Omi Barsait vs Mooo

Omi Barsait vs Mooo

FIGHT!

It had been such a short amount of time since Barsait's last match. The one he pulled out of only by a hair; the one his body, wounded and weary, was escorted out of after the death of Lazenca Miranda. Yet, it seemed the crowd's beliefs: Both of Lazenca's death, and of Omi's wounded body, would both be crashed to the ground.

"He's alive.." Those were the thoughts that rung in the wounded mercenary's head, prior to he reaching his dorm room. That stab to the heart felt wrong, that, Omi knew. Supposedly, Miranda was entirely - perhaps overly so - dead. That, the swordsman felt great guilt over; but.. no, as rumors abound suggested, the sight of a living Lazenca had been confirmed somewhere in the tourney grounds. Omi Barsait believed it- but, didn't think any ill would come of it.

Still, the swordsman regretfully lamented his options. Again, prior to reaching the Dormitory. With a wounded eye, a wounded arm & opposite leg, another slightly injured arm, and a battered body.. the mercenary was entertaining thoughts of dying in his next match. For just calling it off was out of the question; not after how far he came. Not after shattering so many other combatants' dreams, would he just give his role away. Yet . . how on Earth could he, right shoulder searing like the sun had been sealed away in it, mount a serious offense against the as-of-yet-unannounced opponent?

Ah. But the swordsman did return to the Dormitory that day. . .

Pouring rain.

The fated [Barton Branch Round IV] encounter between Mooo & Omi Barsait would, unfortunately for the both of them, play out in drenching water; something that Omi would likely complain about beneath his breath in comical annoyance. The crowds would likely be getting irritated, both with the rain and with the absence of the 2nd participant in today's match; some, having seen Barsait's participation in Round III, assumed he forfeited and were impatiently awaiting the next match.

Yet, a low rumble of voices started when Mooo's competition did emerge from the opposite entrance tunnel; one gauntlet-covered hand gripping the edges of the walls after another, before the swordsman finally managed to step on out.

Not a single scratch or bruise was on him.

Appearance

Omi Barsait, age seventeen, had a lanky build to him. Slightly tall height, about 6'0''. Rough weight of one-hundred & eighty four pounds. Quite thin regardless, but with a bit of muscle to him; vaguely pale skin. Amber brown eyes. Teeth that held a glint to them like fangs, though all were squared but four; and, pure black hair.

Said hair was wild, strewing this way & that. It wasn't too terribly messy, but enough so. Regardless: unlike the days prior, his wardrobe was a bit different.

Heavy, leather boots dark as obsidian, lined either of this young man of perhaps, seventeen years of age' feet. Tied securely, top of each extending over his legs & jeans a bit; treads on the bottom built for long travel, though also for keeping one secure on a surface. His next bit of apparel from the bottom up, would be the common pair of dark jeans. Perhaps, not quite as black - at least, same as his boots - but still rather dark, matching his shirt rather well, though that was yet to come in description. The jeans were more of a comfortable bit of apparel, though they did allow for quite a bit of ease in range of motion. Simple in design, they gave way upward to the cotton shirt. Sleeves coming down to his upper-mid arm, it was a rather sturdy shirt; still allowing quite a level of free motion, though, rather similar to a common T-Shirt.

Following this, was a pair of leather gauntlets coming from the hands, to the mid-arm. Almost a mixture of a knuckle & bracelet, these two gauntlets were rather dark, with white embroidery lining their edges; mixtures of leather and trace metal made them rather durable, no doubt reinforcing a punch or two. Fingertip-less, they did not detract from dexterous actions. However, a small slab of steel, or a hand plate, lined each of these gauntlets; gray, highly compressed steel, and an engraved 'O' in both, dead center both horizontally and vertically. A circle, the Latin character 'O', perhaps?

Finally, lining the skin between his gauntlets & the shirt - and from his lower neck, to wrists, to just above his feet, was a brand new sheet of chainmail. Given to him by Fasumbra prior to the beginning of Round IV, it was a solid black color. It was smooth, solid & cool to the touch; yet, despite not being literal plate armor but rather, links of chains.. it was a defensive force to be reckoned with. Created from Languardian Steel, this metal had an acute resistance to blunt force. In short: it could take immense pressure; thus, giving him a decided advantage in melee. Perhaps, thirty pounds; Omi was no stranger to the weight, thus, his movement was not inhibited like one would quickly assume otherwise. A fine defensive wear, one would have to take care with that..

Dark, wild hair strewn about. Some of the bangs coming down over his eyes - just vaguely pale skin contrasting the dark attire he wore. Omi had one final element of apparel to be addressed: a sheathed blade in lacquer leather, hanging quietly upon his right-backside. The handle twas coated in strips of leather & dark-blue cotton.

"D-damn.." Omi was slowly making his way across the sands, the rain splashing upon his body not even a bother. He held no anger in his expression, nor anxiety.. just an outright awkward gaze of surprise at himself, as he began to walk normal again - though, it still looked like a stiff walk.

He was completely healed from the last match. Or if he did have any wounds lining him, they were not apparent. Yet, as he continued taking these uncharacteristic, non-casual steps; one had to wonder just what the Hell was bothering him. Comically, he quickly thought, "*This feels so damned weird! Augh.. I guess it'll just.. take a little getting used to. No point in complaining; Fasumbra's handiwork is amazing.*" Gritting his teeth and regaining his composure, Omi Barsait began to step out farther; so both he & Mooo could spot one another, despite the rain. Then, he gave out a friendly wave, and tried to call over the crowd's shouts,

"Hey there! Good luck to you. Any conditions you want specified before we do this?" Quickly however, the waved arm came right back down; before Omi rose it upward in mild awe at the palm. One could surmise, he was still injured. By how he was moving, anyway; it seemed like he was barely keeping afoot.

Truth was, however: He felt.. amazing. No, that was an understatement; his eyes held a clarity they didn't before, his muscles held a spring to them never before present, his very thinking felt faster. More "to the point", he labeled it. Furthermore, in that slight nervousness Omi felt while walking out in front of the crowd, he had noticed.. the rain droplets. Were they always as defined as that? They still fell to the ground quickly, yet.. they seemed so much.. slower.

All he thought Fasumbra did, was miraculously mend his body. Then outfit him with a bit of much-needed, new armor; that alone, was a gift he couldn't find words to give thanks for. But.. "W-what else did he do to me?" was the question at the tip of his thoughts. The crowd's chorus of cheers were now so much more.. defined. His every limb felt like they were just begging him to take an action; Run, jump, swing through the air - something.

"Damn. Maybe I'm hallucinating, but I'm feeling too damned good today, not to at least grasp at victory." Flashing a grin at the gales flowing downward, Omi merely gazed onward confidently. Awaiting a response, as he assumed in sportsmanship, his opponent would give.

Was he any more powerful than before, truly? And if so, was it significant enough to take measure? Or would it merely prolong his defeat? Perhaps, now, he could find himself matching the grandly powerful in melee which he could not quite meet at raw strength before; perhaps not? It looked like, that day would be..

Unique.

A slightly perplexed expression came over Omi for a second pending Mooo's casual journey over to his relative location, before he grinned heartily and nodded in response. "Yeah, I'd prefer not winding up in the ground myself." Reaching out his right fist, he met knuckles with the man quickly, before letting his arm retract; a common pre-bout procedure he'd seen before. Regardless, the last question his opponent made, forced the mercenary to consider: Just what would his body hold up like? His limbs.. felt great, but was his lack of balance that noticeable?

Still, he shook his head. "Nah, don't worry about it. Long as you don't gun for my throat, I think I'll be good." Chuckling, another series of raindrops struck his head; though the sound of them.. well, that was just awkward. It felt like each drop was just echoing; reverberating, as the sound waves made his eardrums feel uneasy. His thoughts reflected this: "I'm really going to have to feel out how my body's recovery went; Damn.. If only I had more time before this match began." Metaphorically shrugging it off, the swordsman still felt quite confident in his chances. So, with those last words, his obsidian boots began tracing backwards in the sand. "Well, no use in pissin' off the crowd, I wager. I'll make a good distance here, then you can come at me whenever you feel like it. Again, good to meet you & good luck." One back-trotted step after another came from this, until the mercenary was standing some ten feet away from where the two contestants'd originally stood; then, Omi began to prepare for the true beginning of the match. Judging by what he'd heard of prior matches, this man was that of a melee proficient fighter. So..

[Semi-Crouch]. His right foot came forward, resting on the ball of the foot; left foot some three inches back from the right, in the rear position. The rest of his body followed suit, so his right side & shoulder were coming forward. Knees bent just slightly, his gauntlet-covered hands rose up in balled fists - before placing themselves together, side by side. The handplates of either gauntlet facing Mooo, the forearms together securely; obviously, since his right side was the one coming forward, this made the guard slanted. But, regardless: The top of his knuckles were just below his nose; perhaps only an inch away from his face.

A rather balanced stance, in the Southpaw orientation. Good for keeping one from falling, but still allowed the feet to move at will - good for giving powerful jabs from a relaxed guard, since he was right-handed, yet also good for setting up a number of other odd elements. Furthermore, thanks to the mildly-yet-not-overly-so position of his body, slamming in powerful straights while consecutively shuffling backwards was made more natural & simplistic. It was more or less assumed, Omi Barsait was prepared for the skirmish to begin from there. His eyes were calmly, but with detail, watching his opponent; ready to try and dissect Mooo's movements prior to coming in, or what else the man might do. His hands were gripped tight, middle knuckle of either gauntlet protruding more than any other; but, Omi tried to keep them somewhat relaxed.

"This could get entertaining.." Eyes narrowing comically, one final comment came to mind: "Eh, just hope I'm not smashed up too quickly here."

A right, dominant fist being his lead - the southpaw stanced Omi Barsait began slowly shuffling in. Rain cluttered his messy, dark hair; but his eyes managed to peer through them. Oddly so, actually.. but that was a factor the swordsman was currently trying to push out of his mind. "Focus." Following that one word - his eyes tried analyzing Mooo's movements best they could, whilst his feet helped him near as well.

Still in that guarded pose, one would quickly realize: His elbows were pushing together. This variation of the Turtle Shell kept his upper and mid body relatively protected; but, thanks to the angle he was at, it would actually allow him to throw a jab from his right arm. Which, likely, was what he intended to do. The sand was clotting uselessly upon his obsidian boots, as the mercenary let the occasional clasp of rain scented winds ride over his skin. "Not quite at the distance I want.." One couldn't say the mercenary was suddenly turning hot-headed; no, in fact, Omi Barsait was calm as could be. Albeit.. an unsettling feeling of anticipation was over-riding him. Just an hour ago, even - this swordsman was fretting on if he would ever get to enter a circumstance such as this again.. and now, here he was. In this odd conditioning brought by unnatural means, the crowd watching for either fighter to begin their blows.

As their distance became somewhat-neared; just enough distance, they couldn't throw a good hit off - but close enough, it was unsettling.. his right hand detached from the left. No guard? His right shoulder came forward, arm raising up - knuckles facing to the right side, the sides of his fist facing Mooo. Arm arced in front of him, left arm lowering down just in front of his stomach; fist beneath his right arm's elbow. His legs kept their same stance, but the arm placement.. it was.. bizarre. Especially in Southpaw, it was not the typical offensive style - in fact, judging by the open gap at his left side, one could have surmised he was baiting Mooo.

Was that the case, though?

Barsait was patiently standing in that position, though if one gazed upon him intently - they would be able to make out a distinct shake to his legs. Looks as though the mercenary was eager after all.. as the two came to be just out of arm's distance between eachother, the right fist turned just slightly. Now, Omi's knuckles were the part of the gauntlet-covered fist facing Mooo. Well aware of his stance and it's current advantage over Mooo, the swordsman did not take that fact as anything useful. Instead, his eyes kept peering onward - until the next action occurred.

A jerk at the left shoulder..? Heavily tempted to change how his arms were positioned at this, Omi stopped as the 'jab' retracted so very quickly. But, whilst Mooo's left hand began to dip down for a powerful blow at the momentarily disoriented body of the mercenary - the swordsman was not satisfied with letting that jab, that hand that threw it go. For suddenly, as a grin accompanied this - the reason why Barsait's left-body was shifted back and the right forward, was made apparent. It was more than just a stance, it was more than some fickle means of catching a boxer off-guard based on their hand orientation. It had a more distinct purpose..

Ease of dashing in.

His left arm, still present at his gut, titled upward a tad to ward off an inevitable blow from Mooo's right; the right shoulder of Barsait, meanwhile, would come crashing at the unattended left shoulder of Mooo - for Mooo's left hand was lowering to try and deliver a blow aimed at Omi's body, roughly. A thunderous right straight spearheading the motion, intending to hit high whilst Mooo chose to hit Omi low. Barsait's legs shuffled forward in a straight motion, cutting into Mooo; in short, a surprise counter that intended to cut off any means of Barsait's opponent warding it away.

Neutralization, it seemed, was Omi Barsait's goal right then. By shuffling in at a peak offensive time for Mooo, it was intended for the powerful assault to all but be eased into manageable resistance, rather than something that could potentially set Omi up for a more devastating set of strikes... After all: Why stand afar and let a bullet scream in, span it's distance, and gun you down with monstrous force - when instead, you can repel it before the round leaves it's barrel?

Part of his approach worked like a charm; to that poise, Omi had succeeded. The left side of Mooo was all but sealed off for that moment - yet, the mercenary would quickly realize to his own dismay, this would not be the end of that initial assault. Instead, Mooo slammed a powerful right hook into Barsait; at such a short amount of distance, and with the proper means of distributing his weight into an assault Omi thought without fail Mooo'd employed - the situation could yet turn dire for the mercenary, it seemed.

His left arm was still around the gut; would it raise and try to act as a shield to the thundering 'blade' inbound? No. Instead, to a light murmur from the crowd, Mooo would find his right hook striking dead on; at that position, it would have hit the upper-left portion of Barsait's torso. Obviously, with the weight Mooo had put into the blow, immediately retracting it once it met resistance would be a slightly slower process; and that, was what gave weigh to the chaos that ensued.

It seemed, Mooo was correct in thinking even a guard wouldn't have yielded away that force. Barsait could feel the reeling sting of that blow, that much was true; yet.. two factors kept that from being a disadvantage. The first, being his recently gained mesh - while not some sort of 'impervious armor', it was amazing when it came to absorbing shock & force. The second factor, was Barsait's boots - treds lined their bottom, and this meant, despite taking a direct blow, the swordsman did not skid back along the sand. No, Mooo would find the mercenary did not reel back at all - and that, was where the next stage of offense would begin.

Barsait's eyes were, even at the feel of that blow, peering ahead - directly, sharply analyzing what they could - at Mooo. Shaking just the slightest bit - an acknowledgment that yes, the hook had struck and struck well. His right shoulder kept it's placement to create an awkwardness with Mooo's left side, so a proper blow was all but a hassle to obtain - yet, his right hand itself slid across Barsait's own chest nimbly. Fingertips digging into Mooo's wrist as quickly as possible; -that- was the set-up.

Now, most likely, many more red flags would be going off; for it seemed the situation went from suitable to Mooo, to immensely dire. Barsait hadn't taken the right hook because he wasn't able to block it at least - strangely enough, he had taken that hit purposely. Just to set Mooo up, so both of the fighter's limbs were contested; as was one of Barsait's. The right, holding Mooo's likely still-poised hook by the wrist with as much grounding force as possible - Mooo would likely break the grip, and soon. But in all likelihood, not quick enough to ward away the disadvantage. The opening.

Omi's left elbow, wrist, fist.. all were still down at the gut. Beneath either fighters' other arms. And in a bout of mimicry, Barsait torqued his own hips, right shoulder pressing further onto Mooo, as the left fist - from a rear position, no less - thundered ahead at the man's unattended right side. Not quite at the stomach, not quite high enough to be at the chest; right at the middle-right side of his body. Normally, this would be a heavily telephoned punch and easy to maneuver around - yet, thanks to the position the two fighters now found themselves in..

That was not the case.

The impact! It seemed his left fist had hit it's mark; though the problems associated with this became immediately apparent. The previously inhibited left hand of Mooo now held free berth; and already, the mercenary anticipated this would prove ill.

"Shit! I can't block in time..!" The realization hit him like a brick - he was completely open for Mooo's next strike. It was unlikely Mooo wouldn't notice this; sure enough, a left upper was about to ram into his chin. It wouldn't be at full force, perhaps - but it would still be deadly painful at that distance. It was all Barsait could do to even react; to just duck would be foolish. That would create a downing momentum that Mooo's upper would combine with, creating an even more painful blow for Omi. And blocking, with how short the strike was, would be too slow. Too little, too late..

So Omi wouldn't attempt it. Instead, he intended to give Mooo a trade-off; if the mercenary had to take a blow, he fully intended for his opponent to do the same. Arcing his body to the left just a bit, one would quickly realize what was occurring: Simultaneously, Mooo's left upper would be digging into Omi's chin. Painful, as the swordsman's teeth grit together with the blow - body coming back just an inch. Yet, despite the impact - his body was in motion. Torquing into a.. left hook?

He was repeating himself. Striking at the same spot on Mooo he'd hit prior; using Mooo's new position so more distance & force could be put into the strike, as well as using Mooo's occupation with hitting the swordsman's chin to mask the presence of the blow. More than just trying to give an exchange with Mooo, it seemed Omi was pressuring his opponent. Swarming - targeting a spot, wounding it, then relentlessly applying more & more pressure.. Whilst this occurred, his right arm strode to come back to the front of his face - a stinging pain lining his jaw. Mooo's left, at that distance, would have to retract if he wanted to throw another blow with it - and when it did, the right arm would be Barsait's solace against a repeat strike by Mooo.

It was becoming apparent to Omi, the advantages & disadvantages present. Mooo couldn't get the full momentum of a blow into his body & limbs - so, the obvious choice was striking the swordsman's head instead. This thought lingered in the mercenary's head - as though unto the tip of a solution - but instead, was put aside in favor of dealing with the inevitable reaction of Mooo.

Perhaps not to the exact location he desired - but the blow thrown by Barsait did hit it's relative target; that was all that could be asked for. That blow at his chin-span still stung.. unusually so. In fact, it'd jarred him momentarily; though the swordsman still adamantly withdrew his left hook, also intending for another blow of some variant type, it seemed.. but such thoughts were cut short at the sudden situation brought before the mercenary.

One: A right hook was coming at him. Two: For just that moment, it seemed - Barsait felt the tiniest bit sluggish. No doubt thanks to the chin shot - the swordsman had to make a split choice. There wasn't a way conceivable for him to just counter that hook; and truthfully, he didn't spot Mooo's left preparing a blow of it's own. Yet.. reaction time off by a fraction though it were, that did not cut his reprieve entirely. No; the mercenary did have quite the action to take, which with a gunned step forward, he did. Mooo had been brought farther to his left, or Barsait's right, thanks to the repeated hooks. If one would recall, Omi was in a southpaw stance; meaning, his dominant arm -and- shoulder were both coming forward, his own left side recessive and farther behind. One leg in front of the other. One foot in front of the other..

Back leg. Shuffle. Barsait gunned his right shoulder blade right on in - practically slamming his body into Mooo's left front. In an essence: He was smothering the man's left side with a powerful shoulder ram, in an attempt to throw off the "right hook" entirely. Since the motion was telegraphed so heavily.. ducking beneath that massive a hook was out of the question given the temporary 'groggy' feel Barsait suddenly felt come over him. However, this was stage one of the motions taken place; Mooo's left hand would still be throwing a left, and thanks to the impending collision of the two fighters - that left would find itself heavily weakened, if not neutralized.

Which, would lead to the clincher of this act. Once again, a left torque of his body. Barsait had used the charge in as a means of allowing his body the proper thrust to rotate; giving his left fist the berth it needed to smash on in. Another body hook..?

No. This time, his left arm didn't dip down. It was coming overhand, fist compact as could be - descending like a freight train towards Mooo's lower-face. The step in, the shoulders; that ram actually powered this punch into Mooo. And at that angle, what one could refer to as a reverse uppercut or by it's proper name, a [Hammer punch] - it would not be pleasant to receive that blow.

Not that Barsait didn't have a good physical resistance - but that dead feeling, as it were, from Mooo's blows would be a result of the Languardian Steel. Truth be told: Even the mercenary wasn't fully aware of his new apparel's nature - only that it was highly commended by the very man whom gave Omi the ability to recover so swiftly, Fasumbra - and so, word of it's use was good enough. Yet, even the swordsman realized it: Mooo was rumored to be a hard-hitter of an extremely powerful sort, from what Omi knew.. the blows at his body, what had been taken, weren't aching like they should have; Another odd side-effect of the mercenary's curing method?

"Maybe my sense of pain's numbed.. Damn, my luck's dead these days!" Left overhead-hook, or Hammer punch, was diving down- the sudden repercussions of his actions were made apparent. Both of his eyes bulged just slightly, a light cough escaping his lips.. a burning left hook slammed into his rib cage - bashing against the dark chain mesh, and into his body. His right side ended it's movement.. even with that bizarre armor, which absorbed such force adamantly - Omi could feel a stinging pain at his side. Not quite at the torso's upper levels; more like right past the liver. An ache, finally; the kind of pain Barsait expected to begin with.

. . . Yet, not the pain his opponent would desire.

In a previous melee bout of a more unorthodox manner, a contestant by the name of Raine managed to land a rather crippling blow - yet, the mercenary had all the time in the world to shift about it. What did than, oddly, the man do? Stand still and let it hit in spades. It wasn't until after the opponent's momentary confusion, that the reasons for this were made clear..

Defenseless Counter.

Mooo had expected the mercenary to end his momentum - to falter back. But his own persistence in closing in, combined with the armor which did not eliminate the damage - but did lower it a tad - created for the next moments to ensue. Amber eyes falling back on Mooo, the unseen left of Omi's own devise suddenly swooned in the air - descending sharply in a crescent hook as it had previously been going. Except..

Shifting right against Mooo's left hook, Barsait began to torque his body. All the way. Shifting full-force into the blow, pressing his right side - stinging aside - right along Mooo's left forearm to both throw off another hook, and to shift all the way into the surprise overhand strike. Teeth gnashed together, it seemed Omi was gunning for just where the Hammer punch was most effective - and where, given the two fighters' positions, it would be hardest to ward off. The area right between Mooo's right shoulder and his neck; fist compact as can be, knuckles bulging out to grind into Mooo's muscle & sinew. Meanwhile, his right hand, shifting along his own wounded side of the same direction, flew up calmly for a final action to assure Mooo's damage: a grasp of the man's left shoulder. Four fingertips latching in the back of his shoulder plate, the thumb pressing against the front - to apply the most pressure possible given the short amount of time he had, and to ensure Mooo's body wouldn't just naturally shift to his left with the force of the blow. This left his right side open for another blow, this is true; but in exchange..

It gave Mooo's body no leverage. No adapting to the direction of the blow. Mooo would be struck full-force.

Roar of impact - that's what Barsait felt. Rather than just an effective blow as he predicted, it seemed fortune had shined upon him; that stinging impact . . it felt perfect. Though, the 'thud' the swordsman heard resonate from his gauntlet was peculiar, there was no time to be concerned with that. Not at all. Rather, Omi was far more intent on continuing his blows - and suddenly perceiving Mooo's status - not that of a man trying to counter his strike, but rather.. standing there in a daze .. well, this was something that many would say was perfect: "Take the shot! Throw another powerful blow & end it!"

However, Omi had a gut feeling, Mooo only took as much impact as he had due to the angle the blow came in at. And despite how dazed the fighter was, it was unlikely one such as the mildly famed Mooo would come even close to defeat over just one fortunate blow. Perhaps, the fighter was as dazed as he appeared.. but the swordsman knew from first-hand experience: You can recover from being stunned. At opportune times, no less. To just blindly rush in with an overhand, fantasies of grandeur regarding slamming his opponent straight to the ground, was as foolish of a choice in that mercenary's mind as any; thus, the swordsman took advantage of Mooo's stunned status, in a decidedly different manner.

His right shifted off Mooo's left shoulder; hands swiftly retracting, both forming a quick [Turtle] guard upon which Barsait threw a few light jabs at Mooo's exposed chin from with ease. However, these were rapidly withdrawn with every jab given; for Omi wasn't just remaining still. He was shuffling backwards. Just enough distance, he could shift in a tad and gun a punch in - before immediately moving back out in a sudden display of agile footwork, intended to overwhelm Mooo before he could ever regain his momentum. Decidedly, an out-boxing stance on matters..

"Gun the jab, let him try to close the distance.." This pale thoughts lined the mercenary's head, as he continued the light, repeated steps on the sands which brought him up & down off the ground about a centimeter at a time. A swift jab. An equally swift retraction, right back into the guard over his mid-torso to nose. The opposite arm taking the same action, both alternating at an impressively rapid pace; the swordsman pivoting about to encircle Mooo, without getting close enough, the man's reach could suddenly beam Barsait off-track. These jabs were light - but nothing to toy with, as they homed in with a surprisingly sharp angle of impact, all aimed at the relative area of Mooo's mid-torso to chin.

Yet, as one jab was thrown - for it was assumed by now, Mooo would have recovered and at least be defensive - the swordsman did notice it, albeit with more focus on his opponent, than his observation. Left gauntlet. Upper-left ridge. A decisive, small depression in the hand plate, just above the sharp edge it held..

One, two - two proper jabs connected, before the third was dulled unto futility by Mooo's guard. Just as the mercenary had thought, recovery was quicker than later; yet, unfortunately, it seemed his opponent managed to create some distance in this little exchange. Cutting the entire stream of jabs short, as the swordsman quickly recoiled the only outdrawn arm, his left, back into that lovely defense . . .

"My gauntlet's damaged.. not enough to limit it's effectiveness, but.. tch. I need to keep focused." Last words thought out in self-reprimanding annoyance, Mooo made the first move within these moments. A step forward, a swift left backed reinforced by the spiraling motion - his reach, it seemed, was superior to Omi's. For he could feel the knuckle tip dig into his guard - his wrists, arms.. those were covered by the lovely material which has warded away most blows prior; regardless, while the left did strike, what it hit was the very tip of his guard. The handplates. His defense was rather tight now, to keep Mooo from using that first shot to open up more opportunities - but this came at a cost. In that predicament, countering or even trying to swerve in past Mooo's outstretched arm were both entirely out of the question; both left Barsait hapless.

So, right at the apex of the left thundered in by Mooo - arms shaking just slightly from the impact, as recognition it had occurred - Omi merely shuffled back another two steps. Quickly, lead foot coming after the hind; that tight guard staying the same. Nothing in his posturing had changed in the slightest, in fact; though, his pupils were glancing in the opponent's direction sharply. "*Just a little longer.. he has the superior reach, he'll try to dish out strikes before I can even get into the distance to touch him. The very essence of out-boxing. But, to take advantage of that, he must either remain where he's at.. or come in just outside my reach again." Right fist tightening audibly, one blazed thought flew by, overwhelmed only by the sudden, bizarre anticipation in those eyes of his: "Gouged it.. c'mon..*"

The waves of crowd fanfare; the hush of anticipation, the chorus of cheers or roars of hatred. In their ever continuing exchange, these elements became, for the fourth time, something that didn't bother Barsait at all.

Mooo's left came out to it's highest outstretched point - just barely grazing Omi's given guard as the mercenary made his light retreat. Yet, it was that, and moments prior, that made all the future possible for the swordsman.. Again: His amber-brown eyes were burning in a furor. He was impatiently, anticipatively awaiting the inevitable; but it seemed, the mercenary held a baited breath in his retreat. Yet, that dark-clad swordsman felt the outstretched, initial blow barely meet him - and all was relieved, in retrospect.

It seemed, Barsait had achieved something; but what? No, more pressing was what he anticipated next; would Mooo stay back, or come in with a blow? This too, was answered much to the mercenary's approval. Mooo would cover six inches with a hop-step.. but, the signal for Barsait was, of all things: The out-stretched left.

To explain: If one would review this match thus far, they would find the following facts all true. Barsait & Mooo had, up until the crushing Hammer punch performed earlier, been engaged in a close-ranged bout of sorts. Meaning, even though one could easily tell Mooo's reach, if by a slight amount only, surpassed Omi's. Here was the crucial detail that such close-impact fighting did not impart: How much distance was that, truly? Neither fighter got a chance to see the other's arms fully expand prior to that exchange.. Shortly thereafter, Barsait performed a few jabs - but only as Mooo was in a daze. Therefore, getting an accurate measure or general 'sense' of Barsait's reach just from that would be horridly difficult. As well as potentially inaccurate. However, Omi had no such momentary daze; Mooo had thrown a few different jabs, and by trying to close the distance and keep the swordsman at a distance, the full reach of his left arm was revealed in spades to Omi. So, after the mercenary got a feel for just how far that arm stretched, roughly - it came down to one last factor, before his plan of action would commence. Again, the question would be asked: Would Mooo move forward? Or stay behind and let Omi come to him?

The former was the answer - the very answer Omi desired. Still in that tight guard, Mooo would find Omi kicking off with his hind, left foot - gunning at a rapidly lowered stance. Taking action the very moment Mooo hopped forward; simultaneously with that left jab snapped off, Barsait was lowering himself to an extreme amount - using his balled-up defense, if you will, to gun right beneath the distance he assumed Mooo could throw a blow from. It was rough - this was made evident by the feel of that jab's knuckle grazing along the left side of Omi's head, leaving a light sting as he gunned on in - but.. even if it'd hit dead on, it was not a damaging punch, as established. It was a blow meant to keep the swordsman's guard up - Barsait was literally drilling right into Mooo's proximity once more. More his legs gunning forward than his entire body - propelling him right in..

.. Yet, the mercenary never stopped. It was one, fluid motion. Teeth gritted to try and alleviate the incoming impact of his own blow - left hand shifting to Omi's right, to try and cover his face best it could whilst the right left that protective shell.. and with that, all was made clear. The Southpaw struck again. For the right, dominant hand of Barsait was thundering in with that low-high motion; the frightening trademark of overhand punches. One of the most well-known blows in all of any variation of hand-based boxing, in fact.

The Uppercut. Normally, this punch would intend to strike an opponent's chin; but, this was not the case here for several reasons. First: Barsait needed to strike, and strike swiftly. He would not be in Mooo's proximity for long before the fighter warded him off, or even tried to land a blow into his sides to force the mercenary away - this much, the swordsman knew. Rising all the way up for an uppercut to the chin would also expose his body, and give his head less cover - meaning a jab from that risen right of Mooo's was possible. Besides, it would've been less effective than Omi's intended target. For with that thunderous roar upward - the right gauntlet would crash into the desired target with as much of a grinding motion at impact as possible, to worsen the effects given.

The target? A complex network of nerves located in the abdomen - or, it's general area. This, if struck, often caused the body's diaphragm to spasm, resulting in difficulty for one to breath - more commonly phrased as "Getting the wind knocked out of you." A strike to this region could also affect the network of nerves themselves, causing a great deal of pain to erupt, fittingly.

More commonly, one would refer to this region as the Solar Plexus.

The uppercut - that rush of motion! It felt like a sure blow.. but, too often did such assumptions lead to tragedy. Omi could feel his right hand blasting through air - and quickly, his eyes widened, trying to regain his composure quickly as possible. His right arm was upraised, his left fist still right at his face - in that familiar, tightened guard. Barsait knew he failed to land the blow; but now the question was: Could he make this work, or was he in a bad spot..? He was still gazing slightly to his right, since he'd leant right into the uppercut; his fear was, Mooo was in that same spot, ready to slam into the wide-open body of the mercenary, exposed and ready to bruise. Instead . . nothing.

"Damn! Where-" Feeling it all too obvious, Barsait's eyes veered to the left, right arm already attempting to retract. All he saw, was the fist closing in back to his right; a hook, a straight..? Too little time to discern detail, Barsait just knew one thing. He had a left. If Moo was throwing his right - the one thing Barsait could discern - than the course of action was absolute.

Left side of his body in the back. Left fist, precisely at his face. He could feel Mooo's knuckle graze past his right arm, which he shifted to & fro as much as possible. Anything to throw that punch off it's course, as Barsait bent backwards as much as he possibly could whilst still throwing a blow forward, warding the powerful hook of Mooo into his upper chest more than that exterior point of his chin; still, all of it's impact was intact. It roared into Barsait, a decent blow to be sure. Omi could feel the pain sting right through him; dull, an aching sensation that echoed throughout his body.. yet still, it felt.. improper. Almost as though the punch didn't hold as much force behind it as it truly did. Still; Barsait's eyes widened just a tad more. A clear sign.. Mooo's retaliation was successful.

Whether Barsait was wounded or no would prove irrelevant, however- for at that same time, the mercenary had also gunned into a shot. Simultaneously, less on analysis and more on pure reactionary instinct - Omi thundered a left straight forward, presumably right at the general area of Mooo's right fist - to - jaw. Once again, his knuckle barred in; no longer a hook, an uppercut, or some odd overhand punch, but one straight out bash.

The exchange, it seemed, was alive once again.

Barsait could feel that left fling along; another decent power blow, one couldn't deny that. But throwing powerful strikes would prove useless, if none of them ever hit. This was the case with his left straight, soaring beneath a new right counter blow began by Mooo. A dire situation, Omi would've had to wager in those last fractions of a moment - at least, what of them the momentarily wild mercenary could fathom. For while his right hand was close, it was at the wrong side of his face; it was too quick and too much to shift it into the way of that power blow.

"Shit, I can't.." Thoughts trailed off into an endless void, as Mooo's right connected right with Barsait's jaw; the only thing the mercenary ended up doing in the end, would be craning his head back just a tad further than he already had, in some vain hope of missing the extension by but the slightest bit, so his own right could save the day. That, however, was not the case; as with nothing to ballast him this time, Omi would feel himself moving backwards across the sand. Upper-body flying back and toppling over lower, straight towards the sandy grounds; the classic descent upon one's back. Barsait had been struck full-force.

The crowds would cheer or jeer, depending on whom they were rooting for; perhaps, neither of the above. And it didn't truly matter - for it would seem, in an excessively short amount of time, the swordsman was floored. The end of the melee exchange, perhaps?

".. Son of a.. bitch.." The laughter endorsed words came into his head, as the swordsman tried to come to terms with exactly what occurred. A small case of disorientation, you could say. His chin stung something fierce, but.. not to the extent it would have, if Barsait had only just stood there instead of trying to move back. Still, that was one Hell of a blow, and most would assume, if he were getting back up, getting in close range after that wouldn't be happening again.

"Tch.." Teeth exposed in the limelight for the first time - a toothy grin, all of which were squared except the four 'cutter' teeth which distinctly appeared like fangs - that common consensus of events would prove wrong. Barsait managed to land backwards alright - right onto his palms. The pressure this put on his wrists was unpleasant, but it was only momentary. Since, lurching forward in a rapid, likely surprisingly arch - both of his arms swerved from either side of his body. Feet would grit right back into the sands below, as those two fists came from either side to meet - in all oddities possible - a Pincer Blow. Two simultaneous hooks from the left and right; in this case, coming in just at the front of Mooo's face-neck, rough as Barsait could measure given the alloted time, so merely moving back and fourth or immediately ducking would yield less effective results. Furthermore: The left was just slightly ahead of the right fist, gauntlet-endorsed knuckles cutting through the air more than smashing..

Squared stance here; no tilt to the left or right. The downside to moving in for Mooo, would be that the back section of this 'pincer' would likely trike him - the downside for moving back, would be that because the two hands were going to shift in front of one another, Barsait would have a crafted guard made right there in mid-air - making an immediate obstacle for Mooo's next blow. And if Mooo attempted to duck, if he held the foresight to do so given the odd yet swift circumstances - likely, the bottoms of the gauntlets would still catch his upper head. It was a sharp enough set of blows, getting struck couldn't be considered humorous.

What was Barsait's expression now..? Bits of sand flowing off his dark attire from when he had, so very briefly, remained on the ground - his expression was.. eager. Eager as could be. No malice was felt from [Omi Barsait] for having been rendered to the ground, yet, his pupils were just gazing on ahead with a sudden electric detail. His punches held a better flow to them.

Taking a few good blows was what got the mercenary, no practice between this match and his last, out of a potentially dangerous daze.

Coming just out of his blows' reach - it seemed, one of three potential scenarios played out, as Barsait intended. Mooo had fallen back; wisely, as just remaining there in the span of two blows was out of the question. One blow came short, before the next was rendered useless by yet another backpedal; Barsait's execution couldn't be faulted, Mooo had just taken the most rational of choices in order to avoid damage. Yet, as the jab snapped outward, the true extent of that pincer attack's full agenda would be revealed..

Gauntlet. That is what the jab would meet, likely retracting back as it was a quick, snapped-out-jab intended for elsewhere. Why, one may ask, did it meet his left amidst those assorted motions? The answer was actually rather simple: Omi never had a chance, much less the intent, to let his arms drop back to his sides from those rapid hooks. One arm was slightly ahead - and above- the other, left before right. So, feeling air being his only struck target, this positioning of his arms was made into a makeshift guard.. one arm above the other. An extended shell - bizarre kind of guard, since one would assume it easy to get beneath or above..

At least, until he began. Charging in progressively, keeping the balanced stance so entering in on either side was made more difficult for Mooo - his arms, left then right, snapping out in horizontal, rapid backfists - each blow, regardless of if they hit an integral element of Mooo or no, immediately retracting into the 'shell' defense just as the next bellowed out. Furthermore, the swordsman was moving on in with this ever-constantly.. it made dishing blows right at his chest impossible nearly, and a light shift upward would cause his upper arm to take the heat of a head-oriented shot. Furthermore, while the gut was vulnerable, it seemed too much a wide opening not to be noticeable.. a little baiting on his own part?

It would seem, this was an effective means of forcing Mooo into another in-fight. All the more so, since that slightly sweat-adorned expression of Omi's was now more.. brazened. His blows coming forward, awkward as they were, with more sharpness. Something would need to be done to neutralize the ongoing charge, or it would prove problematic, to say the least . . .

It was even more of an effective guard than Barsait had conceived; a subtle mixture of delivering mild-damage blows and being able to pressure an opponent relentlessly. And that was the intention. It seemed the mercenary wanted to leave Mooo no options - other than continue backpedaling, as he had been doing. That, was fine with the swordsman. All was prevailing well, even if Omi couldn't deliver hard-hitting blows in this course of action - why would he need to, after all, if this was forcing his opponent in a gradual deterioration of stamina and build, while allowing him to keep relatively lax?

A jab. Hitting his gauntlet, it was barely an impact at all; a second, which his own right's knuckles blew away. Constantly, the outstretched guard of Barsait pursued Mooo; relentlessly at that, hounding his opponent for the chance to overwhelm him. The inevitable mistake, the fruitful opening - the flaw his eyes would have to reveal for him, to lead into the everflowing aftermath of a melee exchange, Omi Barsait was fully intent on surpassing Mooo in. One backfist after another, bashing in, smashing forward-

"Nn..?" Mooo took a half-step backwards, prior to his right elbow coming up in what appeared to be the start of a powerful right blow. Yet, this was just met with a momentarily annoyed look present in Barsait's expression - once before, a fainted blow had caused Barsait to crumble unto the ground. Even in the rush of battle, it was his intention to be damned if he'd fall for the same trick again - thus, ignoring his own bodily reactions, wanting to twitch and move in the opposite direction of that fist - Omi thundered in and began his assault anew.

Only, he wasn't targeting Mooo's face. His chest. His gut..

Arms prying apart like metallic jaws - it seemed, the secondary use of that guard stance was introduced. Forming it from his pincer blow earlier was rather easy - just sliding one arm swiftly at a slightly different altitude and distance from the other - yet, the opposite also proved true. Sliding his arms as quickly to the sides as he could, Barsait was once again in the proper positioning for a monstrous combo of hooks from either side; gauntlets thundering back in as though returning from a homely orbit. Left. Right. Due to his squared stance, both were closing in at near equality - the targets? Mooo's own shoulders. It was a gamble as much as an offensive, truly: Barsait was, again, leaning his head back as much as possible. Targeting Mooo's shoulders from the sides, gunning in with a powerful fury - it left him open, yet . . Omi knew it would have been foolish to try and block one of his opponent's stronger blows from that distance, with that guard. Landing to the ground without results, was certainly not a desire Barsait harbored; his eyes trying to retain a sharp view of his opponent, even as the actions unfolded.

What was he doing, than? Simple. Smashing Mooo's shoulders to weaken his opponent's incoming assault. The shoulder reinforces the arm something tremendous, even from a blow twisting in at the hip - to receive a sudden, sharp trauma there mid-blow.. well, maybe it wouldn't prevent Omi from taking damage at all, but it would give him enough to not be blown backwards. Furthermore, that pincer strike had enough force to leave a lingering ache; if Mooo was to suffer even the most minor of shoulder wounds from this, the bout would find itself stacked in Omi's favor. And that was all he needed.

The pincer strike failed - this much was again evident. It did light damage, but had no stopping power as the mercenary had originally intended. If there was time for it, perhaps the swordsman would have shown dismay; the situation had been reversed in a horrid manner. Enough of those powerful blows connecting with Barsait's chin, and this match would find itself over before it rightfully began. To top it, there was truthfully no way of Omi avoiding the strike - at the way things were going, Mooo's left straight was a guaranteed hit. All of Mooo's weight was coming in - faster, faster . .

However, he would soon find something helping him right along to his target, in a more unpleasant manner.

Fingertips digging into Mooo's flesh, fists turning to flat hands with a desperation - the dark clad swordsman began dragging Mooo right on back with the weight of his left arm, pushing his head right on forward in a bit of a head-butt. Of all things, rather than try to put distance between the fist & he, Omi Barsait was actually meeting it. Left gauntlet-covered hand grasping Mooo's right shoulder tightly, the right digging about the upper ridge of Mooo's shoulder blade; dragging the fighter right on in with his punch in full-force. In essence, the swordsman had turned the pincer blow into a means of initiating a slightly ranged clinch - though to a much more forceful degree. This cut off much of the torque Mooo would have had present in his strike - there was less distance for the arm to span. Less time for the straight to build it's impact. Therefore, the monstrous full-weight straight would find itself gashing across the mercenary's chin - not quite meeting it, as his head was almost wildly craning by in some feeble effort to avoid destruction. Yet, as it slid by.. it seemed one of Mooo's knuckles followed the full path, grazing along the bone in Omi's jaw - pressing right into it. This created more of a sharp pain sensation that that of the full, thumping agony following a good, traumatic blow; to top it, it was the same spot Barsait had been struck just moments ago, of all things. Thus, a monstrously sharp pain rose up.

".. Shit, that got me worse than I thought. Just grazing that location did enough impact to pull off the needed effect.." Teeth trying to gnash together in pain, it seemed Mooo's strength was not fully realized in the bash - but it still gave it's impact. Yet, the new situation arose - both the fighters' arms were past one anothers' shoulders. They were in an awkward kind of clinch - and unlike a regulated match of some time, complete with a referee to intervene - there would be no third party parting the two. In came the next phase - Barsait's favorite range. Close.

His left hand continued digging in every fingertip it had - parting across any graspable muscle & sinew to hold Mooo in relative place - as his right hand swung to the right widely in a highly angled arc, before crashing back in towards Mooo's left ribs. Weighted hooks - telegraphed, but that hardly mattered, given the situation. That of the glorious exchange.

Slight disorientation was on Omi's end too . . his skull ached here & there, but one could only surmise, his plan had succeeded. The impact was lessened to the extent, the mercenary managed to stand stoutly with a blazing level of adrenaline rushing through him; the swordsman focusing his eyes onto Mooo, decidedly angry at himself for bumbling his earlier actions to even be here.

Still, it seemed the events had taken Barsait into a favorable position. Amber eyes glass to the excitement this contestant felt from the constant blows shot back & fourth between he & Mooo, one hook after another thundered into rib bone; gauntlet meeting before the knuckle, though all of the mercenary's arm felt the impact. Glorious were the strikes, monstrous was the feel of battle! Another match to participate in, another struggle between two individuals in which one would be cast aside for the other to preserver, another clash of the wits, of the muscles, of the blades -

"Damned loud . . " He thought in a clear tone of comical annoyance, as yet another thundering roar of crowds cheers & voices overcame the dome arena. Yet this was just a quick side-tracked thought Omi allowed himself to keep calm; for it seemed today's bout would be decided in pure melee. A simple mistake could end either of the combatants, and Barsait knew he wasn't immune to making them. Such a realization struck him again and again, as those hooks resounded - to have come this far, only to fail, would be . . more for himself than anyone . . entirely unforgivable. Omi was no spiteful man, and he did enjoy his bout with Mooo; in fact, if he lost, likely would the swordsman be grateful it were in a bout like this, than any one he'd had prior. But, he also had a blazing resolve to be that day's victor; thus, the mercenary decided to take the matter even more seriously than before, his jawbone still aching something fierce. Resonating the pain.

This steeled his resolve, forcing him back into a state of alertness. Omi Barsait noted a decided shift in Mooo's body, and following the path with his own gaze, saw his fifth right hook to thunder into the opponent's left elbow. Granted, the swordsman saw the flaw in this method of thinking; had it been a bare fist, sure, that would have been a sufficient guard that would give a good, dull shock to both of their bodies. More so, Omi's hand. But, that mercenary's hand was not bare. As such, that gauntlet endorned fist thundered into it's target . . only to have that swordsman's eyes widen, then immediately narrow with extreme self-annoyance.

"Damn it, I'm such a lazy fool! This is it!" The opening. Often, one flaw leads to another; one step leads to the next, as it were. If the mercenary had just became complacent with giving Mooo a good blow on the elbow without repercussion, that man would no doubt find a way to counter it at some point. Then Barsait would do the same. Then so would Mooo. This would continue onward until one of the fighters suffered such a blow, their body could no longer fight effectively - and whichever succumbed to this first, would be blown to the grounds. At least, unless a mistake was made - a spot that could be exploited. But such times would be brief or long, no one knew. All the more reason why . . [Omi Barsait, Round IV Barton Branch Participant] refused to lose grasp of this open shot.

Already retracting his right hand, it seemed like Barsait would torque himself into yet another short-range hook . . and why not? It worked five times before, after all. That elbow would be hurting now, no doubt - the elbow or Mooo's ribs, either would be aching at least enough, another good hit would serve them further pain. But that was a moot point. Mooo would find something else occurring quite shortly.

"Left.. quickly.. " This self-spoken command within the consciousness of Omi resounded, as the nerves lining his wrist bulged, and his shoulder-blade did the same. His left arm was.. straining..

..Dragging Mooo to Omi's own left in a sudden pull, exerting quite some force to make that grounded, larger man cover a foot's distance along the low-traction sands. Slightly more, perhaps; rough measurements were all that were afforded to Barsait, as his right arm swung back for the next, seemingly rapid hook. One could assume, Barait was merely giving his hook more distance to gather more force, and give Mooo a crushing blow to the body. Stronger than his prior.

That would be incorrect.

"*NOW*!" Jaw dropping in a sudden, low-throat roar with little sound at all, Omi began the transfer. Shoving Mooo right back along that horizontal line, digging his fingertips into the man's left shoulder blade with what was no doubt, a painful sharpness; using his entire left body just to slam Mooo along. Along. Too far for a right hook to be effective, in fact. Then, what was Omi planning?

A right straight. No, that was incorrect; it was an overhand, knuckle forward, with a speed surpassing what the swordsman had exhibited before. His entire right shoulder was backing the blow, gunning it forward with that gauntlet lining it as though Barsait were to smash through solid matter; the dragging motion, the push . . all to unset Mooo's balance so he would find himself directly in it's straight-line path. A monstrous blow, utilizing all of the strength in the mercenary's right arm to throw itself forward with an overwhelming thrust and momentum. It's target?

Dead-center, Mooo's face. Right about the nose-upper mouth, to be precise.

It was the type of punch that could literally take someone's head; more so realized by the mercenary's recent . . 'recovery', dealt to him by Fasumbra. However, one aspect would always prove true to any kind of strike or offense: Regardless of how much power you have, even if it could reave mountains in the most awe-inspiring of manners . . it is useless if it does not hit. Unfortunately, that was the case present here.

Trapped in his own exhilaration, it took a moment for Omi to even realize things were going wrong; first signal to snap his senses back alive being Mooo's head coming sharply close to the swordsman's chest. Barsait's right arm reaped through the air so sharply, one could actually hear the air course over it audibly; and thus in that outstretched position, it would remain. It wasn't until Mooo began to get a good grip on his chain mail, that Omi managed to snap himself out of it - and return alert to the moment. Though it amounted to nothing; his body was too far into the blow to retreat, or stave Mooo off. Bitterly, this mercenary had no means of escape presented to him, nor in his mind. He was going to be felled.

For just a moment, that dark-glad right hand began to twitch . . then Barsait, even given the circumstance, forcibly stilled it. "Damn it-" Thoughts shattered out of his brain, teeth trying to gnash together as his entire sense of equilibrium was thrown to the wind. His left arm was useless in this case; his right, even more so. His legs were already out from him; falling forward, faster and with great momentum Omi himself helped create. Then, to the sands he went; his eyelids shutting just as his face and shoulders met the grounds; a dull 'thud' meeting the collision. Sand bellowed off where his chain mail met the grounds, namely; but all over, Omi did not feel well.

His eyelids were fiercely shut - tight as could be, though truthfully, his vision was a tad blurred beneath they. Such an unpleasant pain, he was feeling.. trying to think over the matter rapidly, just to calm himself and assess his body's ever reawakening damage, Omi began a small inner-monologue: "Mmph.. my face is burning a tad.. I wonder how fast I struck the ground? Shoulders feel a tad ached, but nothing I can't work with; that blessed armor's saved my ass again. Still, this hurts something fierce. And more over, letting things like this go unchecked could ruin my chances at continuing. Nn.. I could.." Trying to open his eyes, little of his body moved. "Engulf the two of us right now.. long as I keep a good hold of him, even if he completes the bridge, I'd be rather well off while he'd be in a cocoon of flames. Sand would help incubate us and keep the heat right on him; long as I keep him on the ground with me, could end the match on a quick.. note.." Finally, his eyelids burrowed open. Fiercely.

Pupils flaming alive. "But that sure wouldn't be right. Can't say being a bastard like that'd sit well with me at all." His arms weren't quite responding as he wished them to; neither were his legs, actually. They could move, but it was a sluggish kind of movement. Omi Barsait's body was in a bit of shock - quite expectable, with the level blunt trauma he was just introduced to. A slow exhale was the first sound after the impact one would hear from Omi - but certainly, not the last.

A front-side suplex was one Hell of a painful move - especially, a front-side German suplex, the normal variant being a belly-to-back waistlock move. Perhaps, had Mooo utilized a *Release German Suplex*, which released the opponent mid-arch - what was about to occur, wouldn't. Though that was decidedly more difficult to do from the front, granted. The thing was - Mooo's head was at Omi's chest. Meaning, Omi's knees were further along his opponent's body than if they were standing, much less on even grounding. "*'Sides, this is way too damned fun to ruin!*" A characteristic, wild grin cut through Omi's chagrin, as his right knee suddenly ascended - forcibly, as though the mercenary were lifting great weight - then descended in a hurricane of force. Simple as it could be, it was a kneecap-oriented strike. Sharp and painful, with the hard enamel of the kneecap being it's blunt head - his right knee was going to spearhead into right around Mooo's gut-to-mid-chest, or somewhere in that region. The arching motion caused it to rise upward a bit more than intended, but the force would still be felt.

His left arm slid through the loose soils of the sand, right arm too far outward to be of any use - and began a bizarre kind of hook. Right along the sands, gauntlet-endorned knuckle attempting a bash into Mooo's right shoulder. It seemed, even in the awkward position the swordsman was in, he wouldn't be letting Mooo slip away to recovery without contestment.

Feeling Mooo slip away, Omi could hear those deep breaths just a short distance away . . the swordsman's attempt at forcing his opponent to retaliate was a failure, and now, it would seem as though recovery was in Mooo's grasps. To regain stamina, to hold footing over Barsait - it was an advantage unfordable. So much so, that rather than recover on the sands, the sore young man began to tear across the sands with what appeared to be futility. Left arm finally erecting itself to force his body upward, before his entire torso followed suit; the mercenary slamming onto his right knee, eyes wide open & slightly reddened by the earlier impact.

Almost mimicking Mooo, it would seem Omi was also taking in deliberate, slow breaths; right arm slung over his risen, right knee - lazily, but obviously ready to spring to life, should the man so nearby decide to take this time to assault him. Gasps faded into low breaths, as the mixture of warm sands & cool deposits of sand that were beneath the mercenary's body and used him as shielding from the sun, all faded off his clothing. A few beads of sweat flickered along his right temple, but . . all matters said & done, it would seem the mercenary was relatively fine. Just trying to force his body to recover stability & absolute control. "You've experienced a damned lot worse than that, get it together!" Once again reprimanding himself, that swordsman merely let his right kneecap make an indentation into the sand. Left hand returning to full use along with it's attached limb, at his side and at the ready as well.

Just as full use of his limbs returned, the stinging pain at his jaw began to etch back into reality; the swordsman didn't so much as glance down at it, yet he acknowledged the fact it hurt there with nothing more.. than another grin. "Considering I haven't really gone all out, this guy's pretty damned good. 'Course, I can assume the same goes for him.. damn, that really does sting something fierce, though. I'll have to take advantage of the situation, than." Pupils coming to a pure focus, watching the outline of Mooo's body rather than right dead-center, the swordsman shook out an analysis. "*I have the proficiency on relative defense, but he knows striking my body isn't wise now. So he'll go for my head and continue striking close to my jaw, or if it seems impossible to do that, resort to grappling as he just did.. alternatively, he may try attracting my attention to guarding my head just so he can pull a number on my body. To top it, I can't rely on just light stinging blows to bring him down - his endurance is too high for that. And I know if I land a good shot, it'd spell a world of pain for him - but I'll give him this. He's good at playing off my power punches. Nn.. and two-way strikes give too much of an opening path to my head.. I hold the advantage in close-range skirmish, but he's somewhat counting on that, not to mention, he's got me beat on reach. And there's no guarantee he'll stick strictly to boxing, either; the sheer number of variables are lovely. Still." Gripping his right fist, the knuckles cracked audibly amidst the dry air; the crowd roaring yet again for continued battle. Omi Barsait's expression bored a more.. strangely, calm tone. His eyelids relaxed, pupils calmly - yet once again, with outright attention to detail, gazed at Mooo's general direction for a hint at even the slightest movement. The two fighters were in a short relaxation phase. The keyword there, however, would be . . short. "Enough. It's time I make this fist of mine roar.*"

"Gheh..?" Blinking in surprise, the swordsman slowly came to grips with the fact: His opponent had spoken to him rather than immediately assault him while he was trying to recover his barrings. Both of Omi's eyelids came to a close, before glancing down at the sands below - followed by a swift shake of the swordsman's head, wild hair going to & fro as the sweat flew off his forehead and struck the soil below. This tournament had him far too used to a cut-throat mentality he often had to resist; thus, slowly, his head rose again - panting himself, before finally, a nod answered Mooo's question.

"Oh yeah. I've sure as Hell seen better days, but . . I've seen worse, too. Heh, I'll be fine; let's just get this show on the road, neither of us're all that bad off, agreed? 'Sides, day's too early to end it like this." A friendly grin was enveloped by another deep exhale, as the mercenary's breathing came to a controlled pace. Gradually, in pieces. Until finally, his teeth gnashed together - and begrudgingly, his legs erected, body coming to a stand. Stopping for a second, obviously willing himself to surpass the soreness in his limbs - the mercenary suddenly shuffled backwards at an alarmingly rapid pace, vigor flowing through himself once again; five feet from his starting point, roughly. "Give yourself what time ya' need, then we'll start this up strong again."

Still leaping just a centimeter off the ground with each small, yet lively, step - he finally stopped the constant shuffling, and began to assume yet another stance. However, this time, it was quite a different posture.. firstly: Omi was again operating southpaw. So, imagine the oddity as his lead, right hand lowered down - and came across his torso, right between the stomach and the chest, roughly - then, the fist itself rested on the opposite, left side of the body. The left, rear arm meanwhile, rose upward, and planted it's fist.. right against Omi's own left cheek. Finally, shifting his right side forward - the shoulder tightened in. And with that, the stance was complete. Great for shuffling. Great for counter-punching. Perhaps for more. This was the [Philly Shell] guard.

To top it, his feet began to rise & fall softly off the sands once more; ready, at any unpredictable time, to have Omi close right on in and began the gauntlet once more. His gaze had returned to that of a focused one; eyes locked on Mooo something fierce, neck & head erect to keep the chin as far back as possible without detracting from general comfort. Shoulders tense. Both of his fists, enclosed tightly and ready to strike with a ferocity; sore as he was, Barsait's overwhelming desire to redeem himself for being downed twice far surpassed the bodily ache . .

Repeated action. This was all Omi executed - taking light steps off the sand, small particles of the sands flicking about, as he held that guard tightly. Even as Mooo stood, nothing changed in how the mercenary stood; other than a nod in acknowledgment to his opponent's response, before continuing the light steps. Essentially, the swordsman did nothing more than bait Mooo; arms clenched tightly, shoulders tensed in a fury.

Curious. Why would he bait in an opponent with a longer reach, not to mention after the painful bout of damage he suffered only recently?

Omi merely continued his swift movements; step after step, causing loose clusters of sand to spray around his boots. His shoulders were tensed to a point, the mercenary could feel a light pressure along the bone; nothing inhibiting, it actually felt rather pleasant. Regardless, his head, left fist planted against it's respective cheek, watched on as Mooo came in with an earmuff guard of sorts; a new flurry of footwork closing the distance right on in. Finally, the baiting process started. Mooo would enter in close, move back out swiftly, and from there, present an overwhelming number of openings upon which, Mooo could take any given one of.

Teeth gnashing, one last blink of his eyelids signaled the ensuing - his body drawing in a deep breath, filling the lungs with oxygen. "Here!" As Mooo came in, the unusual occurred. You see, the [Philly Shell], going by other aliases such as the "Crab" or the "Hitman", was often created for the purpose of out-boxing; counter-punch oriented, as it was an extremely defensive & mobile guard. One could move about with a surprising range of motion, due to the foot's odd placement. The feet weren't planted, but weren't exactly 'on their toes', either; a loose kind of grounding that still held enough traction, powerful & reaching steps could be made.

One would assume, then, Omi would try to throw a long shot at the presented Mooo as he stepped in, and pelt him with blows until he was flayed alive. Yet . .

"Align my head with his right shoulder-" Doing just that, rolling his left shoulder-blade to create a great defense on an orthodox boxer, since Barsait's head was aligned with Mooo's right shoulder - therefore, extremely hard to hit with that same fist whilst facing that guard - before Omi slammed on in. "*-CRUSH THE FIST IN!*" As Mooo began to retreat, Omi advanced in a fury - closing the distance immediately without fail, charging in farther as Mooo came backwards - right hand suddenly thundering out below in sideways-jabs. They were almost like backhands, all oriented at the mid-lower gut; below Mooo's field of vision, both the stun factor and the damage would build up swiftly. Plus, it created a kind of 'offensive-shield' for Omi's gut, whilst his shoulder was prepared for further rolls to force Mooo's inward punches - or outward - off his body. That right fist would keep pelting into Mooo's gut, retracting and resending with as much force as possible - gauntlet first each - all of the mercenary's body sideways & back, left side forward, to make countering even more difficult.

In short: for this instance, Omi adopted the [Philly Shell] in an overwhelming infighting orientation. If Mooo tried a hook at the head - the swordsman was going to try and roll it off his shoulders, prior to having the left slam on in for an uncontested strike. The earmuff guard is effective, for what it's worth - but the angle the arms are held up at further created a disadvantage for Mooo, as it would prove even more difficult to get that right arm into a proper means of striking the swordsman.

Gradual strike - one after another, each strike gutted in with the intent to slowly chip Mooo on down. Granted, they weren't high caliber strikes that could crush a man into the ground - but they were powerful enough, letting them go unchecked . . well, it would be unwise. And sure enough, Omi's opponent held no intention to let the slow but sure onslaught continue; thus, that man crashed inward, flinging forward the left leg for a powerful, off-balancing kick. It'd be blocked - the basic regions the kick could land at would yield little damage upon the mercenary. But, the real problem was the distance it could create.

Barsait was intending to swarm Mooo heavily in a close-range orientation, but if he was kicked back, it'd create a gap. A gap that the larger fighter could utilize to strike Omi from a short-or-long distance, and create a new initiative. It was too much to just let go; the swordsman, if only temporarily, held the advantage. And he wouldn't let it go so easily.

Clashing his teeth together tightly in an attempt to try and stop them from crashing abound outright, the enamel scraping along; for as the kick came towards Omi's chest, the lower, right arm flung backwards; it was true, the swordsman felt his body being knocked back, rapidly. No guard could reduce the distance Barsait would fly, especially in the loose-traction sands and with the full force of a good kick. But there was a way to make sure, regardless of the distance the dark-clad soldier for hire traveled, Mooo would not create the lovely spacious gap he desired.

All Omi did, was grab the fore-side of Mooo's left leg, dig in immediately, and let the kick take it's course.

He didn't let the foot drop from his chest - instead, pressing it against him just so Mooo would have a difficult time regaining his own balance. Unfortunately, this made that arm useless, and made assaulting Mooo's lower body a current impossibility - but, that's the price one must pay to carry on in battle. Regardless, the left fist, still buckled at Omi's own left cheek, suddenly darted over the extended leg - crashing forward in a left, dominant straight.

Another trading of blows was going to ensue; the mercenary's right hand, still holding Mooo's leg as it held no intentions of letting the fighter escape, was Hell-bent on making sure of that.

Strike, strike - that left was screaming forward in a blissful roar, attempting it's full strength, given how the two fighters were positioned. The right arm continued to hold it's grip with a relentless tenacity; a favorable moment for one on the offensive such as Barsait, one might say. Yet, as heated sweat mingled between the borders of cloth, metal, and skin on the swordsman's body, all was not well. It was far too obvious that, sooner rather than later, Mooo would take care of that out-held leg. Even in the heat of the moment, Omi saw that. Yet, how the escape was being performed.. that was the very core of utmost detest; the blistering, drought-filled feeling that, again, the mercenary would find his opponent slipping from his grip, defeating his intentions. Recovering. Recalculating. Repeat. The continuation; the next series of blows, one of these two men taking more pain than the other. That constant spiraling loop, ending when one of them had taken too much . .

His pupils dilated at that slightest change in position. He only felt it slightly; arguably at first, even.. but all the same, the swordsman knew - left arm retracting - what was coming! Perhaps, the angle at which Mooo would set himself free was unknown, this Omi could admit - but there was no denying it, as Mooo's right leg pivoted around, moving in closer only to perform a swift, hip-based kick - that again, distance was being made. There was no way, at that short a range given their positions, a kick from that angle could deal sufficient damage; it was all to regain glorious grounding, by which Barsait would find himself at a loss, and quickly.

Perhaps, it was the fact he saw his relocation inevitable, not so much what made it, that set him off. But suddenly, his eyes came wide open, his expression coming alive horrendously all in one motion; right arm letting it's failing grip go pre-maturely, as he let the short kick slide him forward.. before immediately grasping that very same foot, again with the same right hand. All five fingertips had left one of Mooo's feet, only to regain it's hold once more. The first time, loftily; this time, with a frightening level of hold. Since the foot was positioned for a short kick, and Barsait was distanced, it created a good position to grab the anklet - which Omi did just that, securing it soundly. Fingertips digging in at all but an instant. It seemed like he was going to try and repeat what he did moments ago, Mooo & Omi's respective changes in posture and distance aside; try to regain his footing, try to get back in close . . Foolish, as Mooo would surely see this act coming and prepare for it.

A sheet of rain poured down fiercely.

"There will be no ESCAPE FROM THIS FIST!" The mercenary's body had exploded to life; the words just spoken booming outward in a powerful roar of sudden vigor. His right arm was, instead of just holding onto Mooo's leg, moving about wildly, the veins on Barsait's wrist bulging; the idea: To shake Mooo's leg by force and drag him just slightly with it in that same spot. Ruining his basic balance, catching him in the awkwardness from that last pivot, causing precision to be . . off. Pivoting in place from the right leg, tightening his right shoulder whilst it's attached arm held on defiantly - the Detroit Hitman was going to strike again. However.. oddly enough, Omi only stepped in perhaps an inch; his reach wasn't bad, but couldn't quite compete with Mooo's. Bizarre, all of it.

At least, until the finishing touch was shown. All of that left hand's fingertips tucked themselves against the bottom knuckle of each finger; forming a Long Fist. Normally, a Long Fist deploys strikes aimed for soft tissue, offering decreased offensive capabilities - but, surprisingly longer reach. However, left shoulder blade tensed with a fury, it seemed Omi was going to variate this a tad; by inching in just slightly before returning to his core position with each sharp, sharp jab, the blows would gain slightly more force. To top it, just as the fist made contact, Barsait would twist it just slightly - the gauntlet leather cutting what it struck.

This was what Omi called the 'Guillotine' - once securing an opponent even momentarily, he would begin to thunder in rapid, rapid strikes that intended to cut or inflict horrible, stinging strikes, rather than crash in great blunt trauma. Furthermore, in what appeared to be an almost [Berserkergang] (term for a trance of fury early Vikings supposedly could achieve via psychological processes, giving them what could be described as super-human strength & vigor) fashion, the mercenary was shrugging off his sore left limb all together; flicking it in on a whim, taking the 'Hitman'(s) long-range capabilities into another level. They weren't punches that could strike a man to the ground in one blow, but they were fast, quickly proved painful, and overwhelming.

It seemed, Omi switched from prioritizing in or out-boxing, to trying a hand at Swarming; creating overwhelming force that can cause the opponent to outright relent by targeting any open spot visible. Frankly, Barsait wasn't even aiming the strikes save they were screaming in towards Mooo's upper body; maybe the head would be the target here, maybe a guarding arm would be the target there - it was a tremendous flurry, though the next strike was screaming at Mooo's face; left cheek.

Despite how it may've appeared, Barsait wasn't in the least bit angry at Mooo or at odds with the fighter; He was just outright absorbed in what he was doing. Never did his wild grin fade, a sign confirming this fact: Omi Barsait was now immersed in the bout like never before. The match was, for better or worse on both fighter's parts, entering an entirely new phase; the question is: Would it be a particularly long one, the last, or only a step towards a conclusion neither fighter could predict, all in [Barton Branch Round IV]?

One lashing hit after another; even in his wild demeanor, the raging mercenary's gears were turning ever constantly. Even when engulfed in the rush & the ensuing adrenaline this bout gave, he knew careful, yet very swift & precise thinking was needed. His lovely, whip-esque flicks of the fist were making the desired results, that was true. But how best to capitalize on his efforts thus far?

Unfortunately, such thoughts would take a temporary stand-still, as Mooo closed in again; seemingly trying to attempt the same action as before. Just due to the angle, Barsait's right hand released; retracting just as the newest event occurred. His head bowed back slowly, the swordsman's entire body reeling back from the raw impact. This time, no light kick would signal the next exchange of blows. Mooo had drawn in for a full-force kick, even at the cost of falling flat backwards in the process. No doubt, as the foot met Omi dead-on in the middle-upper chest, distance would be created. There was absolutely nothing to be done about that, let alone to appease the force of that kick. Yet . .

Just as Barsait began his sudden parting from the grounds by which he'd stood, his left hand quickly dolled out a small jab. Very swift, little force - it merely riddled off the thrown foot which had crashed into him, before all of the sands about his boots were tossed aside. It took some extreme effort to not topple over; his knees bent instinctively, as the mercenary attempted all due measures to keep his balance. Eventually, as the out kicked sand faded, mud glowing across edges of his footgear - Omi Barsait stood fast, eyes narrowing in annoyance at the interruption of his punches' flow. Mooo had succeeded. It was hard to measure the exact distance, as the ever-humid rain pelted down, but it was clear Barsait had gone at least a couple of feet backwards in the process of maintaining his composure. Too much distance to attack. Too much to close in safely. To top it, his chest stung something fierce . . though, nowhere near as much as it should have. In comparison, it might feel like someone had given him a good punch at the chest's apex. Certainly a little painful, but it wasn't what a crashing kick should have delivered. Also, it was true, Mooo laid on the ground; but for how long? Barsait was too precocious to close in on one whom could turn the charge into an easy counter, he'd gained too much ground in this match to just foolishly throw it away.

So, tightly reassuming his variation of a southpaw Hitman once more, Omi's right shoulder clenched in yet again. Shoulder-blade gunned forward, as though his entire body was ready to charge onward. Yet, despite being torn away from the offense . . he was still grinning quite nonchalantly - as though somehow, Barsait held the edge now. Sure enough, his thoughts reflected this: "Good, the stage is set! Now, give me a shot . . all I need's one.." His thoughts were focused, full of ambition - that left fist audibly tightening beneath the gauntlet leather, as his left leg sorely returned to the fray; both of Barsait's limbs resuming the kind of soft, light steps off the ground that permitted both motion and grounding.

The mercenary had something in his eye that made him extremely confident in clinching the match; that alone, would be unsettling. Truthfully, it could be quite the disastrous set of events for Mooo, if it was in fact that core a matter. Yet, perhaps the saying "The best laid schemes o' mice and men, gang aft agley." would prove true here, as well?

"Tch.." Omi audibly voiced a little discomfort at the rain, as it continued splashing on his frame in bellowing gaskets. He watched Moo arc his way on up into a standing position, quickly reassuming a fighter's stance. No surprise there for Barsait; entirely foreseeable, given how the bout had gone thus far, for Mooo to quickly regain his composure. "Tough sonuvabitch, I can't even begin to deny that!" Laughing good spiritedly in an inward manner, he merely watched from that same Hitman stance, as his opponent came into a low-oriented guard, orthodox and tighter closed for what the mercenary could only assume to be a breaching oriented approach. All that was really 'out of the ordinary', was how Mooo began to move his head about; a screening motion of some type?

"Hn. Gunning for his head'll be too difficult to pull off while still maintaining a desirable defense." As Mooo dashed inward, coming into the relative distance of Omi - suddenly, the eager grin on the swordsman's face shone, this time, teeth exposed and all. "*Too bad I've absolutely no interest in hitting there!*" Suddenly, Omi began to perform orthodox, right jabs; then left.. but all of them returned to the body immediately after extending. Even for the Hitman, it was a closed approach. His feet, moving limberly, were gunning back a tad, then crashing in for every further hit; yet.. stranger would things be, just by gazing at his hands. His left hand, at Omi's face, was in the long fist orientation. Yet, the right.. why, it was outright compact, ready to crash into someone's body in a heartbeat.

His right shoulder was tightened, the right-side oriented outward as to prevent Mooo's head from quite reaching it's destined area of his chest. Yet, even with this, none of Omi's punches could pierce that front guard that kept the mouth, nose, and general skull so well protected.

However, that guard was.. nothing, for where Omi desired to strike.

Omi > Arcing his body to the left just a bit, one would quickly realize what was occurring: Simultaneously, Mooo's left upper would be digging into Omi's chin. Painful, as the swordsman's teeth grit together with the blow - body coming back just an inch. Yet, despite the impact - his body was in motion. Torquing into a.. left hook? > > He was repeating himself. Striking at the same spot on Mooo he'd hit prior; using Mooo's new position so more distance & force could be put into the strike, as well as using Mooo's occupation with hitting the swordsman's chin to mask the presence of the blow. More than just trying to give an exchange with Mooo, it seemed Omi was pressuring his opponent. Swarming - targeting a spot, wounding it, then relentlessly applying more & more pressure.

Mooo > Because Mooo had moved very slightly to throw the upper, Omi's blow didn't land dead-on in the same spot--but it was close enough. Mooo connected solidly with the upper, pulling his left back to get it ready for another punch, however any thoughts of immediately following up were cut short as Omi hit practically the same spot he'd just hit before, causing Mooo to shuffle a little farther to his left, clenching his right arm against his body.

Omi > Perhaps not to the exact location he desired - but the blow thrown by Barsait did hit it's relative target; that was all that could be asked for.

Mid-right torso. That's where the right of Omi began slamming into, crossing along his own torso, easily reaching it's destination thanks to where Omi's right fist was held at - Barsait's own gut.

Omi > What was he doing, than? Simple. Smashing Mooo's shoulders to weaken his opponent's incoming assault. The shoulder reinforces the arm something tremendous, even from a blow twisting in at the hip - to receive a sudden, sharp trauma there mid-blow.. well, maybe it wouldn't prevent Omi from taking damage at all, but it would give him enough to not be blown backwards. Furthermore, that pincer strike had enough force to leave a lingering ache; if Mooo was to suffer even the most minor of shoulder wounds from this, the bout would find itself stacked in Omi's favor. And that was all he needed.

Mooo > Omi's pincer blow would only very slightly miss its mark with Mooo's forward motion--Omi's left would hit Mooo squarely on the right shoulder, and Omi's right would, instead of hitting Mooo's left shoulder joint , land relatively harmlessly against the muscle and bone of Mooo's left shoulder blade. While Mooo's left would get off scot-free from this, his right would definitely be affected badly--but if his own left straight plowed into Omi as a full-weight counter, he might even be able to come out on top in this exchange.

Mooo > Well, Omi was correct--there was no escape from that fist, as Mooo only had time to hurriedly throw his forearms up over his face, Omi's gauntlet crashing into his guard--and leaving a stinging abrasion where it struck, instead of that dull ache from a solid impact. Mooo didn't see what caused such damage, but he sure as hell didn't want it to continue, and open up some nasty cuts on his arms that would screw with his blocking and deflecting. > > Keeping his guard up, Mooo weathered a second whiplike strike along his arms as he hopped forward again..

Mooo's guard was strong.. but judging from prior events, one side was a little worse for wear than the other. Barsait would pressure Mooo further, calling him on this factor, as his left hand began tearing in at the risen guard designed to defend the head and spearhead one inward; his gauntlet leather & handplate both flicking along Mooo's exposed right arm, intending for both mild amounts of concussive force, and much more importantly.. further gashes. Further abrasions.

Omi was striking in with an energetic joy, the wild demeanor never fading even as sweat flowed from his forehead and mingled with the rains carrying it to the sand below. So long as he kept his head in check, and used his armor begrudgingly - not relying on it too heavily, lest even it's properties would fail at saving him - Barsait was fairly confident, the newest exchange was already far in his favor.

A brief sight of crimson showed acceptable results; the core of Omi's approach was successful. Three cuts of varying sizes and locations - two located on the right arm, the third on the left. Mooo managed to break through and enter the swordsman's proximity, an accomplishment that would surely prove unpleasant for the advancing dark-clad mercenary, yet.. the process by which Mooo managed his entry, was in no way a mutual exchange. The advantage in that moment, was entirely Omi's - and in a diligent matter reinforced by both the adrenaline rush and the ever growing degree of damage both fighters were suffering - nothing in the world would persuade him from pursuing it.

"Rauh.." An extremely loud exhalation made itself present, as the swordsman suddenly tried with all his might to force the situation into his own control, to his own bidding. Mooo wasn't quite as close as he could have been in the initial movements, all in thanks due to the slicing blows dealt just prior, yet he still had his ways of barreling into the extremely closed-fighting space Omi had attempted to bar off-limits. Truthfully, the spacing of the mercenary's arms were too.. varied, too high at that, for any effective counter. Or while we're at it, any decent strike in-range at all; he was at a point where Mooo was fully capable of an outright massacre on his body. Even that Languardian metal would amount to little, if exposed to ever constant pressure & force..

So, in a sudden desire for victory, disregarding all personal safety and throwing away the orderly conduct he had planned just moments ago - Omi let Mooo's final lunge become his eternal ace. Omi stood lower than Mooo, this was made all too evident; furthermore, in pure reach, there was a distinct disadvantage on Omi's part. Yet, given the situation, he did have a nice offensive opportunity - partially inspired by.. none other than Mooo himself.

"*Now - GUN IN AND END IT!*" The mercenary thought in the most berserk of matters, as his own body suddenly coursed into the in-lunging Mooo. His own head touched base against Mooo's chest, where the left arm had been lowered to touch in the hook; this created further force on the hook's part, causing an extremely noticeable look of pain and a rapid bit of breath to be forced from Omi's throat. The hook came in just about mid-stomach, slightly to the right thanks to the southpaw-oriented stance Barsait had been in; not to mention, the whiplash of a circling motion his own head took to press in past one of his own fists. It seemed, an in-fight of extreme close quarters was.. not only inevitable, but now decidedly in Mooo's favor. One could only wonder: Had Omi lost his head entirely?

Nearly, but not quite. His open posture made it's presence clear, as Mooo would find leather, metal, and chainmail digging into his back with an alarming sharpness. Omi's arms were sliding along his shoulders, then practically digging their respective hands' fingertips into the course of his opponent's shoulders. Both of the mercenary's hands were gripping so tightly, his wrists & fingertips actually hurt - it was an extreme level of pressure being applied, that threatened to actually crush the tips of his bones into Mooo's muscle-blades before anything relevant came of it. Yet, to get the larger fighter airborne due to the obvious mass difference involved, it was necessary. For that was exactly what Omi was doing.

Craning backwards, Omi was going to use the wet sands beneath both fighter's feet as the initiative - his boots had those lovely treads that kept him just grounded enough, the lift could initiate. Likely, another hook or so could be landed at this point, but in the sudden rush Barsait found himself in - he wouldn't care if his body was wrecked entirely. Both of his legs shifted inward, taking advantage of the infighting stance Mooo assumed to keep him from moving backwards or try and ring his attacker's legs out from below; then.. it came. A growl turning into a strong roar escaped Omi's throat, as his entire body craned back - forcing Mooo over with the utmost speed and strength possible, shoulders gripped with a painful tightness and legs secured forcibly. Even if Mooo wailed away with what little span his arms could deliver - there was no stopping it now..

Omi's feet would begin dipping away at the sand - losing their traction, along with Mooo's. They were both going to fall in an arc; Omi flat on his back, Mooo directly forward. Except, here was where Mooo's superior size would be a key factor in all of it: Height. Exact numbers aside, Mooo stood at least slightly over Barsait, meaning especially with Omi's own head tucked at his opponent's chest, Mooo would find his skull crashing into the ground considerably faster than Omi would smash into the sands below.

Slow, gradual rise leading to a swift, smashing descent to the ground - this was a front face-lock that turned into a sharp, painful descent. A variant of Mooo's own move, spun into the moment; wise or no, it was sure to bring devastation to both fighters.

"Ignore.. the pain and lift him over, nothing's stoppin' this." Forcing himself to disregard the pain that shot through his body from that strong lift. At first, as he raised Mooo with an agonizing level of strain on his shoulders, it seemed like the throw was going well. At least, until Omi felt Mooo stop struggling.. and the arch became awkward. Quickly, Mooo, having gone limp practically in an effort to force dead weight down on his assailant and force the suplex into a useless state, all of Omi's senses rung in as things feeling 'wrong'. The momentum he had to begin with was empty, and without that, getting the right force in on Mooo to complete the suplex with full strength was.. impossible.

"*Damn it- DAMN IT, DAMN IT!*" Omi rapidly yelled in a thought-out scorn, as his entire body suddenly began crashing back to keep itself in basic momentum. In short: the mercenary was keeping Mooo somewhat in the air, by reversing the motion entirely. It was the only way he could truly react without just releasing Mooo - and that, was unacceptable to a point of desperation for Barsait. Yet.. the next brief, brief couple of moments, would reveal just how much of a mistake that was.

It hit him like an inferno. All down his spine, an extreme pressure mounted along the swordsman's entire back; both of his shoulders metaphorically screaming. His eyes widened in that bizarre, brief moment or so which, perhaps thanks entirely to adrenaline, felt like an eternity of suffering. What had happened? Simple. Mooo weighed more than Omi did; thus, Omi was lifting more than his own bodyweight purely on his upper-body. Mooo, furthermore, had gone dead weight - meaning no arching motion, and no momentum, aided the swordsman at all. The entirety of the weight he held's pressure dug into his body - and if it wasn't dispersed, and immediately.. the end result would likely be fatal. Especially given that the swordsman had tried to arch backwards.

It was a pain not unlike one Omi had suffered near the beginning of this tournament, when an ex-participant had tried to snap his spine in two. Yet, having experienced a similar pain doesn't make it hurt at all less; in his determined, and fairly bullheaded, refusal to let Mooo free - Omi had put himself in a horrible bind. Any moment now, his back could give out - one of his arms could have gone entirely useless - his feet could give out, as they were beginning to slide thanks to the pressure of the weight above him and the wet soil below - and if any of these occurred, why, Barsait would also get to experience his opponent crashing on top of him. Likely, this would allow a secure pin or hold of the mercenary while in a slightly weakened state.. and it could potentially lose him the match, or more.

Just a tiny cluster of these facts made themselves realized in the head of that dark-clad man in limbo; yet, along with that rapid burst of information, only such a scarce amount available in such a short amount of time.. rage entwined with it all. The very notion that after all of the people Omi had bested, unto nearly dying on several occasions - of all the people he watched leave these grounds by injury or death or dishonor, one after another.. to think that he could actually shame it all, just because of a mistake he made?

It was enough to send him into the most fuming of rages.

Screaming with little voice accompanied just due to his airflow nearly being cut off, Omi suddenly wenched forward, much to the relief of some of the crowd - and the displeasure of others that were hoping for a truly gruesome injury. His entire body did, bizarre enough, a complete reversal of what it had started; in short, at his muscle's end, the swordsman was whirling Mooo right back where he started, in a forward arch motion. Were it not for Omi's knees, which had began to buckle and as a result squared his feet.. likely, this would have resulted in an outright crash of both fighters. But instead, that ramming force came back downward - Mooo's spread legs a mute point. For, either way, Mooo was going to land securely back where the two had started this failed suplex.. with just a slightly different predicament in play.

As his body flung Mooo back into place, so too was it slamming inward - his hands holding so tightly into Mooo's shoulders, one would think they would begin to bleed. What was he doing?

A furious, front-&-center head-butt dead center, into Mooo's own forehead.

All of Omi's back, while not injured to his fortune, felt.. painful, to say the least. Perhaps it was the budding pain that his body momentarily suppressed, that threw the mercenary into that fury rather than his scattered, instantaneous thoughts - but that hardly mattered. The forward lunge of sorts saw Omi's skull bashing ahead with a frightening level of impact in store. To say the least: neither contestant would be feeling too well after this.

A success of Barsait's own. Their skulls collided, the impact resounding with a loud, dull 'thud'. It would appear as though, Mooo was rather dazed; disoriented, even. Yet, as the mercenary arched back again, his own head forehead looking to be reddened and possibly housing a small cut along his pre-dominant right bang above the same side's eye, a repeat assault was impossible. For his target was pressing his right hand against Omi's face - cutting the next headbutt short, much to the berserk contestant's chagrin.

Immediately, both of the hands holding Mooo's shoulders released, then in a kind of shuffling motion sent backwards - the mercenary used the obvious daze both Mooo, and he, were suffering to create a little distance. His vision had a blur to it, Barsait couldn't deny that; and as he tried to perceive the extent of his wounds, a sharp pain ricked down his back. It was sore, to be sure - and in shuffling backwards, the swordsman had suffered a little pain from coursing back too much.

Still, he continued creating distance of around four feet - right hand now outstretched, as though warning Mooo to keep his distance amidst the bizarre disorientation Omi was drowning in. Then, slowly, his vision resharpened - and the sound of the spectators all around him swam into a chorus once more, audio returning when it had been snuffed out by adrenaline moments prior. Finally coming to a full stand, Omi let out an extremely deep breath - eyes sharply watching Mooo the entirety of his self-examination. Then he panted, as though trying to obtain some regularity in his breathing methods.

"Nn.." Omi Barsait looked rather uncomfortable; eyes narrowed a tad, his forehead throbbing something fierce from his own attack. But after just a few, short moments - he came to the relative conclusion: Nothing was too injured, that was noticeable. His back was Godly sore, and both of his shoulders still burned as though the weight's impression would never leave them. Yet, the shoulders were not as bad as his back - and therefore, Omi counted himself blessed. He would much prefer a pained back over horridly weakened arms..

Regardless, he was now in a decidedly more calm state. Both of his eyes regained their detailed gaze, not like that of one lost endlessly in rage moments ago. They peered at Mooo, to survey the damage caused - and quickly, an almost annoyed cringe came about Omi's face. Both at the cuts lining Mooo's right & left arms, at the blood just barely visible amidst the mouth through the down pouring rain, and the general affairs of his opponent.. there was little reason for him to suspect that Mooo would just bombard Omi while they were both in less-than-perfect condition, so he didn't concern himself with an immediate attack.

His inner-monologue reflected this: "Damn it. I really did lose control there, didn't I? Everything that just happened feels like a mixture of a detailed dream and a blur.. uhg, that, and one Hell of a bad night ahead, I'll be feeling these bruises for ages." Giving off a humored grin, characteristic to how Omi appeared earlier in the match, he began to speak lowly over the rain: "I've gotta hand it to you! You're pretty damned strong, ya' know; I haven't had a good scrap like this for a long time. But.." He trailed off for a moment as another wave of rain gashed across his body, bringing an unpleasant sensation about at the sore points of his back. Shaking his head to get the wet hair out of his eyes, he then carried on: "I know for a fact, you & I both got our share of tricks that'd fit in the supernatural category with ease. Glad we've strayed from that and kept this a strict match of melee, haven't had this much fun in a good long while. Reason why I say, is.. eventually, either one or both of us're gonna be in the dirt out cold before this is over, we can't deny 'at's rather probable. So if we don't get another chance to speak, it's been a real good bout."

Slowly shifting into the Detroit Hitman, rotating his shoulder-blades to try and pierce the light, stinging sensation about the bone - Omi was already bruising for the next phase of this match; his hands and legs reassuming their positions, one hand at the face, one near the gut. Albeit, one alarming factor would have to be noted here.

Omi was, for the first time in the entire match, in an . . Orthodox position?

Anonymooo > OOC, I > > OOC, I > > > I'm going to be at Fanime for the weekend, so I'll post as soon as I get back--which is May 28th.

You lucky bastard.

OOC and a little late, I > Sorry for the delay, I was mostly dead on the 28th. xp > > However, my crew and I did try (and fail) to assassinate Lanzer and company with Nerf guns at the Gaia Panel. xd