Damien knew that the situation he was currently in was far from ideal, as every second that passed only served to reinforce the harsh reality that he had no control over the pace of this battle, nor any clear path to victory.
He was, by nature and training, a hyper-defensive fighter—built like a wall and armed with a style that relied on enduring punishment until the perfect moment to unleash a counter strike presented itself.
However, Leo fought in a way that completely dismantled the foundation of that style, as he moved with such relentless speed, surgical precision, and untraceable timing that there was simply no opportunity to land even a single retaliatory blow.
Damien knew he didn't need much—he just needed one, just one clean hit to shift the momentum in his favor, as his class was designed around that singular moment of impact.
But Leo gave him nothing.
Frustratingly, every time he slammed his shield into the ground or spun into a wide counter, he found only empty space in front of him, as Leo would have already danced five steps away—composed, unreadable, and entirely in control.
And after 30 minutes of this helpless dance, his patience began to crack.
He tried to stand tall and keep his breathing steady, but his legs were beginning to ache from bracing in place for too long, while the sweat dripping from his temples soaked the inside of his collar, making the metal feel heavier than usual.
His eyes twitched, scanning for a pattern—anything to break this rhythm—but the only thing he found was Leo's silhouette circling him like a ghost that refused to engage directly.
And for Damien, that was the worst part.
He wasn't just losing the fight—he was being denied the fight altogether.
"I just need one hit," he whispered under his breath, not for Leo, but for himself, as if saying it out loud would somehow will the opening into existence.
But five more minutes passed by and the opening never came.
And so, cornered by frustration, fatigue, and a rising sense of humiliation, Damien made a decision that every fiber of his training screamed against.
"FUCK IT!" he roared, snapping completely as he lunged forward—not with a composed charge or structured formation, but with brute force and blind instinct—throwing the full weight of his shielded frame toward Leo in a wild, unbalanced rush.
The crowd gasped in unison, as Derek's voice rang out in shock, "He's going for it! A full-body shield charge—but that's not [Shield Advance], it's completely unstructured!"
Lee leaned forward, his expression tense. "It's desperation, Derek. He's abandoned form entirely. That shield's not attacking—it's flailing."
And Leo, watching from the edge of Damien's momentum, saw the breakdown for exactly what it was.
He gave up patience… and with it, his only advantage.
For the first time in the fight, Leo didn't dodge backward.
Instead, he stepped forward, eyes locked, body still, as he activated [Celestial Veil]—allowing Damien's crashing charge to bounce off him, as he stopped his momentum at once.
And in that single second, the entire match unraveled.
Once Damien stopped, Leo reappeared on his blind side—low and coiled—driving his dagger horizontally across the back of both knees, slicing clean through the muscle and sending Damien's massive frame lurching forward uncontrollably.
Before the tank could even fully drop, Leo pivoted and delivered a ruthless follow-up—not a lethal blow, but a sharp strike to the base of the neck with the blunt hilt of his dagger, which sent Damien sprawling face-first into the sand with a dull, armor-muffled thud.
The silence was immediate—before it broke into a roar.
"Winner: Leo Skyshard of Rodova!" the referee announced, raising his hand as the Rodova section erupted with disbelief and joy.
"He did it again!" Derek gasped, barely able to contain the emotion in his voice. "Leo Skyshard just dismantled one of the most powerful tanks in the tournament without taking a single clean hit!"
"And not through power," Lee added, shaking his head. "Through brilliance. Through patience. Through utter control. He let Damien bleed with a thousand cuts and let him collapse in his own frustration… before delivering the perfect counter."
Leo said nothing as he walked back to his side of the field, his posture composed, his expression unreadable, and his daggers still drawn—just in case.
And as the camera cut to Geneva's bench, the crowd caught a glimpse of Captain Ramos—his hands folded, his eyes narrowed—not surprised, but amused, as if the outcome of this fight did not displease him at all.
'The kid is trying to look tough, he's actively trying to suppress breathing hard, to not show weakness, but I can see the erratic breathing pattern.
After every couple breaths that he takes short, he takes a long one to meet his body's oxygen demands, showing that he's actually very tired—' Ramos thought, as he got up from the bench and stretched slightly.
"Is it? Could it be that Captain Ramos is coming himself?" Derek wondered, as Ramos left the bench and began making his way down the tunnel, amongst a ruckus from Geneva supporters.
"Oh my god! It is! Captain Ramos steps up next…. They're still not sending Darnell–" Lee commented in awe, as the camera cut to a shot of Darnell sitting on the bench, his face still curled in his usual innocent smile.
—---------
*ROAR—*
As Ramos made his way toward the starting spot, the Geneva supporters exploded with energy, cheering loud enough to shake the stands, as their excitement seemed to be reignited by the appearance of their captain.
Ramos, though visibly injured and still bleeding from his earlier clash with Yu Shen, walked with his usual swagger—his smile wide, his confidence untouched, as if none of the damage mattered.
"You've fought well so far… Skyshard," Ramos said casually, brushing a smear of blood off his cheek. "I acknowledge you as a brilliant fighter."
He paused, just long enough to make sure the cameras caught the grin on his face before continuing.
"It's just a shame you chose to join a second rate academy like Rodova instead of Geneva. A talent like yours—hell, even Yu Shen and Su Yang—they'd always be welcome at Geneva."
Leo narrowed his eyes.
'What a cliché speech,' he thought with a flicker of disgust, as he raised his hand without hesitation and made a simple gesture toward the referee.
"Substitution."
The crowd fell into momentary confusion as the referee turned to confirm—and nodded.
"Rodova requests a substitution. Leo Skyshard will walk out and Enzo from Rodova will step in."
—---------
As the crowd murmured and the commentators scrambled to explain the timing of the move, Leo slowly turned and made his way off the arena floor.
Every step felt heavier than the last, though he did well to keep his gait sharp and composed.
'I can't let them see it. Not Ramos. Not the crowd. Not even my own shadow—' Leo thought, as he kept up the act of looking tough and unharmed, but inside—
He was exhausted.
Two stamina-draining battles back-to-back with no time to rest and no proper cooldown had left him feeling tired.
He was moving at his top speed for both battles and it wasn't just simple movement like running in circles, but complex movements where he had to break his momentum, change directions, roll, jump and do a dozen other things, for several minutes at once.
And as a result, after the two bouts, his muscles ached in places he rarely felt. The joints in his knees felt like they'd been slowly filed down by the sand beneath his feet.
And while his expression remained unreadable and his steps stayed straight—inside, he was very aware of how little he had left in the tank.
'Damn…I need a breather—' Leo thought, as he knew that he needed a few minutes at best, as his passive skill [Faster Recovery] would help him regain his energy quickly.
Just a few minutes. Even a single bout to let his heart rate drop, let the sharp edge of fatigue dull before he stepped back in.
As he knew Ramos wasn't bluffing.
The man looked half-broken—but Leo could tell. There was enough gas in that engine to be a serious threat.
So as he sat on the bench, eyes on Enzo stepping up for what would likely be a quick skirmish, Leo allowed his fingers to unclench—his shoulders to drop just a hair—as he focused entirely on breathing and recovery.
"I need five minutes Enzo…. Just five. Give me five and I'll send Ramos packing…. That much I promise—" Leo said, as Enzo gave him a shaky nod, before making his way down the tunnel.