reaction. "Don't worry, silly! I was just joking!" she said, though her eyes still held a hint of serious intent. She leaned in, her voice earnest. "But married or not, promise me you would be by my side, Rider. And just like with the wagon, we would do everything together. Promise?"
Rider looked at her, her eyes wide and sincere. A warmth spread through his chest, chasing away the earlier fluster. He smiled, a genuine, soft smile that reached his eyes. "I promise," he said, extending his pinky finger. Bianca's own small pinky hooked around his, sealing the childish pact. It was a simple gesture, but one that would bind their destinies together for years to come.
(Back to the present)
Rider paused his training, his gaze falling upon the now-broken wagon. It sat in a corner of his training yard, destroyed and covered in dirt, a relic of their shared past. Yet, he still kept it, a silent testament to that day and the unique bond it had forged. A small smile touched his lips as he remembered Bianca's defiant spirit, her unwavering loyalty, and that innocent pinky promise. He exhaled slowly, then picked up his sword, his smile hardening with renewed resolve. He continued his training, each movement sharper, each thrust more powerful, his determination now burning brighter than ever. He would not let her sacrifice be in vain.
A few minutes later, at the arena, the vast space had rapidly filled with people. The stands buzzed with an electric anticipation, the crowd eager for the final confrontation. Azreal stood in the center of the ring, his imposing figure commanding silence, ready to start the proceedings.
Just then, Rider entered the arena floor from one of the side tunnels, his presence drawing a ripple of whispers from the crowd. He walked directly towards Aingo, who was positioned near the entrance to the contenders' area, his face stoic.
"You're late," Aingo stated simply, his voice a low, knowing murmur.
Rider offered no excuse, no explanation, only a silent nod, his gaze fixed on the ring, his resolve radiating from him. He had chosen his path.
Then, Azreal's powerful voice boomed, silencing the crowd completely. "Contenders for the final round, enter the ring!"
From opposite tunnels, two figures emerged. From one side, Tanker, his massive frame still exuding a formidable presence, though his eyes held a haunted depth. From the other, Zack, his movements fluid and precise, his face a mask of cold, unwavering determination. They walked towards the center, the air crackling with an unspoken tension, their gazes locking even from a distance.
The ultimate confrontation was about to begin.