Grand Olympia: Further Horizon - Chapter 34: Grandeur
Lapulapu advanced toward Protathlitis with slow, heavy steps, each one echoing off the stone floor like a drumbeat. His kampilan rested against his shoulder, his eyes locked on the creature before him. The distance between them was shrinking, and with it, the air grew tighter, heavier—as though the atmosphere itself was bracing for what was about to unfold.
The champion towered over him. Protathlitis, three meters of pure muscle and menace, stood with wings slightly spread and arms loose at his sides, his taloned feet gripping the arena floor. Despite his avian-like face, his expression carried a very human smugness. His eyes glinted with anticipation, a predator who'd found something worth sinking its claws into. His beak twisted in what could only be described as a cruel, confident smile.
Lapulapu said nothing. His face was stone, his posture calm, unmoving. But the weight of his aura spilled into the space between them like a rising tide. It was thick, suffocating. Even the phantom spectators—illusory projections from ages past—seemed to hesitate, the cheers stuttering for a moment as if some ancient instinct warned them to quiet down.
Billy, standing off to the side, felt it hit him like a cold wave. His usual cocky grin slipped. Sweat trickled down his back in streams, soaking through the back of his shirt. His hands hovered near his holsters, but even his fingers trembled slightly. Every nerve screamed at him to run, to get as far away from this arena as possible. But there was nowhere to go.
Musashi stood tall, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his blade. He didn't speak, but something in the way he exhaled betrayed his thoughts. He wasn't just impressed—he was challenged. And in response, his own spirit began to flare outward, an aura forged through decades of discipline, battle, and unbreakable will. His presence was quieter than Lapulapu's, but no less dangerous. Where Lapulapu's felt like a rising storm, Musashi's was a blade sliding from its sheath.
The arena began to respond. The energy between the three warriors grew so intense that even the illusions—those conjured audience members meant to cheer and roar—reacted. Their volume surged, their forms flickering slightly as though the magic sustaining them strained under the weight of the combatants' raw intent. The entire space buzzed with tension.
Billy looked over his shoulder, hoping to see the hallway they'd come from—the way out. But it was gone. Just stone and darkness. He turned back, heart racing, mouth dry. They were locked in. No exits. No backup. No tricks.
And then, without warning, the air shimmered with sound—clear and deep, not quite human. It wasn't a voice spoken from the throat but from the space itself, ethereal and ancient. The words boomed across the arena like the toll of a war horn.
"The challengers who came from different eras and different origins have come to face our champion. Lapulapu. Miyamoto Musashi. Billy the Kid. You dare to challenge the great Protathlitis of Korox."
Billy flinched. "Hey—wait! I didn't challenge anyone! I just walked into a damn hallway! I wasn't trying to—" He stopped mid-rant, realizing his voice was lost beneath the roar of the crowd. He dropped his arms with a defeated groan. "God, I really should've just kept my curiosity in check."
But the voice ignored him.
"Will the mighty Protathlitis of Korox finally fall, or shall his reign continue unbroken? Watch, and witness glory."
Protathlitis raised both arms and wings, lifting his head to the light shining from the heavens above the arena. He let out a shrieking roar that rattled the arena walls. Then he looked down at the three challengers, particularly at Lapulapu.
"You've come far," he said, his voice a rumble beneath his feathers. "I've waited thousands of years for a battle that meant something. Let's not waste time."
He spread his stance and flared his wings, his feathers catching the light like blackened steel.
"Let us have a great carnage."
The arena fell silent as the announcer's voice counted down…
"One…
Two…
Three…
Fight!"
Without hesitation, Protathlitis stepped forward, the ground beneath his taloned feet cracking slightly under the force of his weight. His massive frame twisted as he pulled back his right arm, muscles coiling like steel cables beneath his feathered skin. His clenched fist trembled with sheer force, veins bulging along his forearm, pulsing with ancient, brutal power. Then—he struck.
The punch was a blur, a thunderclap wrapped in flesh and bone.
Lapulapu had seen it coming. His instincts, honed through lifetimes of battle, screamed just in time. He raised his shield—a broad, worn slab of metal etched with the scars of countless wars—just as the blow connected.
The impact was seismic!
A boom echoed through the arena like a cannonshot. The sheer force of the hit sent a shockwave rippling through the air, snuffing out some of the floating embers in the sky above. Though Lapulapu had braced for it, the power behind the strike was overwhelming. His feet left the ground.
His body shot backward like a missile, crashing through dust and light, a blur of bronze skin and deflected force. He tore past Musashi and Billy, the wind from his passage whipping their clothes and hair as he rocketed by. The phantom crowd roared louder, ecstatic.
Lapulapu's back slammed into the arena wall with a bone-shaking crunch, cracking stone and sending fragments tumbling to the floor. Dust exploded outward in a gray cloud, briefly obscuring him from view.
"POWEEEEEEEEEEER!"
Protathlitis roared, his voice echoing with the thrill of battle. For the first time in how many years.
Musashi watched Lapulapu crash into the wall, dust rising like smoke. He couldn't help himself—his lips curled into a grin, wild and sharp, revealing his fang-like teeth. There was a glint in his eye, the kind only a madman born in chaos would carry.
But before the smile could fully settle on his face, Protathlitis vanished.
One moment the champion stood meters away, the next—he was right there. Like he had blinked through space itself, leaving a faint trail of falling feathers in his wake. There was no warning, just the sudden crush of his overwhelming presence beside Musashi.
Protathlitis's left fist coiled tight, veins bulging and twisting under his skin like cords. Another punch, another hammer of gods descending—and Musashi reacted without hesitation. His left hand blurred as it drew his wakizashi, the smaller of his two wooden swords, the blade intercepting the blow just inches from his face.
The block wasn't clean—it was instinct. The force behind the punch still shoved Musashi off balance. He rolled sideways, planting his feet hard against the stone, retreating just enough to reset his stance. Dust spun with him as he moved, his cloak flaring behind like a shadow.
But Protathlitis gave him no room!
With a monster's reach, he closed the gap in a single stride. His massive form, towering over Musashi, cast a long shadow. Without pause, he reeled back again—this time his arm drawn far behind his side, fist clenched tight and low. It came up fast, a brutal uppercut aimed straight at Musashi's jaw.
Musashi had no time to escape. He crossed both arms over his face and braced for the hit.
It still sent him flying!
His body lifted into the air, limbs flailing for control as the wind was knocked from his lungs. But Protathlitis wasn't done—not by a long shot. With a heavy beat of his wings, the champion launched skyward after him.
In the blink of an eye, Protathlitis was there in the air beside him—his massive arms outstretched. He clasped both hands together, fingers laced, and brought them down in a crushing arc. It wasn't a punch. It wasn't a slap. It was a sledgehammer of pure momentum.
The blow caught Musashi in the gut midair, driving him straight downward like a meteor.
The sound was sickening. Stone shattered as Musashi slammed into the arena floor, his body carving a crater into the ground. Dust exploded outward again, lines of broken stone spider-webbing out from the impact.
For a second, there was only silence.
Then Protathlitis floated down gently, wings spread wide as he descended like a dark angel. He touched down with grace—light on his talons despite his size—and stood tall.
He spread his wings fully, arms open, chest heaving as he took in the roaring cheers of the phantom crowd.
And then he screamed.
"POWEEEEEEEEER!"