The final round was held on the third day. Group A's final match was scheduled last, giving Quint time to prepare. He hadn't seen his opponent's previous fights, but his master had.
According to him, this opponent was on an entirely different level. Despite being equal in physical and spiritual strength, the boy came from a renowned family known for a secret, deadly attack technique.
The reason it was called secretive and deadly wasn't just legend—no one had ever successfåully deciphered the movements behind the technique. Spectators coulåd never catch it, and those on the receiving end never lived to speak of it.
"But from what I've heard, the attack comes with a severe backlash to the user," his master continued. "They won't use it unless absolutely necessary."
Quint gave a slow nod, absorbing the last bit of information.
-
The moment arrived. Quint, as calm as ever, stepped onto the stage. His opponent followed soon after. Unlike the others he had faced, this boy radiated the same aura—cold, disciplined, unreadable. There was no arrogance, no excess aggression, just razor-sharp focus. He measured Quint in silence, their eyes locked.
When the referee signaled the start, neither moved. Instead, they began circling each other, stepping lightly, gauging, testing.
Whispers spread through the audience, wondering if this would be a repeat of the fifth round's slow-paced start.
Then, like a crack of lightning, the boy attacked.
His speed was blinding—too fast for ordinary eyes to track—but Quint's spiritual awareness allowed him to see it clearly. He didn't dodge. Instead, he blocked the strike head-on, allowing him to measure the raw force behind it. The impact rippled through his arm, forcing him back a few steps despite his perfect stance.
"Your turn," the boy said, a genuine smirk tugging at his lips.
Quint didn't wait. The moment the words left his opponent's mouth, he countered with a barrage of punches, aiming to overwhelm him. But the boy's defense was impeccable—each attack met with a precise block before he struck back, driving a counterattack toward Quint's chest.
Quint caught the incoming fist with his palm, tightening his grip, attempting to crush the bones like he had done in the semifinal.
The boy didn't flinch. His strength was equal to Quint's. No bones cracked.
Realizing the failure, Quint shifted tactics in an instant. He shot his right elbow toward the boy's ribs. His opponent blocked with his free arm, then retaliated with a powerful kick aimed at Quint's waist.
Quint caught the leg mid-air and swung his other fist to strike—but before he could land the hit, the boy used his free leg to kick Quint's attacking arm away. With a sudden burst of momentum, the boy flipped backward, his heel slashing toward Quint's jaw like an axe.
Quint barely evaded it, releasing his grip and stepping back just in time.
All of this happened in less than three seconds.
The audience was spellbound. Most couldn't even follow what was happening, but the rapid drop in both fighters' points on the scoreboard told the story of the furious exchange.
"Not bad," the boy remarked.
Without hesitation, he launched a second wave of attacks—this time a seamless chain of fists, palm strikes, and kicks, each strike flowing into the next with machine-like precision.
Quint remained composed, blocking every attack. But something gnawed at his mind. These attacks were powerful, blisteringly fast, and relentless—but they were textbook. He had mastered every single one of these techniques himself. The problem wasn't their speed or force—it was the complete lack of openings.
Every attack was executed flawlessly, leaving no gaps. Even with his profound spiritual awareness, he couldn't find a single vulnerability. Impossible.
His brow furrowed slightly as he calculated. He needed to force an opening himself.
Quint countered with a concentrated burst of spiritual energy, pushing his opponent back several steps. Without wasting time, he dashed forward.
The moment the boy planted his foot to stabilize himself, Quint slid low, sweeping his leg toward the boy's ankle to trip him.
The boy reacted instantly, leaping over the attempt.
Quint, expecting this, followed him into the air. He launched a brutal punch aimed at the boy's gut. The boy moved to block, but Quint had already anticipated it—he twisted his wrist mid-air, slipping past the guard and sending a palm strike toward his opponent's chest.
The boy's reflexes were just as sharp. He caught Quint's palm with his fist, locking them in mid-air.
Then—
BOOM!!
The collision sent a shockwave through the stadium, a deafening explosion of force. Both fighters were flung backward, somersaulting through the air before landing in identical crouched stances, steady and unshaken.
Silence gripped the crowd for a split second before an eruption of cheers filled the arena.
The boy wiped the corner of his mouth, his smile vanishing. Annoyance flickered across his face. No one else had noticed, but at the moment of impact, despite successfully blocking Quint's palm strike, the force had still slipped through and landed against his chest.
He had underestimated Quint.
Despite his coach's warnings, he had assumed that Quint, trained only by a mere bodyguard rather than world-class experts, wouldn't be able to match his abilities. He had held back. And now, he was paying for it.
The boy inhaled deeply, channeling his spiritual energy. A sharp glint flashed in his eyes as he reached his peak. Then—
In a blink, he vanished.
Quint barely had time to register his opponent's movement before he felt a crushing force slam into his back—two palms striking him with devastating precision.
Pain ignited through his spine like fire.
Though his instincts allowed him to evade the direct strike, he hadn't had time to circulate his spiritual energy to defend against the internal impact. The energy attack seeped into him like venom, bypassing flesh and hammering his organs.
Blood spewed from his mouth.
He staggered forward, but before he could fully recover, the next wave of attacks was already upon him.
This time, the strikes were unpredictable—wild yet controlled, erratic yet deadly. Each movement was designed to disrupt Quint's balance, pushing him to the edge. Even with his battle-hardened instincts, he could barely keep up. His arms ached from blocking, his ribs stung from glancing hits, and his vision blurred as he struggled to suppress the blood clogging his throat.
His body became a canvas of bruises, black and blue swelling against his pale skin.
But he did not fall.
Quint refused to go down.
He knew—if he collapsed, it would be over. His opponent would have the ultimate advantage, sealing his defeat.
Through the pain, Quint stole a glance at the scoreboard. His opponent's points were dropping fast. 30. 22. 16. A flicker of satisfaction curled in his gut. Good. Let him keep wasting his moves.
The furious onslaught continued.
Another brutal hit. 10. Another. 4.
The boy's coach suddenly screamed from the sidelines.
"STOP! LOOK AT THE SCOREBOARD!"
The boy froze. His gaze darted to the numbers.
2.
His face paled.
98 attacks, and Quint was still standing.
He immediately retreated, staring at Quint with disbelief. Despite the sheer punishment he had endured, the Eastern boy was still on his feet, his body battered but unbroken.
With only two moves left, the boy had no choice.
"Coach."
His voice was tight, controlled. A silent exchange passed between them. The coach hesitated, his fingers clenched into fists. Then—reluctantly—he nodded.
The boy turned back to Quint. His expression was unreadable, but the determination in his stance spoke volumes.
Quint's jaw tightened. He knew what was coming. The secret technique.
He had anticipated it ever since the silent conversation between the boy and his coach. But anticipation wasn't the same as preparation.
Because he had no idea how to counter something he couldn't even comprehend.
The boy exhaled, his chest rising and falling in rhythm. His pupils dilated. His sweat-drenched skin glowed faintly with spiritual energy.
Then—he moved.
Quint braced himself—
And the boy vanished.
Not just speed. Not just agility.
He disappeared.
Quint's breath hitched. His mind scrambled. Where? How?
His senses flared. Every fiber of his being screamed MOVE!
He didn't hesitate. Quint instinctively threw up his arms to defend—
THUMP.
His forearm collided with something—a fist.
He grinned. Got you.
Then—something cold seeped through his skin.
His smirk faltered.
It wasn't just an attack.
It was inside him.
An icy, unnatural force slithered through his veins, burrowing deeper and deeper. A chilling sensation wrapped around his chest—tightening—squeezing.
His heart.
His opponent was clutching his heart from the inside.
Agony exploded in his chest.
Quint's vision blurred. His knees buckled. His fingers dug into his own flesh, clawing desperately at his skin. But there was nothing to grab—nothing to rip away—only the unbearable pulling.
A silent scream lodged in his throat as his heart was wrenched.
He's trying to tear it out.
Quint's breathing became ragged. Every instinct in his body screamed for survival. But how could he fight what he couldn't even see?
His consciousness teetered on the edge. His vision dimmed.
Then—
A faint, glowing mark appeared.
A target.
Floating in the empty air before him.
He didn't know if it was his profound instinct or a hallucination from the pain. But he trusted it.
With the last of his strength, Quint swung his fist.
His knuckles connected—not with flesh, not with bone, but with something soft and slick.
Something beating.
His opponent screamed.
A soundless howl of agony erupted from both of them.
The pulling on Quint's heart intensified—his chest convulsed, the invisible force trying to rip it from his body.
Quint howled back, his fingers digging into the unseen organ in his grip.
The pain became unbearable.
One of them had to die.
With a final, desperate cry, Quint clenched his fist—
And ripped it free.
"No!! STOP!!"
The boy materialized before him—his body flickering into visibility, mouth gaping, eyes wide in terror.
Quint's gaze dropped to his own hand.
Blood. So much blood.
A pulsing, twitching heart lay in his palm, beating twice before finally—stopping.
The stadium erupted into chaos.
Screams. Gasps. Cries of horror.
"QUINT!!"
His master's voice barely registered as Quint collapsed. His body crumpled, the last of his strength fading.
He felt himself falling, but before he hit the ground, strong arms caught his head.
His master's face hovered above him—eyes filled with something strange.
Fear? Pride? Anguish?
The world faded to black.
-
The awarding ceremony was draped in mourning.
The runner-up—once the strongest prodigy in his family—was dead.
The champion—Quint—was clinging to life, his heart barely functioning after nearly being ripped from his chest.
The tragedy weighed on both sides.
Yet, there were no protests.
No objections.
Because this had been their doing.
The boy had used their clan's forbidden Ghost Attack—a technique that made the user intangible, passing through solid objects like a spirit. But in exchange, their body became fragile—no stronger than a newborn child.
Which was why, despite its deadly nature, Quint had torn through his flesh like paper.
And ripped his heart out in one strike.
O
@@@@@ Author's Note @@@@@
Was it to bloody ? Should I put the + sign (18+ warning) in this chapter ? Please comment below