Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 75: To be saved

Chapter 75: To be saved

The kid stepped forward, dragging a massive sword behind him, its sheer weight carving faint lines into the battlefield. Sparks flickered where metal scraped against stone, tiny bursts of energy humming through the air. Then—almost casually—he flicked his wrist.

The blade lit up.

Electricity crackled along its length, arcing through the air like a brewing storm. The charge coiled, restless, the weapon thrumming with raw power, waiting to be unleashed.

He smirked. "Hope you can keep up."

Amari barely had time to react before the kid lunged.

Lightning exploded from the sword as it cut through the air, a streak of energy slicing toward Amari in a brutal arc. He moved—fast, smooth—shifting just enough to let the attack skim past, heat licking dangerously close to his skin.

But he wasn’t just dodging.

He was reading him.

Amari’s chains whipped forward, striking in a precise line, testing for weakness—but the kid twisted mid-motion, blade meeting metal in a violent clash of sparks. The impact rang out sharp, energy vibrating through the battlefield, rattling the ground beneath them.

Then—the kid yanked his sword back and swung again. Faster this time.

Amari adapted instantly.

His chains curved mid-air, responding like extensions of his own body, catching the attack and throwing the force away. Every motion was clean, measured—effortless.

The kid was fast.

But Amari was sharper.

He caught the rhythm. Every swing, every shift in momentum, every flicker of electricity—Amari absorbed it, adjusted, threaded through the chaos like it was second nature.

Back and forth.

Strike. Counter. Dodge. Retaliate.

They moved like opposing forces—lightning clashing with steel—both weapons sharp, both fighters relentless.

The crowd roared, voices spiking with excitement as the fight escalated. Neither backed down.

And in the middle of it all, Amari smirked—something dangerous flashing in his eyes.

Amari exhaled, adrenaline still alive in his veins. Across from him, the kid adjusted his grip on his massive, electrified sword, the charge flickering at the edges, bright flashes illuminating the battlefield.

He was good. Really good.

Calculated. Controlled. Every move designed for impact.

Amari respected that.

"Not bad," he admitted, rolling his shoulders, shaking out the tension.

The kid grinned, bringing his sword back into position. "Fight’s not over."

Then—he moved.

Fast. Sharp. Direct.

Amari sidestepped just as the blade whistled past, slamming into the ground with a crack of electricity. Sparks scattered, embers skipping across the stone—but Amari was already countering, his chains snapping forward, catching the sword mid-motion, tossing the force aside.

Strike. Dodge. Counter. Retaliate.

They clashed, weapons ringing out with force that sent shockwaves through the arena.

But Amari wasn’t here to stall.

He saw it.

The opening.

One hesitation. One misstep.

That was all he needed.

Amari twisted fast, his chain hooking around the kid’s wrist, yanking hard to throw him off balance. The sword tilted—just for a second—long enough for Amari to move.

He slammed into the kid’s torso, sent him stumbling toward the edge.

Before he could recover—before he could blink—Amari followed up with a clean, final strike.

A swift kick.

The kid tumbled past the boundary.

The arena shimmered—elimination confirmed.

The crowd erupted, cheers pounding against the stadium walls.

Amari rolled his shoulders. One down.

Then—

A voice.

Cold. Commanding.

"Get rid of him."

The student who had been untouched in the chaos finally gave the order—sending six fighters straight at Amari.

Six against one.

Amari smirked.

Perfect.

They rushed him. Fast. Aggressive. Thinking numbers alone would bury him in an overwhelming assault.

They were wrong.

Amari moved before they could process it.

The first fighter lunged—Amari ducked, his chain snapping in a brutal arc, knocking them clean off their feet. One down.

The second swung high—Amari knocked their weapon aside, snapped his dagger forward, disarmed them, and landed a kick straight to their ribs. Two down.

The third tried to flank—Amari twisted mid-motion, using his chain’s momentum to send them crashing into the fourth. Three and four—gone.

The fifth lunged—Amari caught their wrist, flipped their force, and sent them crashing into the sixth, knocking them both out. Five and six—game over.

Seconds. It had only taken seconds.

The crowd lost it.

Amari straightened, steady breaths, chains loose in his grip, barely fazed.

Then—he turned.

The last fighter standing.

The royal kid.

He swallowed hard, stepping back, wide-eyed. "You—you can’t do this," he stammered. "I’m—I’m part of the royal family!"

Amari tilted his head slightly, watching him with quiet amusement.

"I’ll make you pay if you throw me out," the kid threatened, desperation cracking through his voice.

Amari didn’t hesitate.

He stepped forward, gripped his chain, and with one clean motion—sent him flying out of the arena.

The battlefield shimmered.

Elimination confirmed.

And the stadium? The stadium exploded.

The announcer’s voice rang out, excitement thick in his tone.

"AMARI OWNS THIS ARENA!"

Fans screamed his name.

But Amari barely reacted.

Because this wasn’t just about winning.

This was about control.

He was here to dominate.

The battlefield was chaos.

Not the kind you could handle—the kind that felt seconds away from collapsing.

Amari had barely finished taking down the last opponent before he saw it.

Apollo—locked in battle with three older fighters, each one hammering strike after strike, backing him toward the edge.

And across the field—Maverick and the Ocean brothers were struggling.

The strategy that had worked earlier? Their opponents had figured it out. They were forcing them into a corner, dragging them closer to elimination.

Amari scanned between them.

Apollo—who had fought beside him, held his own, but was being pushed too hard.

Maverick—the backbone of his team. If he fell, everything collapsed.

Amari couldn’t save them both.

Not at the same time.

His grip tightened around his chains, the weight of the decision pressing in, time slipping fast.

Who did he save?

Who did he leave to fight alone?

He didn’t hesitate.

The moment his eyes locked onto his target, his body moved—faster than thought, faster than instinct.

Opponents lunged toward him as he charged forward, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t slow.

The first fighter swung—Amari weaved past, his chain snapping in a sharp arc, sending them tumbling.

The second stepped in—Amari jerked his weapon, hooked the dagger around their wrist, yanked them off balance, surged past.

The third, fourth, fifth—gone, one after another, methodical, efficient, barely a thought in his mind.

There was no time to process them.

Only one thing mattered.

Amari reached the edge of the arena—where they were falling—where their grip faltered, gravity pulling them away.

And without breaking stride, he threw his chain forward.

It sliced through the air in a perfect arc.

Their hand shot up—grabbed it just before the fall.

The second their fingers locked around the metal, Amari yanked, pulling them back from the brink, securing their place in the fight.

The crowd erupted, voices crashing over the arena in sheer exhilaration.

Amari exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

The battle wasn’t over.

Not even close.