[Semi Finals] Main Bracket: Reyin vs. Omi

Nimbly stepping along the narrow catwalks leading to the ring, Barsait gave a quick self-check on his body.. impressive was the work the GTB infirmary did, he had to admit; no noticeable pains or sluggishness in the limbs, and all that reminded him of the stab wounds within his mid-stomach: stitches.

As the swordsman made his way to the edge of the new fighting arena, excitement overtook him. And not just because he'd managed to make it to the semi-finals.. "Finally, I doubt I'll be drowning or freezing my ass off in this place - about damned time." A roar amidst the sea of spectators confirmed his entry, as the fighter first grasped his dark, cotton shirt - then ripped it right off, revealing the dark gray chain mesh below. The feel of the cloth draping over his wrists had been bothering him for quite some time..

Making his way through the ropes, Omi Barsait was enjoying the new ring. Already designating a corner for himself, southeast - Omi began contemplating the match as much as humanly possible. "*Smallest arena yet, perfect for in-fights. No idea who this Reyin guy is, but if he's long-ranged specialty, he'll have a difficult time keeping me from getting in close. That means I won't have to rely on the manipulation, more than likely.. perfect. If I win, this'll let me recover some; I doubt I could handle conjuring that much again so swiftly.*"

Even though his signature sheathed blade remained upon his back, the fighter was stepping in place with eager agility; eyes darting around for when his opponent would make an appearance. After all, Omi was a rather big boxing enthusiast, and nothing in this tournament yet reminded him more of a good boxing ring than this arena here; he seemed rather impatient, then, to execute some actions prior matches didn't permit.

Appearance > A 5’10’’ human man of 18 years, weighing in at 172 lbs. Long, wavy hair; dark brown-black, parted in the front and reaching shoulder length. Scantly pale skin, amber brown eyes. An "average-thin" build; arms are rather thin, although both legs are slightly more stocky. Shoulder-blades protrude more than the norm. > > A pair of spectacles rest upon his nose, earpieces in place; dark frames, thin-wired. Non-prescription glasses; cosmetic only. Round-framed with lens just about the size of his eyes. Teeth, an off-white, are all rather average save the four canines, which are particularly jagged; almost stereotypically "vampire-" esque, though this is merely a coincidence. > > Dark cotton shirt, sleeves coming mid-length of either arm; in matching material and hue, a pair of pants - cuffs reaching right to the top of either foot, two pockets at either side and slightly "modernized" in overall production, thus having a bit of weight to its form. Two plain, "short" socks; no design or specific texture. Over these, two boots - very tight cured leather, a dark sheen to them; flexible yet very sturdy, comes to a rounded point, 5 lbs. 3 oz. a boot. Inclined treads, for a mixture of good traction and mobility. Top of said boots rise above the pant legs up to roughly 4" above the apex of the sock lines. > > Aside from the above apparel, there are three items Barsait wears which bear significant importance in mentioning. > > i. BODY APPAREL: Chain Mesh: Linked together in a weave of metal, this thin one-piece suit of metal (only 1/3rds an inch thick) lies beneath all of the young man's clothing. The only areas one can truly get a good sight of it, would be along the bare arms, and right at the neckline of the above mentioned shirt. Nice, clean, durable steel; inner rings being a diameter of 10 mm. Surprisingly light at seven kilograms, it is rather adaptive to freestyle movement while still providing a nice defensive resistance against enemy weaponry - since otherwise, all a sharp blade would have to pierce, would be.. cloth. > > ii. ARM APPAREL: Gauntlets: Cured leather, made sturdy for repeated use; these gauntlets are fingertip-less at the knuckles for enhanced dexterity. Extending along the wrists and capping off in a curved edge, the insides are made for comfort - tight on the skin as to maximize proper hand movements, whilst the exterior is made very durable. Along the upper region of either, is a burned circle - quite possibly the alphabetical "O." > > iii. WEAPONRY: Division Blade: A one-handed sword with the handle space for two hands, though this would only be for powerful over-hand swings most likely, as it is made to move rapidly with merely a single hand utilizing it. The blade being made of the "proper" refining procedure of folding steel over many thousands of times. A modification of the originally two-handed Chinese saber of the Republican era "Miao dao," this blade has a number of specific parameters. > > -Narrow blade of 1.12 meters in length. Straight blade which curves (only slightly) from the halfway point to the tip; the bottom edge perfectly straight. > -A more "English"-style cross-guard where the handle and blade meet, oval in shape and quite durable. > -Thin, grooving leather straps of dark black hue wrapped about the hilt for better hold. > -Blade is overall rather lightweight; .9 kg total not including the handle space. A rather interesting note: the pommel (piece capped on the bottom of the sword's handle, not wrapped in leather) is actually rather hefty in comparison to the rest of the sword's structure, around .5 kg by itself.. possibly for counterbalancing purposes. The hilt, all in all, is made of a strong mixture of refined steel and silver. The blade itself, stainless steel with the edge made of heavily sharpened tungsten along the edges. Lightweight but with enough weight, able to make an impact; therefore an ideal weapon for this individual.

Quite restless, given Omi had been more or less restrained from any extreme movements until the actual fight at hand - the energy screaming to be burned was surging through his body. Granted, it was actually a rather large surprise he'd actually won the last bout against the fighter Ryu; especially given the swordsman didn't discover this until waking up on an infirmary bed.

Still, it was the semi-finals.. if his fists could carry him through this match, the finals were a guaranteed thing. Just the thought was entrancing. Slowly, the eagerness faded into a deadened, sharp expression. Omi was no stranger now, to contestants starting off a match bombarding him, aiming for his vital organs, attempting to freeze him solid, or in some cases: outright trying to snap him in two. There were welcomed exceptions, but these fights often held a deadly angle mixed in with the fair sport.

.. So imagine the dark-haired fighter's surprise at his opponent, who not only didn't seem all too murderous, but was chewing bubble gum and had an outstretched fist waiting for Omi's return.

Shoulders slouching, the swordsman's rarely-worn frames slipped down his nose a tad comically. Grasping them and tossing them out the ring, given they were already bothering him - Barsait walked over whilst regaining his composure, reaching the center of the ring and met Reyin's fist with his right. Reassured this would be a good, honest bout within the ring after all - Omi ventured in response: "You too. Here's to not knocking eachother the fuck out, no?"

Chuckling nonchalantly whilst stepping back, forcibly stilling the thought that such an open display might've been a trap of some sort - Omi was feeling all of the motivation in the world re-enter him. Grasping a leather strap on his back, it was then that the mercenary called out: "Say, before we get this going too far, you interested in turning this into a pure scrap? No need for our respective weapons if so. You don't have to accept if you don't believe me - but trust me, this sword on my back's the only one I'm carrying." Another leap of faith.

The truth of the matter was: be it something like his first fight against Mooo, or something else entirely - Barsait was craving a good use of his fists. For days and matches on end, they went without any real use; to either head to the finals or be chopped out of the ring at the last moment and be able to attribute it to a good old brawl was about as entertaining an idea as he could see.

"Alright." was Omi's own response; breaking a point that linked his sword sheath's leather strap before slamming it backwards with a suiting right shoulder bump, sliding beneath the ring's ropes and just barely falling off the edge. The crowd gave a nice little uproar at the display; two fighter's tossing away their weapons in a boxer's ring meant one thing to a spectator of this kinda 'sport,' after all. Melee and blood.

Truth was: Barsait was formally trained in the art of a blade - but was more at ease and a natural at hand-to-hand combat. Not to say he couldn't be effective with his weapon; more that it was difficult to fight an opponent with it, without seizing an opportunity to stab a major organ or pierce someone's throat. That kind of combat didn't suit his style, you could say.

Smiling in a confident manner, the swordsman decided to take a stance of his own. Omi loved mimicking martial arts and "strikes" he witnessed other fighters pull that seemed effective, but if there was a style of fighting he felt at home with - it was boxing. Alternating from southpaw to orthodox, switching from an outward striking position to a pure swarmer performance face to face: it was second nature to him and made fights damned entertaining in his view.

Ergo: the dark-clad shifted his apart from one another, shoulder length apart. Both of his hands rose up- elbows locked, and pressed together in front of his nose & mouth. His leather gauntlets weren't exactly boxing gloves, but they obscured the lower half of his face regardless. Finally, the fighter hunched forward, just a tad - before alerting his opponent: "Let's get this thing going. Good luck if one of us get put in the infirmary."

Letting the final word trail off, the swordsman began to make his advance in this awkward stance; a step at a time, left foot first by a good inch and a half, the right following. He was treating this bout as a rather friendly one, given his opponent seemed like an alright sort; but, already, Omi was getting into his "rhythm" - a step from the left, a step from the right.. surely no quick way to get to Reyin, it was pissing off not just a few of the more rowdy crowd members wanting the two to rush and bash eachother.

Still - the fight had officially begun.

Usually, one'd call a punch cocked back "telephoned" because the direction they'd go towards is ideally easy to predict; the fun part about this little rush was- it didn't matter if Omi predicted it or no, the effect would be the same. It looked like the fighter whom rushed him had a nice first shot coming in.

The thing about Barsait was - if an opponent threw an orthodox method of attack for a loop, he was one to adjust. Reyin closed the distance between these two fighters as though he himself was an infighter boxer; clearly, whether he knew it or no, his leg strength was superb. A good dash to chop through any distance followed by a punishing blow in the enemy fighter's body, while still keeping a guard up for safety - it was as solid an attack as any.

Barsait's guard, commonly called the "Peek-a-Boo," was great at closing the distance on enemy fighters and weathering numerous strikes or flurries, but Reyin managed to make a good choice by striking one of his sides; the area most susceptible in this guard, also a wise move whether intended or no. Sure enough, Reyin could probably hear a bit of breath force itself out of Barsait's lips against his raised fists - a strike like that was going to be painful even if not to its max strength.

.. However, here was where things would get unusual. Instead of trying to back away to regain ground, breath, and posture - or even shift it away with his right elbow, Omi pressed his rib and suited side against Reyin's fist, closing the span of the outstretched arm and forcing the two fighters just that tiny bit closer. Pivoting on the spot, Omi was shifting his entire body left-forward; using the close distance to perform one returning strike. And not with one of his fists.

A straight, no, even a "jab" would be useless at their close proximity unless they went for liver shots. But the more 'patient' fighter showed his calling card: his left arm swiftly exited his boxing guard.. with the left elbow swinging clockwise into his opponent's guard, left fist pressing into the right to get leverage.

It was a textbook "Elbow Slash," a move Omi read on during his rather boring infirmary stays both in the previous GTB and the current - which belonged to the Muay Thai school. A diagonal "slash" with the tip of the elbow's bone structure; diagonal use wouldn't leave much impact, but the dangerous thing was - they usually leave rather nasty cuts. To top it, they don't need much of a swing; flick your arm the right way, the effect's the same whether you're winded or no.

Ideally, these kind of moves are used to cut an opponent's eyebrows, obviously leaking blood and so to obscure their vision and hinder their performance - but that was impossible. Reyin wisely had a loose guard up; it was in the enemy fighter's face's direction, but would probably have hand tissue block it no problem. Still - if one wasn't expecting it, a cutting strike coming from Reyin's right would be a little surprising.

Barsait felt his elbow grease skin; he didn't much care where, only that it made contact. So, his gaze didn't do much of a follow up, instead trying to make a good, yet swift analysis of where the next opponent's strike would come from. The two fighters weren't quite in a clinch, yet distance wise, that was damned near the case; there wasn't much room for error for either Reyin or Omi to afford before a hit made contact.

His left arm was for all intensive purposes, locked forward for now; it was in the process of being retracted, but wouldn't have enough clearing room to get another strike in to prevent Reyin from countering. Sipping in air through his parsed lips to keep from going 'dry' and potentially losing the ability to stand proper, Barsait felt his opponent's foot relocate itself in an unusual spot.

"Ah? What-" Eyes widening fiercely when he realized his body was being made the platform for an attack, Barsait didn't quite have a good look on the tip of the sneaker coming his way; it was a little late to prevent it from making an entry, either. All he could do, was two actions instinctively: the first, raising his right shoulder up as much as possible to possibly offer a little buffer on the side of Reyin's sneaker, his shoe size likely being the determining factor on if that'd make a difference or not - the other, a little more practical action. His right knee started to shake, as though it was about to do something - when one final, spontaneous thought split through Omi's mind. That right knee stopped entirely.

"!" He didn't even have time to consider if it was a good idea; instead, blindly believing the next course of action may be effective. Barsait's skull tilted, just a fraction of an inch to the left - before Reyin's foot made contact..

.. And Omi followed the trail of the foot with his upper torso, slamming his own head harshly to the upper-left in the hopes of bashing into any area on Reyin's - using the enemy fighter's own kick as a means of propelling him faster. A kick and a headbutt, the situation was blurry already - this was going to, needless to say, hurt the dark-clad fighter like Hell, if not worse. But was it effective?

A resounding sound emanated when Omi's skull met with Reyin's chin. The crowd roared at this development; the dark-clad fighter had turned an impending attack into a boost for his own offensive, and it seemed effective as Reyin barely managed to keep standing. Normally, Barsait would have eagerly closed in a fierce manner, capitalizing on the situation.

However, one would have to remember: Barsait was just kicked on one side of his skull, and bashed into a man's chin on the other. A "headache" was too mild a word to describe it; the swordsman practically galloped backwards, left foot followed by right in a now orthodox stance - crossing his arms in the former "Peek-a-Boo" guard instinctively whilst trying to let his head recover. It wouldn't be wise to drop his guard to check with his fingertips, but he didn't feel any blood leaking down his face - and he was keeping consciousness, so it could be said Omi came well out of the encounter. But as the vision distorting feeling of having his head bashed about subsided, the swordsman was well aware: that was a risky move he pulled. Another like it with bad luck could result in him being out of this fight for good.

Masking his disorientation by weaving in place, the swordsman was a good.. two feet from Reyin, give or take? Again, it seemed like he was on defensive- however, bobbing and weaving in place, something was amiss. Partially, it was a bid on time to recover; but already, the swordsman was thinking of how to strike next, eagerly allowing his opponent to take the initiative if Reyin so wished it. Something of interest to note: both of Barsait's kneecaps in the grounded boxing stance, began to tense.