This wasn't a duel — it was a slow, stubborn dance between two broken machines, programmed to destroy each other. The formations seemed to function, but they were letting everything through. Whether the formations were failing or the fighters were pumped full of stimulants, it was hard to tell. I wasn't an expert in either.

Both sets of armour were holding together by sheer willpower and a whisper of luck. Turgunov's looked better at first glance, but on closer inspection, it was riddled with holes like Swiss cheese.

Dubois lunged again, sharply. And again, Turgunov reacted too late. The rapier pierced the mini-shield, but the broken blade slid weakly across Turgunov's shoulder, scraping off the paint and leaving a long, shiny scratch.

Dubois seemed to be aiming for the elbows. Why not the neck or the gut?

Probably because Turgunov had shortened his blade, and it simply couldn't reach.

As before, Turgunov struck Dubois in the chest. The crack was loud enough to make me flinch. I thought he'd finally go down. But he stayed upright. Straightened up as if sheer willpower stitched him back together from the inside.

And it wasn't even like Turgunov had been aiming for the chest. He'd probably meant to caress his opponent's ribs, but instead of dodging, Dubois took the hit on the sturdiest part of his armour. He even hopped slightly, using the impact's momentum to avoid toppling. The force carried him backwards, and then — step forward. Another step. And again.

Dubois aimed once more for the right elbow. Turgunov didn't even try to block. He just gritted his teeth and raised the mace again. But this time, Dubois succeeded.

The broken rapier pierced the mini-shield, hit precisely between the moving joints, and sank deeper.

Dubois twisted the blade. He didn't expose his chest this time, but the mace veered off course and struck his thigh instead of his ribs.

Dubois fell, yanking the shard of blade free as he went down.

Turgunov grabbed the mace with his left hand and raised it overhead. His already slow movements now became sluggish.

Dubois managed to roll aside, and the mace slammed into the sand, which crunched like snow under the sheer force of the blow.

Turgunov began to lift it again. As he raised it for another strike, Dubois pushed himself upright, took a step forward, switched the rapier to his left hand, then surged forward with a burst from a movement technique. His blade was aimed at Turgunov's left armpit.

The mace swung toward him, but the broken tip had already pierced the mini-shield, scraped through the joints and Dubois repeated the strike.

The mace smashed through his shield and slammed into his right shoulder — the one he'd offered up instead of defending with his barrier. Dubois was hurled to the floor. The mace followed close behind, while the rapier remained, stuck beneath Turgunov's armpit. He swayed, dropped to his knees, drained, yet somehow still held himself upright, refusing to collapse completely.

Dubois pulled himself together, rolled over, and stood up.

"Winner — Dubois!" the referee announced.

Turgunov finally gave in and fell. Dubois sat down to catch his breath, but the medics forced him to stand and head over to the undressing machine to strip off what remained of his armour. Turgunov, meanwhile, had to be undressed on the spot by a mechanic, just so the medics could get a drip into him before he bled out — there were simply too many holes.

A flicker of hope lit up in me. Maybe, with damage like that, Dubois would withdraw from the next match? Then I'd win by default. Because honestly, I had no idea what I could throw at him. He had superb techniques and incredible armour. In every fight I'd seen, his formations met enemy attacks with perfect defence.

Not that I had no plan. I'd spent the past week studying my opponents and had come up with at least a few counter-strategies for each of them. My rough concept for Dubois was disarming him the way Turgunov had already tried, and it hadn't worked.

That rapier was more dangerous than his stilettos. I'd seen him drive it into an opponent's stomach right up to the guard. So my first priority had been to break it.

Turgunov had done that. And it hadn't helped.

The earlier matches had given me a few ideas for dealing with the stilettos. Dubois didn't use standard four-edged steel spikes. His were diamond-shaped stilettos, no guard, with slightly widened tangs that made it easy to draw them from his bandolier. And the impact force they carried… trying to catch one on the shield was terrifying. Dubois didn't always try to get around your defences either. His control was so refined he could diversify his targets. From a single volley, some projectiles would fly straight at your front, while others curved wide and struck from behind.

Dubois wasn't someone you conserved resources against. So I reviewed my arsenal of stimulants.

War God's Fist and Cheetah's Pulse were still active and would remain so at the start of the next match. Whether they'd last to the end depended on how soon it began.

Giant Black Turtle Shell?

Absolutely had to be used. Against piercing attacks, no amount of shield reinforcement was ever too much.

The rest of the stimulants were fairly standard, except maybe for Iron Shirt. It worked best against palm techniques, achieved by temporarily enhancing muscle fibres, tendons, and impact resistance…

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I recalled how stubbornly Dubois had kept hurling himself at Turgunov's mace. It really did feel like he was using something similar.

Iron Shirt didn't pair well with shield boosters, but once Cheetah and the War God's Fist wore off, its time would come.

From the more basic options, I'd need a painkiller and a reaction booster. Again, only after the initial stimulants ran out or I got injured.

"I need to swap stimulants," I told Kate and headed over to the undressing machine. Without partially removing the armour, I couldn't access the auto-injector system and the ampoule slot panel. There were only five slots, and three ampoules were already empty: the Fist and the Cheetah. Plus the reaction booster I'd used that in the first match.

Out of what I'd equipped at the start, only the Shirt and the painkiller remained.

Dubois didn't withdraw.

Who would've thought!

The match was called right after I changed stimulants, and I literally ran to the arena before the Fist and the Cheetah could completely fade.

Dubois was already standing on the grass with a fully intact rapier, in seemingly pristine armour.

What the fuck?! How had they repaired it all so fast?

No — wait! That's impossible. The armour had the same paint job, and the rapier the same guard, which had thrown me off. But no, it was clearly a different blade and a different set of armour!

Could I hope this one didn't have formations?

Not a bloody chance!

If he had multiple sets, it was more likely that each had its own formation. The real question was: how many sets did he have and what kind of formation was on this one?

There was only one way to find out.

I leapt up and fell into stance.

Opposite me, Dubois pointed the tip of his rapier at me, while his left hand, with three stilettos clutched between his fingers, was pulled back behind him.

"Ready?" the referee asked, and without waiting for a reply: "Begin!"

I didn't even have time to give the command to inject the Turtle Shell.

Dubois surged forward with a burst movement technique, simultaneously launching the stilettos. I leapt sideways using Monkey, firing off a Chain Punch combo to activate my shield.

Dubois cancelled the movement technique early, covering only a metre or so before halting. The stilettos zipped past me, and he was already drawing three more from his bandolier.

Shit!

He'd baited me. Dubois never intended to close the gap — he was going for a ranged fight. That meant I was now under threat from both a frontal and rear assault.

I gave the armour the command to inject the Turtle, the Shirt, and the painkiller all at once — then fired off a Hook aimed to disrupt his throw with the stilettos in hand. After that, I started closing the distance myself.

Monkey wasn't ideal for this. After two direct leaps, I had to veer right, then back left — I felt that cold tingle across my back that meant stilettos were targeting me. My shield had dispersed since I wasn't using a striking technique, and in that exact moment, Dubois flung another trio of steel fangs straight at me. This time he wasn't feinting. He went for the frontal assault.

My danger sense screamed. It was coming from every direction. And so, I did the only thing that came to mind.

Strangely, it was something I'd never done before — not once had I ever triggered Mad Monkey with both feet at once.

I stomped and launched myself upwards. Well, not straight up, momentum carried me forward, toward Dubois. And I wasn't leaping over him, wasn't landing on him, I was falling, just within perfect lunging range for his rapier. But just before that, stilettos whistled beneath my feet. One trio flew from Dubois, the other toward him. Whether he'd overcommitted his attention or simply lost control of the volley, two out of three stilettos struck him instead.

His formation didn't activate. One stiletto grazed his shoulder and bounced off; the other hit him dead in the gut, punched through the armour, and buried itself ten centimetres deep.

Despite that, Dubois completed his lunge.

I landed on the grass directly in front of him, and the tip of his rapier finished its arc right into my abdomen. It drove in those same ten centimetres.

If we'd been closer, it might've come out my back. For that technique, my armour may as well have been cardboard, but thanks to the painkiller, all I felt was the searing of sharp Point Qi.

He had to stretch for that lunge, and it cost him a few moments of reaction. I grabbed the rapier's blade with my left hand, twisted my body for a downward Hook, and struck with my right — not at Dubois, but at the blade itself, closer to the guard.

Dubois pulled back. I felt the projection detonate just centimetres from my fist. The steel cracked.

He yanked free only the hilt, with the guard and a few centimetres of broken blade still attached. Another ten centimetres remained clenched in my left hand. The shortest shard was still embedded in my abdomen. The largest fragment had fallen into the grass and vanished.

That piece, left in his hand, wouldn't be finishing me off.

Apparently, the same thought hit Dubois — he tossed the useless hilt aside and drew his last two stilettos from the bandolier. One he flipped into his right hand, gripping both now like daggers, not throwing knives.

I, meanwhile, wasted precious moments trying to pull the blade shard from my stomach. My armoured fingers merely scraped helplessly at the metal shard and my armour — until I felt the danger burn into my back again. Even if there was no pain, the qi sense was sharp as ever.

I leapt left using Monkey.

One stiletto flew past me — and Dubois caught it again. The other slammed into my back, nailing my left shoulder blade. I felt my arm go stiff immediately, but there was no time to complain. For Chain Punch, I didn't need to move my shoulder blades.

I launched a flurry of projections at Dubois while reactivating my shield.

His armour flared with protective formation light. The formation looked a lot like Okoro's, so I followed up with a Hook aimed at his head — then remembered I'd already tried that.

No. That formation was more advanced — fooling it didn't work. The projection shattered against the defence.

Dubois hurled a stiletto at me. I felt it punch through my shield, but the impact force vanished instantly. The stiletto bounced off my abdominal plate without doing any real damage.

I immediately began reactivating a new shield, and Dubois moved in, trying to reach me before I could finish.

He was too slow — but the new shield, still hardening, was weak. He pierced through it easily. We ended up practically in a clinch, where neither my shield nor his formation could protect us. My Chain Punches hammered into him like sledge blows — but the stimulant was wearing off.

He aimed for my gut and drove a stiletto in as deep as the grip allowed. I made a micro-leap to the left and landed a Hook to his gut from the right. Couldn't do it with the left — shoulder blade was stiff. Hooks needed a mobile scapula.

I struck the exact spot where the stiletto still stuck out from his stomach. The projection detonated — driving it deeper, all the way in. Even the flared tang at the end didn't save him.

Dubois answered with another stab to my gut — there was no avoiding it.

"Stop the fight!" someone shouted in the background, but before I had time to register what that meant, I collapsed onto the grass.

I scrambled back to my feet.

"Stop the fight!" the referee repeated, now standing between us.

I didn't understand why. We were both still on our feet, but medics and mechanics were already rushing toward us.

Someone yanked the stiletto out of my shoulder blade — and then they shoved me to the ground. A mechanic pulled the shard of rapier out of my stomach with a pair of tongs, and the medics jammed a tube into the hole, connected to some kind of tank, and hit a button.

Foam began pouring into the wound.

They repeated the process with every hole Dubois had managed to punch into me, and then loaded me onto a stretcher and hauled me off the arena.

"So… who won?" I asked, trying to sit up — only to get a punch to the helmet.

"Lie still!" barked the medic.

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