[Finals - Main Bracket] Deitric vs. Omi

Description:The finals are now taking place in the formal tenkaichi arena, a stone platform raised three feet off the ground. A stadium of a crowd surrounds the entire field except for in the north, where the officials of the tournament sit to watch the fights play out in their oriental venue.

Field Measurements:

Stone Platform - 40 x 40 yards Surrounding Grass - 20 yards between the platform and the audience

Ten Count Boundary: As soon as both feet touch the grass, the ring out count begins. Going higher than forty yards into the air starts the ten count.

Neither giving a pre-match speech, nor being subdued by the throngs of fans all over the region waiting for the conclusion to this tournament - the other finalist Omi Barsait was truly nowhere to be found. A few calls had been made to his bedroom at the hotel, though not a one had been returned. The gym, what he'd been almost fanatically utilizing ever since his body allowed for it, was also vacant of the swordsman's presence for days..

An odd time for a trip.

"Son of a bitch.." The above-mentioned fighter muttered in a monotone voice under his breath, crashing away from the forest-like outskirts and towards the stadium. It was an area just outside the main entry halls, away from the various guards' hands; in other words: he was awkwardly having to slide past one spectator after another, often having to reply to a fan or an obtrusive critic with the same phrase - more or less: "Eh, sorry, really have to be going! Yes, I appreciate that; thank you. No.."

Finally managing to secure a route inward, the swordsman could hear the even greater roar of the many spectators within the crowd region ahead. Perhaps an impromptu entrance, but there on the path to his ring, was Omi Barsait.

His trademark chain mesh was completely gone; his gauntlets, his sword and its sheath.. all that remained was his regular clothes, seemingly very frayed - or at least, the cotton shirt was, shortened sleeves torn asunder. Although a mixture of sweat, the sun, and camera flashes burned into his retinas, Barsait's interest in walking forward and "ending" this tournament on his own terms was so great, none of it even phased him. Perhaps it didn't even register.

Ironically, Omi too had thought of a little musical entrance. And on cue, as his body made its heavy steps towards the raised platform - a series of trumpets, french horns, base drums - all began to roar alive. It was an instrumental, no lyrics; a song reminiscent to a final's day in a boxing tourney as much as this, soaring through the air with a "champion" image being invoked, ideally.

Shoulders unusually squared, the dark-clad fighter managed to place his right boot against an edge of the platform, before leaping up.. perhaps three to four feet, slamming down on the platform just a foot ahead to an astounding roar of the crowd. Both fists clenched..

Something was indeed different about Omi this day, apart from his lack of weaponry or gear. The truth was: every single day prior, he'd been relentlessly training and working his body to the breaking point in preparation for this very match, giving himself ridiculously little time to recover before bashing onto the next frenzied act of working his limbs, muscles, and the like. Truth be told, even today - a day he should have sat and recovered, or rested up for the tournament final - he'd spent all but the last hour working himself into a frenzy, running until his body could hardly stand it.

Yet the results, even if it'd probably leave his entire body feeling insanely sore for many days afterwards, were evident. His body mass seemed more lean than usual; his shoulders bulging a tad more, Omi's rate of breath seeming more controlled. Aware, especially mounted with today's damage, he'd probably be resting for quite a while - the swordsman didn't really care, only wanting to be at his peak for today. All of this combined with the fact he wasn't wearing that weighty chain mesh, meant he was also going to be far nimbler than usual; that'd already made itself evident in his dashes as of late..

The crowd began to hush as Omi approached Deitric, a very grim expression on his face greeting the opponent versus his typical calm, sometimes arrogant grin. Coming but a foot away from the enemy fighter, his right hand came forward - an obvious gesture for a hand shake before the fight began.

"I met your terms." He spoke in a low, solemn voice: "Look forward to fighting you. Note however, and it goes without saying for you too I'm sure.. this match isn't stopping until I either win or can't move anymore. Good luck, and I hope the best for us both." Both of his amber brown eyes were baring at Deitric, holding a very sharp, focused view. He'd shake his opponent's hand, they'd gain distance..

.. And then the fight would begin, no more interruptions. Every second in between now and then was another wasted, to Omi.

Nodding both to confirm his opponent's words and to acknowledge Deitric had also met his end of the bargain, Barsait let go of the earnest handshake once it was finished. First, Deitric took his distance; then Omi did, shifting the right side of his body forward and shuffling backwards rather than just stepping in order to get more distance quickly. A few feet at most, but enough in combination with the opponent's retreat - the two had a good starting distance.

Omi quickly assumed a 'stance' - finishing shifting his body forward on the right side entirely. However, the fighter decided to do something a little odd: to be specific, outstretching his right arm to its fullest span, pointing right at Deitric fist-first. And there, at that tense point, it remained; the left fist held horizontally at his gut. The right arm held a reach of roughly 64''.

The right fist was loose, while the left was clenched tight. It was a strange posture to take, truly.. his right leg was bent slightly, while the left was completely rigid and straightened out behind him. All the muscles in his body, so limber seconds ago, were now forcibly tense.

However, over the skin of his knuckles - Omi Barsait's eyes were peering over the slowly-circling Deitric like a predator's, scanning for even the slightest sudden movement without blinking. Neither leg moved, and neither arm moved. For all intensive purposes save his breathing, the dark-clad finalist was motionless; like a live statue, laying in wait for something known only to he.

Pupils dilating at the sight of Deitric's strike - Omi did indeed make a movement all right.. interesting enough, his right fist wasn't moved. Rather, his entire body torqued itself, twisting to his left; a certain limb raising in the process with a sharp, sickle-like motion.

Although their arms were barely in one another's reach, Omi began twisting into one of Muay Thai's standard foot-thrust techniques, a "twisting side-ways slapping foot-thrust." His entire left leg, purposely left rigid and held back, was going to arc through the air diagonally from bottom-left to upper-right [again from Omi's perspective] at an accelerated speed, letting Deitric's strike - low power as it may've been - allow Omi's right side to twist back even more, letting the left leg spin around with even better torque. And his leg's reach was considerably longer than his arms'..

The positioning of his left and right arms had been a trap. That simple. They weren't going to do anything to begin with.

Deitric had lashed out a quick shot with his right hand at Omi's outstretched right hand, meaning Deitric's own right side was - if only slightly - less guarded than it would be normally. The thick boot-covered foot was screaming towards its target [his shoe size being roughly size 15 1/2 in U.S. standard], coming towards the upper-right side of Deitric; where it'd actually swipe at was a tough call, since:

-Deitric could retract his arm somewhat. -The foot could hit tip-first or along the side of the boot.

It was unlikely a quick ducking would work, given the boot was rising from a lowered position; in all likelihood, ducking without timing it properly might place Deitric's head where his shoulder'd be, as an example.

All of the variables were left in his opponent's hands; for already, Omi was dropping his lightly-struck right fist; fingertips outstretching into an open palm.

A nice resounding impact.. but not a momentous hit, either, was the result of the kick. "Fair enough." was Omi's only thought of it, immediately trying to formulate his next move. Quickly, an opportunity presented itself for him: rather, at being injured..

Truly, fully human as he were, Omi wasn't one of the largest fighters in the tourney by any means. In fact, there'd scarcely been a fight yet where he wasn't fighting someone taller or with more weight - or both than himself. Standing in at 5'10'' and weighing 172 lbs. at the start of the tournament [likely a different weight now, though approximately still 172] - the difference between him and the enemy would sometimes be a slight one, but quite often, they would literally tower over him. Perhaps the only good result of this was.. he was used to fighting an enemy larger than himself, and diffusing blows that'd otherwise overwhelm another fighter in his place.

It turns out it was a smart move letting that right hand go free and loose in an open palm. A strong left would indeed spell trouble for Barsait.. except his right hand was drawn back a bit now, since the left-leg oriented kick from before lurched his left-side forward. Meaning that open palm was ready to move. Now instinctively, one might try and cover their face - but that'd be foolish. A good puncher could still greatly wound you even through your hand, and there's no guarantee the hand would even get there in time to prevent the strike.

Instead, Omi's right hand shot up in a numble manner - and did a [not at all full power, but still effectively forceful] light palm-thrust into the side of the opponent's fierce left straight. Had such a thrust hit the fist dead on, the power of Deitric's blow would've blown Omi's hand away, but from the side.. there's no resistance. The fist can't help but bend towards the thrower's chest and change direction; ideally, to Omi's left and away from his face, or at least along the side of his cheek versus straight into his head.

All of this was reinforced by Deitric's foot grounding itself on Omi's right. His mid-foot screamed something fierce; if it wasn't for his thick leather boots.. well, things'd be unpleasant. But Barsait had to [quickly] check the situation as thus:

-His left hand was unable to reach Deitric, given how close Omi's left and Deitric's right sides were to one another. -Both of Omi's legs were tied up, and Deitric had one leg being used as grounding; to raise the other would reverse the tide of imbalance, so to speak. -Omi's right hand was pressing into Deitric's left arm; Deitric's right arm was holding Omi's left leg. -In short: all of their limbs were quasi-tied up. However..

If the fist Deitric threw didn't hit dead on..

Lurching his upper body to his right as much as possible amidst all this miniature chaos, Barsait was slamming himself forward - using Deitric's grounding of his right foot as a means of balancing the thrust.

Nothing was guarding Deitric's skull. So what better way to try and hit it, then by using the bizarre position the two were in to slam in fiercely with another skull? A mean headbutt slicing upwards and forward if the situation permitted.

Barsait was no stranger to improvising; rarely did an attack ever go flawlessly from beginning to end, after all. Sometimes, during the mid-stream of combat, it's easy for a fighter to let the various exchange of blows blend seamlessly, vision blurring in the state of adrenaline and the desire of wanting to hit the enemy; but for Omi, this was out of the question. One had to, even when faced with something that was so close to striking his person, constantly force them self to be alert and think through every moment of a fight. Dropping one's concentration's as good as dropping your guard entirely, after all.

Deitric had done the right thing. An elbow smash was, truthfully, more fearsome a blow than a good fist - thanks to the condensed bone of the elbow tip. And it seemed that left elbow was coming in like a monster at Omi's throat, as Deitric originally aimed it - if that hit full-force.. well, that'd be bad. Not much else needed to be said there.

Glancing only momentarily at the elbow, Barsait instinctively made a move to counter it. To be more accurate.. the only move he could do to counter it, though it was an extremely impromptu counter in itself.

Recall how a fighter's head rises when performing an uppercut. Now picture this process in reverse. In other words: Omi did a steep shrugging motion, slamming his own skull - and in the process, tip of his chin - down onto the offending elbow just as it came into proximity with all of the force he could. His jaw dug into the upper row of teeth, but wasn't worse for ware; while it was unclear how the elbow would continue with such a motion, it was clear - it was struck hard from the top, making it so the elbow tip was knocked down dramatically and wouldn't hit its original target, let alone with the original force it held.

Dismissing how it may act from there - Omi glanced up, eyes honing in on Deitric's face for only a moment - before whipping his own skull upward, reversing his previous motion to continue his original headbutt. All he had to do, so he thought, was press his upper-body into the opponent's offending elbow, thus allowing his skull the distance it needed to cram into Deitric's.

It was tough telling, where it'd land on Deitric; given it was in an arc-like motion versus a straight-up bash, it was unlikely it'd hit Deitric's own chin - but only time can tell what the results of any move would be.

Well, things semi-worked out, at any rate. The elbow didn't hit the intended target, but rather the clavicle; better than getting slammed dead on in the throat, for all intensive purposes. Unfortunately, the strike was still both painful, and cut his head-butt motion short; in other words, Barsait's chin bash gave mixed results in the end, and did not yield the opportunity for attack he desired.

If Omi didn't act fast, this'd be a recipe for disaster.. not just Omi, but Deitric's balance as well was constantly in danger, and Deitric had a number of means to land a successful counter attack. The elbow pressing into Omi's throat had no power to it - it made breathing for a second or two difficult, but wouldn't cause any damage so long as a good thrust couldn't be put behind it. Barsait merely attempted to slide his neck along the elbow tip in an effort to diffuse how well placed it was..

Still - Omi was heavily tempted to back up and gain some distance. Except, one thing kept him from wanting to do that.. his left arm.

Thanks to their close proximity, his left arm's been dangling about; unable to throw a proper strike in ages. However, a punch or an elbow isn't one's upper limb is capable of.. Barsait's eyes bulged at the strike of Deitric's left knee. It hit in spades; a sharp pain was apparent in Omi's mid-abdomen, and a swift exhale of air escaping his lips confirmed the strike's potency. However.. the dark-clad fighter still didn't retreat, or even struggle to do so. Why?

All at once, Deitric'd find out - feeling something grasp him from behind. Omi had unintentionally drawn attention away from his left arm, and more importantly, the bicep - which was hooking the larger fighter's right shoulder in and bringing it right towards Omi as fiercely as possible. The swordsman was forcing Deitric even closer than he already was, using the man's right shoulder blade as a grip.

If this wasn't enough, Omi - already feeling pain swell in his right foot, the motion of a heel drop was easily seen, and that foot did indeed slide away to Barsait's right. The heel drop was sudden enough, it caught the left edge of the boot - but no foot.

This meant, quite simply, Deitric had a loose footing [at best] on Omi, and his entire right side being quite suddenly lurched forward. The possibility of the two losing their balance entirely [coupled with Omi suddenly slamming his entire front-side forward and putting his weight against the enemy fighter even with that left elbow pressing against the throat] meant someone was very likely to fall.

And Omi was going to make sure whichever of the two did first - he was either coming with, or bringing Deitric along for the ride via that rogue left arm. His teeth suddenly flashed into a chaotic grin - eyes still peering right up at Deitric's.

If they lost their balance and Deitric were to fall.. who's to say that elbow would stay in the proper positioning? For that matter, who's to say Omi wouldn't take advantage of the momentum of the fall to crash his skull into Deitric's after all, be it upon Deitric's forehead once the red-skinned fighter was on the ground, or upward into Deitric's descending head were Omi the one felled?

Omi's face faded into a comical grimace. Being catapulted by a larger opponent into the ground.. "*Oh, this is new.. shit.*" Shaking his own sarcasm aside, there was remarkable little the swordsman could do. Except for a very simple - yet very dangerous for both fighters, action.

The aforementioned left arm Omi'd gotten onto Deitric's right shoulder slid along the larger fighter's shoulder span in a snake-like manner as the swordsman's own lower body was lifted upward - and right before the dark-clad fighter began his missile-like descent towards the ground.. the swordsman changed the arm's grasp just slightly. It took little effort to secure his prize, given how close it now was thanks in no small part to the opponent's repositioning of the smaller fighter.

By stretching it forward and bending it to hook around Deitric's now-exposed throat with a very fierce, tight grip.

Barsait felt his body crash into the arena ground with a resounding impact. "Oh, the familiar pain of having my body crashed about like a rag doll.." was thought in a hazy manner by the dark-clad fighter. In the process of trying to reaffirm his surroundings and get his scattered senses back into the game - a sudden, monstrous force threatened the smaller fighter's very life.

Deitric had found a good method of restricting his opponent. With that much force, it wouldn't be long before Omi couldn't react normally anymore; perhaps at all. Fortunately, the force against his neck wasn't applied pin-point where it needed to be. You could call this "partial strangulation," despite the amount of weight placed, because some of the weight is held on other, less vital points.

If you break it down, grasping one's neck [besides for such dubious tactics as slitting or breaking it] has one major principle to it. Be it via compressing the arteries and jugulars, the trachea & larynx, or via stimulation of the carotid sinus reflex - one was restricting blood flow to the brain. However, just putting pressure on it wasn't enough to properly constrict; it certainly does the job, but a well placed hold can be even more effective than large amounts of weight.

In fact, some choke holds [though several are forbidden in the sport form] in the popular martial art Judo can render a man unconscious in 7-14 seconds flat; and if applied for too long, can lead to death not long afterwards. While applied correctly, dealing with an opponent's throat can lead to merely incapacitating the enemy - but in a heart beat, it can become fatal.

Left arm outstretched, Barsait had no need to heed risks; his entire mind was blank from the pressure being put on his neck. He could feel his left hand still able to move.. still able to grip tightly. And so there was only one course of action it could take.

[Katate-Jime], a "One-Handed Strangle," was usually utilized from the position of one lying on the ground. Deitric wasn't bent over too much if hardly at all, but enough the left hand could perform its task, suddenly forsaking the bicep's grip in exchange for immediately latching into Deitric's neck outright. Fingertips, nimble and precise, crushing into various points along the sides of the neck; two sliding under Deitric's lowered chin and gouging into the flesh the larger fighter attempted to protect regardless.

Left arm outright and tense as could be - the air was thick about Deitric and Omi now. If Deitric chose to stay with this, or attempt to break free - or even try and remove that left arm, he was toying with his own fate. And truly, Barsait wasn't in all that good a position either; if either fighter continued this for too long.. well, the Gaia Tenkaichi Budoukai Finals would end on a rather depressing note.

Barely able to speak, these whispered words came from Omi's faltering lips slowly: "*Release.. and so.. will I..*"

Feeling the release he so desired - Barsait crashed himself backwards the moment it was possible, flailing himself first back then upward and forwards - until the dark-clad fighter was sitting on the tips of his feet, hands hunched over his knees in an almost lazy manner; his chest heaving up and down in deep, rapid pattern.

Barsait's neck was a similar image to Deitric's. Different positioning of marks, but still quite a bit of red.. still, neither fighter was given the time to pass into unconsciousness; ergo, the blood in Omi's body was pumping oxygen towards the brain on schedule once more. The back of his skull ached something fierce, but the plight of not being able to breath properly for a few there "dulled" it for the time being, given he was more interested in being able to draw in breath than feeling a little pain on the back of the skull.

Hocking and spitting the pooled saliva that'd been constricted in his throat onto the arena ground ahead of him, the swordsman's breathing rate was heavy and rapid; though the entire time, both of his eyes were once again piercing ahead at Deitric, unblinking. This time, a toothy, wild grin was attached, as the swordsman "sat" hunched-over, peering at the larger fighter as though waiting for even the slightest movement once again.

"Hah.. that wasn't bad on his part. 'Course, it was also a pretty big risk; I could've died if he lost his balance and applied more pressure. Then we'd both be out of a good run. All the same.. that little engagement has given me plenty of material to work with." Forcing his jaw to clench shut, the grin still ever present - his nose was now handling the oxygen intake and output, in an effort to regularize his breathing pattern by force. Omi's hands, lazily curled over either respective kneecap, were now both clenched into fists - as he shot up like a bullet, standing tall once more.

Head aching and neck sore, Barsait was too energized to care for either; immediately resuming a fighting stance, by raising both of his arms in a standard boxer's "Turtle Guard;" commonly called the "Peek-a-Boo," his eyes were as always peering over the tips of either fist's knuckles, elbows together tightly.

Both legs squared themselves out, knees bending just slightly. Neither side was too far forward. And so the fight began again; Omi watching Deitric with an unblinking gaze equivalent to the Cheshire Cat.

It was true. Although both had been, theoretically, at death's doors - it didn't show. They were sore in a spot here and there, and perhaps the tiniest bit more winded than normal, but that was really all. Than again, what would one expect from the two finalists in a tournament of this nature; they had to have something going for them setting their capabilities apart from the norm, and whatever that something was for either fighter - they'd likely be using it.

Barsait was leering at Deitric, the grin fading into a tight-lipped, expressionless expression; as Deitric closed in, Omi continued his bizarre process of watching the opponent's movements - the larger fighter was keeping himself agile, using a mixture of upper and lower body movements to keep just outside of the smaller fighter's reach. This would imply the red-skinned finalist had gotten a rough grasp of Barsait's arm-span from their earlier confrontation; impressive..

However, as Deitric maneuvered back and fourth, Omi created distance rapidly via a right-side oriented shuffle backwards, akin to an outboxer creating distance between him and a charging opponent. Shifting his left side forward, right side back - it looked like the dark-clad fighter was attempting to get away from Deitric.. but, both fists clenched and the knees squared oh so well, something wasn't looking right in this situation. After all, the swordsman had never hesitated to meet Deitric dead on before, why now?

".. Upper skull.. lower abdomen.." These words mulled from the retreating fighter's lips, quickly and in a very low tone of voice. The crowd gave a disapproving boo at Omi not engaging Deitric in another head-on collision, but Barsait was acting extremely unusual. Was he trying to bluff his way out of Deitric's reach, luring Deitric to him, or neither?

Now controlling his breathing rate by force like a well tuned gear, the pale-skinned fighter watched as his opponent's arms both came to a calm position at either side. Normally, a fighter'd rush right into this, expecting to capitalize on the lowered guard before an opponent could compensate.. however, Omi's thoughts chose otherwise - "Hah. He won't take the bait that easily; rather, he's using my strategy against me in a round-about manner. I've no choice but to enter his range, on his terms; if I don't, he'll just stand there until he sees a good time to overwhelm me. He's counting on me getting impatient.. no doubt he has a nice way of countering and crushing me, even like that. Maybe something to do with grappling, or his legs; perhaps he'd just try slamming his upper-body into me to outright dominate me.."

The smaller fighter's left fist made an audible crack in forming itself tighter. "Unfortunately, that doesn't mean he has the advantage. On the contrary.." Shuffling back another step - Omi did a flip in place, shifting the right side of his body forward immensely. His right arm lowered, crossing just an inch over his gut; the fist swinging in place like a pendulum, back and fourth. The left hand, on the contrary, placed itself rigidly in front of Barsait's left cheek, knuckles facing Deitric.

The right hand & mid-arm began swinging, faster and faster.. first the span of two to three inches, then a good five to six. Swishing back and fourth through the air, to the apprehension of the crowd. Although Deitric's view of Omi's expression was obscured by the left fist, his teeth were definitely visible.. top row just barely parted from the bottom, as though about to bite into something.

"He's trapped himself." Suddenly shuffling forward like a freight train, Barsait skimmed the very edge of what he gouged was Deitric's fist range - and showed Deitric a nice punch with that right hand, chopping from the gut into the enemy target. It was like a straight, regular punch that curved and sliced through the air at the last second, before retracting to its original position like a bullet returning to a gun's chamber flawlessly; a strong Flicker Jab as it's often called. Able to flay an opponent's flesh if left unchecked - it's a scary combination of stinging, flesh-cutting damage and raw, physical might combined into a compact shot at a fighter's maximum range, thanks to the shuffle allowing the practitioner to move forward for the strike, then return into safety before the hand even leaves the enemy's person.

And it was definitely a fast blow.. if Deitric wasn't careful, it could spell trouble - especially since Omi was firing them off like wild fire, intending to strike wherever the fist would allow. The left fist was guarding his face in general, whilst the swordsman's eyes were glancing over the weightier opponent with an anxious gaze. "He won't stand for this. He's big.. or at least, bigger than me. To let himself stay around my punch radius would be foolish; he'll try grabbing that hand or closing the gap. And either way.." Flickers were being fired from the dominant, right hand like a deadly machine - as Omi's eyes expanded. "*I'll maintain the advantage.*"

Feeling the first jab crush in, Barsait's arm retracted as on schedule. The danger of the Flicker Jab was that it maintained pretty good power for a "jab," and allowed for the thrower to hurl them out like rain onto the enemy, making them think twice on charging in. Only, that was also disadvantageous, as by staying back, they were allowing the strikes to whittle them away and open various cuts on the body. A fighter could be on their last legs before they even get close enough to begin a real fight, and there'd be little they could do about it.

Of course, Omi wasn't so arrogant he'd suspect Deitric to follow that kind of results. You see, Barsait was well aware of how much larger Deitric was. Perhaps, it wasn't readily apparent just how much weightier the enemy fighter was, but it was clear there was a substantial weight difference based off their struggle earlier. Thus, Omi had two basic thoughts in mind here:

I. Deitric was larger and could probably withstand any kind of long-range strike Omi threw enough to close the distance. II. Deitric would more than likely be watching for the smaller fighter's next move like a hawk.

Of course, Barsait had to admit in his reasoning, Deitric would be suspecting a follow-up on Omi's part.. ah, however, that wasn't good enough. Without knowing exactly what the follow-up was, Deitric had theoretically rushed in blindly into the dark-clad fighter's battle zone.

The left fist was made to be blatant and easily spotted. Perhaps, the Khasmin man was seeing it as a simple guard. Perhaps, he was a little more paranoid and saw it as a potential heavy punch in the waiting. Either way, Barsait had accomplished two things:

I. A far superior understanding of how Deitric maneuvered himself as well as his max versus usual speeds thanks to previous rush-ins. II. Using his left hand, enticed Deitric to do one of Omi's theorized scenarios: trying to flat-out overwhelm him. In other words, Omi made Deitric do what the smaller fighter desired originally. Get the red-skinned mercenary too close and with too much force to change course.

Suddenly, the left arm rotated 90 degrees along the swordsman's face, elbow facing Deitric and the fist pressing into Barsait's left cheek. An easily obtainable position and with plenty enough room to get all of the proper thrust it needed to be devastating, Barsait slammed forward on the left side - it was a "Sok Poong," a [Forward Elbow Thrust.]

The advantages of using one's elbow over one's fists are as thus: the elbow bone [and tip] is very condensed, allowing for piercing, very punishing strikes that can easily open a foe up to bleeding or harm say.. their ribs, their face quite obviously - it can even be a nice, agonizing strike against a guarding arm. But in Deitric's case, he was charging forward, meaning all of Deitric's extra thrust was going to be added to the thrust of the elbow strike. Needless to say.. it'd be an unpleasant blow regardless of where it managed to hit. Even a juggernaut ogre crashing down wouldn't enjoy that one.

.. However, Barsait was one whom tried to cover his bases. Regardless of the success of that previous strike, his right leg would now be placed backwards; allowing the slightly bent right leg to swing around from below in an arc towards Deitric's left side; but not the foot.. the knee. A "Kao Kong," [Curving Knee Strike] - it is a famous Muay Thai move in that unlike conventional knee strikes, it can be executed from minimal distances; even in a clinch. Given how close Deitric'd likely be by now, that was ideal. And it can be executed with punishing force. It's a strike usually aimed at the ribs, hips, and general side of the abdomen; this was no exception.

A battle is never decided until it is over. For that matter, neither is the success of an attack or defense.

First feeling his elbow strike open hand flesh, the likelihood of his attack succeeding was dwindled in Omi's eyes. Deitric then managed to use this opportunity to secure that left forearm something fierce. One might think, given their positioning, the larger fighter finally had Barsait pegged for a good, crushing strike as that skull came in. However, one had to think of this a little more carefully.

By holding his left arm, extended as such, Deitric not only freed Omi's head up for getting headbutted.. but also removed any obstacle in the dark-clad fighter's way to slam home into Deitric. Even with the swordsman's body obviously having more of a tilt towards the ground, Deitric's own headbutt allowed Omi the needed reach to, the moment he felt his elbow stopped, crash his own skull forward in a fearsome [as well as tried & true] head crash. Deitric wouldn't find himself striking a stationary target. Rather than crashing into Omi's nose, Deitric'd find his forehead striking bone.

Also: Omi's right arm, although it was 'pinned', had a slight bit of leeway given it was pinned at a side. For it was true.. Omi, at least in the hands and such, was dexterous. To utilize his more supernatural abilities, he had to be. Thus, removing that arm by sliding it to Barsait's right, then withdrawing it at the hip wasn't a problem. For himself, at any rate.

Perhaps out of desperation, perhaps not; the smaller fighter was about to perform a punch technically labeled a boxing technique that was banned both in amateur and professional leagues, yet was well known enough to warrant fear. And he was going to do it, using the spring of his right shoulder, at extreme close-range.. a punch that can hit an opponent even in a clinch, and has definitely been known to be fatal in the hands of an inexperienced heavy-puncher not realizing the potency of it.

It's possible to land one of these from a distance, but they lack quite a bit of the effectiveness of one right in a fighter's person. A simple blow, aimed roughly around [or directly into] the space of a certain, poorly protected organ via a very tight-knit arc. Even experienced boxers who've taken shots of this sort have fallen on the ground in seconds, reeling from the pain of it.

A [Kidney Shot.] A monstrous short-hook delivered right into an opponent's kidney, as per the name. Deitric's arms were too preoccupied with Barsait's other limbs, meaning guarding that punch wasn't very likely - unless Deitric happened to have a third arm the dark-clad fighter wasn't aware of.

As this new one-two from hell met Deitric, Omi twisted his left hand around mid-grip, and grabbed Deitric's own right forearm. It wasn't going to be easy, maintaining his balance - but amidst the adrenaline blurred scenery, Barsait was hoping his next two rather deadly strikes would diffuse much of Deitric's charge; this would, ideally, not allow the stomp-kick to outright ruin Omi's leg; but, now it was up to the enemy finalist once more.

Once again, Deitric & Omi were locked in a vicious, close-range altercation with no hope for either fighter to back out without some pain, wound, or injury. This was the kind of thing half the crowd came to see. Close-range carnage between two fighters, blood, and some definitive agony. The lethal aspect of the tournament was removed since its last run, but as long as the opponent was mangled, broken, and torn apart - their heart could still beat and that part of the crowd would be happy. Unfortunately, it would seem they'd not be disappointed.

Feeling his kidney shot still hold a good, strong impact - Omi was then thrown for a hell of a loop. If the vision-blurring effects of adrenaline weren't enough, there was the two fighters' skulls thrashing into one anothers'. It was a mind-numbing period of distorted colors and much of Barsait's vision being thrown into a kind of vertigo; and to top it all off.. there was the dark-clad finalist's leg.

Through no intentional means of his own, Barsait instinctively felt his leg thrash at the last moment before Deitric's stomp had its target reached. This would change the positioning of the crushing blow, rendering what would've been a guaranteed destroyed leg [given it was rigid prior] a little more cushioning. However, there was no mistake: tough as the leather boot was, it couldn't handle the positioning of the blow Deitric set up. A definitive, sick 'pop' could be heard. It wasn't possible to determine the exact effects of Deitric's charge on that right lower-leg, only that it bode ill.

Barsait could taste blood.. but fortunately, none was obscuring his vision. It could be deduced [fortunately] that the brunt of his skull hadn't opened up, but that the impact caused definitive bleeding in the mouth and a jarred jaw, perhaps. It was all kinds of hell. To top it, as Barsait's right leg smashed backwards, left foot sliding along in order to regain balance versus falling - first his entire body arched backwards, then slinging forward, then finally reaching solid ground again by a slim hair thanks to the boot treads. Although practically blown away, Deitric's stumble away gave Omi just the slightest breathing room, he hadn't fallen back. Not yet.

... However, the very single second that right foot touched the ground and weight was shifted upon it, an indescribable pain shot right up through it, stopping somewhere below the right kneecap; intense enough, many a person would just forfeit the match right then. One could tell, right then, Omi's entire expression changed. His lips curled back - a chaotic, wide-spread grin forming as his fang-like teeth gritted together menacingly, eyelids popping open as the pupils contracted; red-shot all over. It took no expert to gather.. he was in pure agony.

A melee fighter with a leg crippled is usually likened to a jet without its wings. Ruined. And though Deitric would be no doubt back on the pursuit in any moment - those precious few moments, the entire crowd was most likely thinking a universal thought. The match was over. Had it just been an arm, that'd be one thing; but cutting out a leg.. it reduced movement, it reduced a means of attack, it cut down on offense and defensive - it was the death sentence to a fighter.

However, even as blood flowed through his white, bared teeth - the bizarre, wild expression on Omi's face did not fade. Not even in the slightest, even for this fighter who had feigned being well when he was really near death before for the sake of psyching out an opponent. Arms blown back - both reeled forward, shoulders pressing forward and taunt.

One would, after all, have to recall one of Barsait's accomplishments in Gaia Tenkaichi Budoukai the original. In a fight against a super-natural opponent of extraordinary speed, prowess, and strength, Barsait had one arm outright crushed, one leg dislocated entirely, and the remaining limbs barely functioning at best. Meanwhile, his opponent - while definitely not in his prime - was more or less fine, and able to charge in for the finishing blow. That time too, it was all but presumed Omi was prolonging the inevitable with such injuries. He would lose. And although the results were completely unintentional on Barsait's part..

That day, Omi killed his opponent and won.

Suddenly grinding his entire body onto the right, clearly dismembered leg - a disturbing sick grinding of bone being heard, Barsait squared his body forward, letting the pain he purposely induced on himself throw his entire person into a state of euphoric blood lust. His skull was sore, his rib was still sore from earlier, the right leg was screaming in pain and the mind was in utter disarray from Barsait forcing his body to utilize a more or less tarnished limb..

... Yet even if Deitric would begin charging already, Omi was standing. Not just that, but standing straight, body starting to lean forward - a grim, overly-eager laughter likely only audible to Deitric flowing from his lips. His voice, now lower and slightly gritty due to the blood still flowing in his mouth, relayed a kind of unnatural quality to Barsait not found in him prior. He wasn't acting quite "right," as it were.. especially given he hadn't once blinked since the two fighters' heads clashed. Those wild eyes were baring down on Deitric, hardly any distance away. Rather than trying to back away, Omi was.. pushing towards the larger, seemingly better-conditioned fighter?

"Hey now, get your hands off your knees and get over here. I'm not even done with you yet.." Omi drawled on, walking forward with a bizarrely squared walk. Each step his right leg took, very calculated; one could hear the entire leg groaning from the stress it was taking.. yet its owner was practically ignoring his injury like it hadn't even occurred. Or perhaps that was a ruse..?

The truth was.. Omi Barsait was in a kind of trance. He had essentially gone berserk as a result of an overstimulate of Epinephrine base opioids in the body and brain. A state, as an example, the famous viking Berserkers were often known to undergo, or soldiers in a number of wars. Opioids, a natural drug produced in the body used as pain relief, would produce this powerful effect when produced at too fast a rate; the result: a fighter charging his opponent with fearless, almost monstrous rage and indifference, usually noted to fight with a level of strength more pronounced than their norm and often described by fellow compatriots as being "invincible." It was essentially a state of altered consciousness and heightened aggression.

To what extent Omi was feeling such effects remained to be seen - but the fact he was using a crushed limb to keep himself balanced as though it were the most logical choice one could make, was a nice indicator he was far gone.

The fight was about to take a brutal spin towards its next phase.

The trick to it was - often, Barsait held a kind of brooding rage within him. During battle, he could feel himself going flat-out berserk, and would often "shake it off," retaining his calm demeanor. However, amidst such a bout as the two were having, and with all of the pain and the adrenaline swirling within his body.. it was overwhelming in a manner words couldn't right describe.

All the same, Omi wasn't the type to charge in without thinking things through. Ever. Even now, wanting nothing more than to barrel down unto his opponent, he was thinking up a offensive strategy, followed by a theoretical counter to Deitric's own response. However, unlike normal, his thoughts were.. marred. Distorted. The mental process in developing what was to happen centered around a main theme, if you would: tearing apart the opponent.

The enemy fighter's calm words of concern piercing through that guard was appreciated.. but fell on deaf ears. Or rather, purposely dulled ears, as the raging dark-clad fighter's breathing accelerated- the oxygen transported through his bloodstream hyper-accelerating all whilst every muscle in the finalist's body tensed and poised themselves. Omi's next words said it all, in a kind of forced, almost painful form of control mixing with the incoming, brewing storm: "Appreciated.. but Deitric, for your sake- worry about yourself!!"

Hardly a moment proceeding these words, the attack began. Even losing himself ever worse in that bizarre trance he was in, Omi was well aware of his ruined leg's status. However.. seven, perhaps more thoughts popped into his mind - burning by like hot-flashes, almost as though he were controlling his own hallucinations - on how to keep going. The kneecap was good. The foot itself was good. It was merely what linked them that was ruined; furthermore, the other leg was fine, the arms were fine. How to continue an offensive, much less an effective one, like this?

The answer came in the following, chilling new form of assault. The swordsman let his right foot lay idly on its sole upon the arena ground; not taking any weight upon it but rather using it to lead the entire leg forward, thus shifting his body towards that same destination. All the while, the left leg - fine as could be and now apart of the berserk, smaller fighter - kicked off with tremendous force. Even with a ruined leg leading, the left leg would usher Omi forward towards the guarded Khasmin-tribesman with a menacing force.

However, just before he'd reach extremely close proximity.. what would prove to be a brutal barrage began.

[RIP.]

Like five blades slicing through the air, Barsait's left hand suddenly sliced across the air like a wild beast's claw. It was freakishly swifter than the fighter's previous hand movements, and his fingernails protruded enough - whether Deitric left his guard or no, a reaping-like method of attack was coming for his skin.

Yet as Barsait swiped, upper-left to lower-right.. he used this time to pivot. A boxer's pivot, again using that left leg like an axis on which the entire body would operate, before it suddenly pressed off the ground; right leg swinging with, the entire fighter suddenly spinning clockwise. Left leg rising off the ground rapidly, its knee piked forward in what was a familiar strike: a [Curved Knee Strike.]

Entire body spinning in this absurd motion, the knee strike was aiming for Deitric's right-side mid-kidney to ribs. Yet as if ignoring this all together, the fighter's 360 spin would complete with yet another limb claiming its role: the right hand, arced behind his back, swarming in towards a very specific location, if allowed. A rapid-spinning [Kidney Shot]. All the while, a low-throated growl escaped from Omi's lips; leering out into the air about his opponent.

A feral, animalistic swipe leading to an impaling strike finally leading to a crushing blow; it was a triple-combo from the most bizarre of positions. It looked like, despite the injury, Barsait's heightened senses despite the trance-like conditioning associated with it all was allowing him to crash in with deadly blows at a shockingly rapid rate..

The question was, would his noble opponent make Omi regret not taking the offer of forfeiting? Or would this begin the downward stretch of the bloodiest ending phase in the tournament?