Grand Olympia: Further Horizon - Chapter 35: Impact
Billy stood frozen. Everything around him moved in chaos—dust in the air, the phantom crowd screaming louder than ever, the echoes of stone cracking from Musashi's fall—but to him, it was like time had stopped. His hands didn't move. His breath was shallow. He hadn't even reached for his gun.
Then Protathlitis turned to him.
Just a glance, and Billy's knees went weak. The Champion walked toward him, each step thunderous, not because of the weight, but because of what it meant. The last of the trio.
Now the spotlight was on him.
Protathlitis came to a stop just a few meters away, towering over Billy like a god standing before a mortal. He didn't speak at first. He didn't raise his fists. He just looked down, unreadable. Not cruel. Not angry. Just… indifferent.
Then he sighed.
A deep, tired breath. Like disappointment made into sound. Protathlitis reached up, scratched the back of his feathered head lazily, as if this wasn't even worth his energy.
"You're weak," he said, voice calm. "And a coward."
The words hit harder than any punch.
"You stood there. Watch your companions fight. Watched them fall. You didn't move."
Billy didn't speak. He didn't argue. He didn't deny it. He just stood there, shield sunglasses hiding his eyes, his hands still hanging loosely by his side.
He stopped trembling…
No dramatic shift. No burst of sudden power. Just stillness. His fingers twitched, and his grip on the revolver tightened ever so slightly.
Protathlitis tilted his head, curious. He placed one hand on his hip. The other, he raised—not even into a full fist, just half-curled, veins beginning to bulge again with simmering strength. Not quite an attack. More of a warning. A taunt.
But Billy did nothing.
Behind the sunglasses, no one could see what his eyes looked like.
Suddenly—like a cannonball out of nowhere Lapulapu crashed into the scene, his shield slamming full-force into Protathlitis' side.
The impact cracked through the air like a thunderclap. Protathlitis was lifted clean off his feet, wings flaring wide as he was hurled backward, feathers scattering behind him like a burst of ash. His massive body skidded across the arena floor, gouging deep lines into the stone before crashing against one of the walls with a seismic thud.
Billy's eyes widened behind his sunglasses. The sound alone shook him. He hadn't even sensed Lapulapu coming. One second he was alone in the monster's shadow—next, the warrior from another age had burst in like a divine hammer.
Lapulapu didn't even glance at the damage he'd done. His eyes locked onto Billy with the same intensity he gave every enemy he faced.
"Get away!" he barked.
The tone wasn't angry. It wasn't even commanding. It was a heavy concern wrapped in steel.
"If you're not gonna fight, move!"
Billy flinched. Not from fear—but from the weight of those words. They struck something deeper than Protathlitis' insult. This wasn't mockery. It wasn't judgment.
It was trust.
Lapulapu had come back into the fray knowing the odds. Knowing who stood before him. And still, he'd shielded Billy without hesitation.
Billy clenched his jaw. Something burned in his chest. He looked at Lapulapu—dust clinging to his shoulders, blood on his lip, shield raised, unshaken.
And slowly, Billy took a step back.
Not to run.
But to breathe. To think.
To decide what came next.
Protathlitis laughed, a sharp, metallic sound that echoed through the vast arena like clashing swords. It wasn't joy, it was thrill.
"It's been so long," he said, voice scraping like steel dragged across stone. "Since I felt fear in the eyes of another."
Without warning, he launched himself into the air, wings snapping open in a single, violent beat. The gust alone sent dust spiraling around the arena floor. Then he twisted—spinning mid-air like a cyclone of muscle and feathers—before driving his entire body down into a meteoric kick.
The ground screamed under the force.
Lapulapu dodged with a quick sidestep, his instincts razor-sharp, body moving like flowing water.
The impact hit where he stood a second before—stone rupturing beneath Protathlitis' strike. A crater exploded outward, cracks spider-webbing through the arena floor. Dust shot up in a ring, cloaking the collision like smoke from a cannon.
Billy shielded his face with one arm, his sunglasses catching the flash of debris.
Lapulapu stood firm a few meters away, shield still raised, his body low, braced. Calm in the storm.
Protathlitis rose from the crater slowly, wings folding, his bird-like head cocking slightly as he stared at Lapulapu—no words this time.
Just excitement burning in his glowing eyes.
Musashi emerged from the swirling dust like a phantom, using the dust to sneak behind Protathlitis. With both wooden blades crossed at his sides, he spun into a full-force criss cross slash, aimed cleanly at the champion's back.
The attack landed!
A deep pair of cuts tore through the thick muscle, a splash of dark blood marking the impact. But the strike fell short of severing the wings. There were two reasons for that Protathlitis was simply too tall, and just as the blades were about to clip bone, he recoiled, reacting with razor instincts.
Still, the damage was done.
Protathlitis flinched. His wings fluttered slightly but didn't extend. He didn't take to the air. The pain in his back grounded him, and he knew it. Spreading his wings now would only rip the wound wider. For the moment, the sky was no longer his.
Billy, seeing the opening, didn't waste time!
He leveled his revolver and fired—once, twice, then unloaded the whole chamber. Muzzle flashes cut through the lingering smoke as bullets screamed toward the towering bird-man.
But Protathlitis was already moving.
With swift, precise dodges, he weaved around the incoming shots. His body twisted with unnatural agility, each movement refined by a thousand years of combat. The bullets passed him by like harmless gusts of wind.
Billy clicked his tongue, flipping open the revolver to reload.
"Damn it…"
Protathlitis turned his head toward Billy.
That grin came back—wide, manic, hungry.
"Finally!" he roared, blood still trailing down his back.
Then, like a spring snapping free, he charged. Every step thundered across the arena floor as he barreled toward Billy at full speed, kicking up chunks of stone, ignoring the wounds from his back eyes locked on his next target.
Lapulapu was already moving before Billy could react. He stepped between the champion and the outlaw like a thunderclap, shield raised high, body low, charging with the weight of a warrior forged in a hundred battles. The arena shook beneath his boots as he met Protathlitis head on with a brutal shield ram.
But Protathlitis had learned.
He wasn't caught off guard this time. No surprise. No stumbling. He planted his talon feet, claws scraping against the stone floor, and crossed his arms in front of his head just before impact.
A defensive posture rooted in countless centuries of warfare. His body absorbed the hit, muscles tensing, his wings folding in tight. The collision echoed like a bomb, shockwaves rippling through the arena.
The phantom crowd roared.
Dust kicked up. Debris rattled down from the upper walls. But Protathlitis held his ground. His arms blocked the full brunt of the blow barely but Lapulapu was ready for that. He had no plans to rely on brute force alone.
As the impact stalled, Lapulapu shifted his weight. His shield, heavy and sacred, absorbed the last of the force, and he dropped it low, forcing Protathlitis to follow its motion with his eyes. That moment less than a blink was all he needed.
Lapulapu thrust!
His kampilan screamed through the air, a blur of steel and vengeance, aimed straight for the champion's heart with terrifying speed. This wasn't a test. It was a kill strike.
But Protathlitis reacted.
Both of his massive hands shot forward, grabbing the blade mid-thrust. Blood flew as bare skin and steel collided, the sheer strength of his grip stopping the blade inches from his chest. His muscles bulged, veins pulsing, his claws dug into the metal to hold it in place.
He grinned sharp and wide.
Then he leaned in.
His avian head twisted down with animal speed, jaws opening wide to reveal serrated teeth not common for a bird, but there they were cruel and jagged. He snapped forward, beak aiming for Lapulapu's head!
But Billy fired!
The crack of the revolver split the tension. A bullet zipped past Protathlitis's cheek, grazing it. Another slammed into his shoulder. It wasn't enough to wound him seriously, but it made him flinch.
And that flinch saved Lapulapu.
The champion's beak snapped shut inches from his head, missing by less than a heartbeat. With a growl, Protathlitis shifted back, letting go of the kampilan and leaping several feet away, feathers trailing in the air like smoke.
Lapulapu exhaled, eyes narrowed. His sword was still in his grip.
Billy reloaded. "Yeah, you overgrown turkey—eyes on me now!"
Billy pulled the trigger again, sending a sharp echo cracking through the arena. The bullet screamed toward Protathlitis—but the champion twisted effortlessly, the shot whizzing past as if it had never mattered. He grinned wide, fangs glinting beneath his beak, and without missing a beat, he unfurled his massive wings.
Ignoring the blood trickling down his back from Musashi's earlier strike, Protathlitis beat his wings once—twice—and launched himself into the air. The movement stirred a whirlwind, dust spiraling off the arena floor as he soared upward.
Higher and higher, he climbed into the vast ceilingless void, disappearing briefly into the blackness above.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then a flash.
A streak of motion tore through the darkness—Protathlitis, diving like a meteor from the heavens, wings tucked tight, arms drawn close, a comet of fury falling toward them with devastating force. The sound was terrifying—air being ripped apart, a sharp whistle rising into a deafening roar.
Billy's eyes widened. "Oh, sh—"
Lapulapu raised his shield.
Musashi slid his foot back, bracing himself.
The arena trembled as the bird-headed champion hurtled downward, a force of pure destruction aimed straight at the three fighters below.