Solflare: The Painter's Secret-Chapter 70: TIME OUT. VICTORY: STORM, L.
A misty dust cloud swirled around their legs in a miniature hurricane as they threw their legs at each other.
For a full minute, it was a mesmerizing dance of defense versus relentless offense. Leon kept on blocking while Azazel threw kicks meant to end the fight in an instant.
Azazel feinted high and drove a vicious shovel hook into Leon’s exposed ribs.
WHUMP.
Leon’s jaw tightened immediately as the impact made the air in his lungs burst out. He staggered two steps back, breaking his defensive stance.
A savage grin split Azazel’s face as she stepped back and panted slowly. He raised his right fist and shook it at the crowd to show the blood he’d drawn from Leon.
He closed his eyes and whirled himself around, soaking in the rising cheers.
Leon, who had bent down gasping heavily, straightened himself and pressed his left hand to his burning ribs.
He spat the blood seeping out of his lips and shook his head, almost as if clearing water from his ears.
He reset his stance, planted his feet more firmly, and bent his knees slightly. He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, then began breathing slowly, calming the frantic heartbeat.
"Aren’t you tired?" Azazel jeered, then launched a barrage meant to overwhelm while he himself dashed after it.
The sound and air flashing around Leon began to shift. He didn’t open his eyes; he focused on his ears.
He moved his right arm forward, deflected, and redirected using Azazel’s own momentum. Leon weaved under the wild hook and allowed it to sail harmlessly over his head.
Leon caught a cross on his forearm and shoved it down.
Then, when he saw an opening at the second where Azazel’s left centerline was exposed, a faint smile tore at his lips.
Leon pivoted on his foot and drove the bony ridge of his right fist upward into Azazel’s sternum.
THUD.
Azazel’s eyes bulged. All the air in his body seemed to vanish in an instant. He got lifted off his feet, arms flailing as if numb.
The impact threw him backward as if he had been yanked by a wire and soared ten feet through the air before crashing his back into the barrier with a sound like a sack of wet gravel.
CRUNCH.
He slid down the invisible barrier, which now shimmered like an electrical current, and crumpled to the stone. Rough gasps escaped him like a fish out of the sea.
The crowd’s faces turned pale, words stuck in their throats, and sweat traced down their brows.
Azazel slammed his right arm on the ground and pushed himself upward. He coughed heavily and spat a thick glob of blood onto the platform.
An unadulterated hatred lanced across his face as he looked up at Leon. With a guttural roar, he forced his trembling legs to move and charged like a bull with broken legs.
Leon stood still, let him reach him, then threw two punches.
A short, sharp left jab stopped Azazel’s momentum, and a crushing right cross connected with his jaw.
CRACK. THWACK.
Azazel’s head snapped sideways as his body twisted mid-air. He got thrown upward, hitting the barrier higher up.
His body folded over an invisible ledge before plummeting to the ground. He landed in a heap at Leon’s feet with a final, sickening thud.
He twitched once, trying to push up, then lay still.
Leon looked down at him, his own chest heaving. He cracked his eyes open, looked at Azazel, then closed them again.
He exhaled a long, shuddering breath that tasted of copper and dust, and then uncurled his fists. He cracked his eyes open and took a half-step forward.
He stretched his arm slightly upward in an instinctive gesture to offer a hand up.
A torrent of whispers, confused and conflicted, surged from the crowd, followed by murmurs.
"Was he the same person Azazel almost killed?"
"...Is he trying to help him out?"
"...I’m now changing my perception of him..."
"...This is the first time someone has ever shown this to his opponent. Who is this guy?"
"...He’s not flaunting as the rest do after winning over their opponent."
Before Leon’s hand could fully extend, the sharp chime echoed through the hall.
TIME OUT. VICTORY: STORM, L.
The timer hung in the barrier until the barrier itself dissolved completely. From the ceiling, the mechanical claws descended; their pincers hovered over Azazel’s motionless form for a while.
Leon dropped his arm to his side and turned, lifting his eyes to scan the dark exits where the white-robed clean-up crew would emerge from.
When they exited and moved closer to Leon, the ominous weight of their unseen gaze felt heavier than the stare of the entire crowd.
Leon’s footsteps echoed with a heavy cadence as he walked from the platform toward the changing room.
The crowd’s shifting murmur faded behind the thick door as he pushed it open.
The room was empty but had the smell of sweat and the scent of the antiseptic spray used on the benches.
He moved to the same metallic chair he’d occupied earlier and lowered himself onto it. The cool surface seeped through his trousers.
For ten minutes, he simply sat, elbows on his knees, head bowed, listening to the ragged rhythm of his own breathing.
With a sudden, frustrated motion, he hurled himself up from the chair.
He walked to the small, personal locker he was assigned, its metal door cool under his fingertip when he touched and opened it.
Inside lay the scuffed datapad. He pulled it out, and the screen lit up under his touch. His profile displayed; beside it were the tournament rankings.
He scanned the list with wide eyes. Starting from the bottom, his name wasn’t there. But when he scrolled up, he saw it at 900 instead of 1001.
He shoved the device into his pocket, then walked to the washroom. He didn’t look at his reflection in the mirror; he removed his clothes and stood in the shower.
He scrubbed his hands, his face, the back of his neck; the water turned a faint, rusty pink before swirling down the drain.
He splashed the cold water on his face again and again until the chill bit into his bones, and the last traces of the arena’s heat were gone.
A new sensation fell on him when he exited the changing room. The trial hall was still buzzing, but as he moved through the dispersing crowds toward the main exit, a subtle shift occurred.
Conversations hushed; eyes followed him, tracking his movements with a new, wary curiosity.
A faint smile touched his lips as realization struck him; he was no longer just the Dusthollow rat who’d collapsed—he was the one who had stood toe-to-toe with one of the strongest of Alchemania.
