The Turning Point
The battlefield was in chaos.
Smoke curled in the air, the ground trembled beneath every impact, and cries of pain and war echoed across the ruined field. Dust and blood mixed into the soil, marking the ground with the cost of every second that passed. What once had been a structured formation of warriors had now devolved into anarchy—screams, clashes, and collapsing bodies filled the space where strategy once lived.
The Shield was falling apart.
Their formation had crumbled. Fighters who once stood tall were now scattered, backs pressed to walls, limbs trembling, trying to fend off the onslaught. The once-feared aura of unity that The Shield carried had begun to fade, replaced by uncertainty and panic. Their momentum had shifted, and the tides of war no longer favored them.
And the tides of battle had turned against them once again.
Despite all efforts to regroup and rally, the brutal strength of The Demolition was simply overwhelming. With ruthless precision, their enemies picked apart The Shield's defenses, exploiting every gap and hesitation. The shield that once protected now looked cracked… about to shatter.
As the chaos unfolded, The Demolition's top fighters entered the fight.
Like wolves sensing blood, they moved through the chaos with grim purpose. These weren't mere foot soldiers—they were monsters in human form, elites trained to demolish everything in their path. And now, they had arrived to do exactly that.
The Oz brothers—Corner and Zora—zeroed in on Deep and Dev.
Eyes filled with menace, the twin terrors of The Demolition approached with sickening grins. Known for their ruthless synchronization, they were more than just a threat—they were a nightmare. Deep and Dev, though fierce in their own right, were about to face one of the most lethal duos in the war.
Farhan broke into a sprint, heading straight for Priyanshu.
Armed with ferocious speed and an unmatched killing intent, Farhan leapt into battle like a dagger hurled from the dark. His target: Priyanshu—the quiet tactician, the calm amidst storms. But calm alone might not be enough to stop a storm like Farhan.
Johnathan, calm yet deadly, set his sights on Roy.
His knuckles cracked like breaking bones, and his stride was cold and deliberate. Roy, the charismatic leader of The Legacy, would not be spared today. This was personal. Johnathan's eyes said it all: no games, no mercy—just destruction.
Sahil, the brutal powerhouse, roared as he charged at Jai.
Like a boulder rolling downhill, unstoppable and merciless, he bulldozed through scattered fighters just to reach him. Jai braced himself, knowing the impact would be titanic. Sahil didn't fight. He destroyed.
Rayan, cold and calculated, aimed straight for Tarun.
He moved like a shadow—quiet, lethal, unforgiving. His target stood unaware, and Rayan's speed allowed no time for warning. For Tarun, this wasn't just an opponent. It was a death sentence closing in fast.
Once again, The Shield looked weak.
Their elite were overwhelmed. Their unity was splintered. And their enemies were relentless. Blood stained the battlefield, and despair began to creep in—not just in the eyes of those falling, but even in those still standing. The Shield, the once-indomitable force, was now on the verge of collapse.
The question that haunted every member now was the same—
How long could they hold on… before everything shattered completely?
Once again, The Shield looked weak.
---
Roy vs. Johnathan
Roy wiped a trickle of blood from his lips and smirked.
His knuckles were bruised, his breathing labored, but his spirit—unbreakable. The battlefield roared around them, but in this moment, all that existed was him and the man standing a few feet away.
"Oi, oi, oi..." Roy called out, his voice cocky despite the cut on his cheek. He rolled his neck and narrowed his eyes. "You really think you can beat me?"
Johnathan didn't flinch.
His eyes were cold, steady, like the calm before a storm. He cracked his knuckles one by one, the sound echoing through the air like gunshots. His stance was grounded, focused, as if carved from stone.
"No," he said flatly, his voice low and razor-sharp. "I know I can. You're just an egoistic bastard riding on borrowed pride."
With no more words to waste, they launched into battle.
The air between them cracked as their fists collided.
Roy lunged first, throwing a heavy right hook. Johnathan ducked, countered with a jab to Roy's ribs, and followed it with a knee strike—but Roy twisted mid-motion, grabbing his leg and hurling him to the side. Johnathan rolled with the momentum, landing on his feet.
They circled.
Then clashed again.
Every punch was a test of will.
Every kick, a message: I won't fall.
Johnathan's precision met Roy's raw, explosive power. Blood sprayed into the dirt. Grunts escaped through clenched teeth. Muscles burned. Bones strained. But neither relented.
Roy's back slammed into a wall, only for him to rebound with a spinning elbow that grazed Johnathan's temple. Johnathan responded with a brutal uppercut that snapped Roy's head back—but Roy grinned, spit out blood, and kept coming.
They were warriors—gladiators in a coliseum of chaos.
Each had taken hits that would've put lesser men down.
But in the end…
Roy stood victorious.
Johnathan hit the ground with a heavy thud, unmoving. Dust rose around his fallen frame. His breath was shallow. His eyes, closed.
Roy stood over him, chest heaving, arms trembling with adrenaline and fatigue. Sweat poured down his face as he wiped the blood from his brow. The faintest smile tugged at his lips—not of joy, but triumph.
"Tch…" he scoffed, looking down at the unconscious fighter. "Guess your mouth was faster than your fists."
But then—
BAM!
A sudden, brutal fist smashed into Roy's face. His head jerked violently to the side as blood sprayed from his nose.
He didn't even see it coming.
He stumbled back, knees buckling, vision blurring. The pain exploded through his skull like lightning.
As he collapsed to the ground, the world spun—and the last thing he saw before the black void swallowed him was a familiar, mocking smirk hovering above him.
Eddie.
Standing tall. Smiling with devilish satisfaction.
"Looks like you forgot there's always a bigger dog in the yard," Eddie whispered, cracking his knuckles.
And then—darkness.
---
Deep vs. Zora'oZ
The battlefield trembled with war cries and clashing steel, but Deep moved through the chaos like a ghost in water—silent, controlled, and devastatingly precise.
Zora'oZ charged him, fury burning in his eyes, muscles coiled with intent to kill. His fists swung wild with brute strength—but Deep was flawless.
He ducked the first punch with a sidestep so smooth it looked choreographed. A quick palm strike to Zora's shoulder disrupted his rhythm. Then a spinning heel kick forced the hulking fighter back a step.
Deep's breathing was steady, eyes sharp, every muscle relaxed but ready. His style was a blend of flow and force—reading Zora's moves before they were made.
One strike to the jaw. A feint. A low kick. A slip. A counterpunch to the ribs.
Zora hadn't landed a single clean hit.
Frustration boiled over in his chest. "Stand still, you little—"
SMACK!
A backfist from Deep cut his insult short.
Zora reeled, snarling, but Deep didn't press. He stayed calm, measuring, conserving energy. His mind was a battlefield of its own—calculating options, predicting outcomes.
To the onlookers, it was art. Deep was painting circles around his enemy, not with brushes, but with bone-cracking precision.
But Zora had had enough.
He staggered back, rage in his breath, scanning the ground—and then he saw it. A rusted metal rod lying half-buried in the dust.
His fingers wrapped around it.
Desperation drowned honor.
Deep's brow furrowed—he saw it too late.
WHAM!
The metal rod swung through the air with a sickening CRACK, slamming into Deep's ribs with savage force. The sound echoed like a snapped tree branch.
Pain erupted.
Deep's body jolted, his legs giving out beneath him. His breath vanished—snatched away like wind from sails. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide, mouth open, trying to breathe—but nothing came.
He collapsed, clutching his side, the world spinning around him.
Zora stood over him, chest heaving, lips curled in a sneer. Sweat dripped from his brow, mingling with the blood smeared on his arms.
"How weak…" he spat, his voice venomous. He raised the rod again, its edge glinting under the pale light.
"I should just kill you now."
Deep, coughing and gasping, tried to rise—but his limbs betrayed him. The agony in his side felt like fire burrowing into bone. He could see Zora's shadow looming closer, death etched into his silhouette.
The fight had turned.
Honor was shattered. And now, Deep's life hung in the balance.
To be continued...