Everyone in the vast arena watched with bated breath as Tanker and Zack battled it out in the center of the tournament ring. The ground was already soaked with patches of both blood and sweat, grim evidence of the brutal exchange. Blades clashed, sparks flew, and the air vibrated with the force of their strikes. Then, mid-swing, both warriors simultaneously stepped back, their chests heaving, struggling to catch their breath.
Zack, ever the provocateur, managed a weary smirk. "And now you're out of breath," he rasped, his voice strained but still dripping with sarcasm. "After all that talk about beating me, all your chances have gone down the drain." He seemed to relish rubbing it in.
Tanker, fighting to regain his composure, simply growled, "Shut up." Internally, his thoughts raced, a grudging respect mixed with profound confusion. (This kid is really something else. His skills far exceed an Elite Soldier, and not to mention the amount of battle IQ this guy has. You can't get those from normal training, plus his endurance isn't human. What are they feeding this kid?) He pushed through his exhaustion, finally standing up straight, his massive frame radiating defiance. (It doesn't matter, though. This kid wouldn't put me down. Not like this.)
Zack, seeing Tanker regain his stance, charged again, his twin blades a blur of silver. From the contenders' area, Aingo, his eyes narrowed in deep concentration, murmured, "This is going to be a match of endurance now. The first to run out of steam, between Zack or Tanker." Rider and the others listened intently, their faces etched with understanding, before turning their attention back to the ring, where Zack was poised to strike.
As Zack prepared his devastating attack, a thought flashed into Tanker's mind – a haunting image of Sarah, tears streaming down her face, asking him, "Is defeating Dextin the only thing you care about?" The memory hit him with the force of a physical blow. He looked up, a shock of realization flooding his face, and instead of charging forward to meet Zack, he instinctively backed away, his stance breaking.
Aingo, witnessing Tanker's uncharacteristic retreat, shot to his feet, his usual composure shattered. "What happened?" Rider asked, his voice laced with confusion, mirroring the bewilderment of the entire arena.
"Tanker never backs down from a charge!" Aingo exclaimed, his eyes wide. "What's going on with him?" He quickly regained his composure, however, and slowly sat back down, his gaze fixed on Tanker, attempting to decipher the unexpected turn of events.
"No doubt, Zack is a strong warrior," Valen commented from beside Rider, his voice low. "You've got a lot of work ahead of you, Rider." Rider frowned slightly, understanding the enormous stakes and the sheer power Zack possessed, a power he had just witnessed firsthand.
Meanwhile, back in the ring, Tanker's mind was reeling, pulled further into a poignant memory from the past:
Sarah, her eyes wide with concern, held Tanker's arm back, her grip surprisingly firm. They stood in their modest home, the morning light filtering through the window, highlighting the worry on her face. "Do you really have to go to this stupid tournament?" she pleaded, her voice soft but insistent. "Why not stay back? Stay with us."
Tanker sighed, his gaze softening as he looked at her. "Look, sweety, I've got to go. It's the King's command." He tried to sound resolute, but a flicker of hesitation crossed his features.
Sarah pouted, seeing through his pretense easily. "You and I both know that the King said you could come or not. It's up to you. He knows what you've been through." Her hand instinctively went to her slightly rounded belly, a gesture of silent pleading.
Tanker's resolve hardened, though his eyes remained tender. "I have to go, Sarah. If it's true that the Red Katana is still just idly standing by," he said, referring to the legendary blade of the Sword Master, "then this is bad for everyone in Xiphosia. I can't just stand by." He stepped closer, cupping her face gently in his massive hand. "And I promise I'm not just thinking about defeating Dextin. Not anymore. I'll come back to you, I promise." He leaned down, placing a soft kiss on her forehead. "Just take care of our baby for me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
Sarah nodded, tears welling in her eyes as she rubbed her stomach. "Sure," she whispered back, her voice breaking. "Please, just don't put yourself on the line to prove nothing. Let this generation fight their own war. We failed to do ours. Now it's their turn. Don't forget that." Her words, heavy with unspoken regret and the weight of their own past, resonated deeply within him.
(End Flashback)
Back in the tournament ring, Tanker's eyes, filled with a newfound understanding, settled on Rider for a long moment, then shifted back to Zack. "This generation, huh?" he murmured, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his lips. He started walking slowly, deliberately, passing Zack without another word, his back to the bewildered younger warrior.
The entire crowd erupted in a confused murmur, a wave of baffled whispers rippling through the arena. No one understood what was happening. Tanker continued his walk, leaving the tournament ring entirely, and headed directly towards Aingo, who sat rooted in place, his face a mask of shock.
"Aingo," Tanker said softly, his voice low, filled with a surprising serenity.
Aingo remained quiet, his eyes searching Tanker's face for an explanation. Tanker continued, a wistful smile touching his lips. "At first, I was wondering why you wouldn't enter the tournament yourself but instead train someone to enter it. I thought that was stupid because I always believed, if you want something done, do it yourself. But I guess I was wrong. Our time has come, hasn't it?"
Aingo's lips curved into a small, sad smile. "Yeah, I guess," he replied, his voice equally wistful. "It was great while it lasted, wasn't it? Even though Dextin was our ruler, we always knew how to have fun, all ten of us." A faint, distant memory of shared camaraderie and youthful dreams passed between them.
Tanker's smile deepened, a tear almost escaping his eye before he quickly wiped it away with the back of his hand. He looked past Aingo, his gaze sweeping over Rebel, Tusk, Kael, Valen, and finally settling on Rider, a silent message passing between the generations. He then bowed deeply, a gesture of profound respect. "I guess it's up to you," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a passing torch. With that, he turned and walked into the contenders' area, his fight now over.
Zack, still in the ring, his fury rising, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten, glared after him. "Hey! We aren't done yet! Don't ignore me!!!" he yelled, his voice raw with frustration, definitely losing his cool.
Tanker paused at the threshold of the contenders' area, looking back over his shoulder. "You got this one, kid," he called out, his voice calmer now. "Just make sure your generation is the last thing Dextin sees."
Zack roared, a primal sound of rage, and started to approach Tanker, his split swords held menacingly. "Cut that crap! I haven't beaten you yet!" But before he could take any further step, Rider's sword, quick as lightning, was at his throat. Rider had moved with such speed and precision that Zack hadn't even registered his approach.
"That's enough," Rider said, his voice cold and firm, his eyes fixed on Zack. "He said you win. So now, all you need to focus on is me."
Zack's eyes narrowed, his body tense. He stared at Rider, then slowly, his gaze flickered towards the medical bay entrance. He finally regained his composure, the raw fury subsiding, replaced by his usual cold, calculated demeanor. "Crushing you would be the easiest thing I'll ever do," he stated bluntly, his voice devoid of emotion, a clear challenge. He then turned and walked away, ignoring the confused stares of the former contenders who had come to watch, heading towards the center of the tournament ring.
Azreal, still bewildered by the unexpected turn of events, collected himself. His voice boomed through the now-hushed arena, echoing the surprise of the moment. "The winner of the Sword Master Tournament is... Zack!"
A heavy silence filled the arena at first, a collective moment of processing. Then, slowly, tentatively, the crowd began to clap, the applause building into a roaring ovation as the magnitude of Zack's unexpected victory, and Tanker's even more unexpected concession, sank in. Zack, paying no attention to the cheering masses, walked with his eyes fixed straight ahead, his thoughts a chilling internal monologue: (I'm going to kill Rider.) He gripped his katanas tightly, the promise a silent, deadly vow.