[Round 6] Omi Barsait vs. Link

[**Anxiety Limit**]

At one side of the red poled boundary line, same as always - was Round VI contender [Omi Barsait. Trademark dark oots ground into the snow as they were designed to do, he remarkably took very little advantage of the regulation allowing the fighters to wear more clothing. A single thin sheet of dark cloth was wrapped around his mid-arms each, and a dark wool scarf around his neck. Nothing else. An indication of what little effect this did could be grasped by the man's teeth, bared viciously as they clattered in increasing speed and irritation.

"Better I stay alert and mobile than comforted and plush; the cold will keep me alert long before frostbite gnaws at me." This was the mindset behind such a decision, with the added conditional that given Omi was rather famed for his "art," additional heat would no doubt manifest itself in the fight. That much was for certain.

[**Omi Barsait**] + [**Ignus Pata**]

Forcing his arms to stretch out in something of a scarecrow's posture, the dark-clad fighter's left-gauntlet blade and right-gauntlet tiplets were tilting towards the opposite end of the "arena" with growing menace. "I can feel it.. I've never failed, not once, to make it into the later half of a competition such as this. Yet not once have I ever failed right at the very end, to.. fall.. short."

Finals II > "You'll cripple yourself at this rate-- if you stop now, you can still get your leg healed," Deitric spoke calmly through his guard, his hawkish, gleaming eyes staring down the man in his sights.

Semi-Finals I > If Omi didn't let Mooo land in the astride position he'd placed his feet for, whether through a sweep or other means, Mooo's dead-weight body would frogsplash atop his upon landing, which wouldn't be all that comfortable.

..always stopped at the home stretch, by a mixture of dominating force & skill, and his own drowning anxiety.

The very thought this could occur yet again, for a third time..

.. **was** completely and utterly an uninteresting prospect. Suddenly shaking the frustration out of his mind right along with the seizing, incorporeal cold that trumped even the frost abound- Omi began walking forward calmly, arms stretched out to their palms in either direction respectively. A wide grin spread across his face proper.

"Then again, I 'spose besting Snow and then losing would be terrible distasteful. I hear this fellow's a swordsman of some sort.." Cracking that grin into a full-blown, chaotic cackle that allowed the shrill winds to carry it on, Barsait howled as his feet suddenly began trudging through the snow like a berserk soldier impatient with the very earth itself:

"FUTILE!"

The ball of frost had little distance to traverse. Omi, so gung-ho to crush his opponent, was suddenly watching a snowball wind through the air towards his face- and while outside of these circumstances, perhaps that would have been acceptable.. here in the hallowed ring, there was no telling just what might have been 'altered.' From Heaven to Hell, that ball of snow might have been switched right before release from the youth's hand, or perhaps charged with some arcane element- benefit of the doubt was stagnant & dead in this ring long before Barsait ever stepped foot in it, regardless of whom it concerned.

"Hah!" Rather than let it stop his momentum, Barsait merely bent on over while dashing forward with his full body weight on constant forward shift, letting the ball of soft ice skim over his wild hair and unto the grounds behind. Perhaps it was an innocent gesture, judging by the opponent's demeanor.. then again, that was exactly the kind of thinking Omi knew he had to throw into the wind and let float away.

There in front of him was an opponent whom had made it to Round VI, meaning he had bested give or take five fighters in a tourney full of those with gold in their eyes and fingertips wet for blood - and this of course meant Barsait couldn't relent a slight bit. If anything, he would need to be even more fierce than the norm to compensate for his instinctive urge to not attack one with seemingly no open hostility; the second he would fall prey to such thinking is the one he would float away from the tourney once again, yet again labeled as one whom got close to the sun but inevitably crashed unto the sea.

Teeth barred and arms stretched outward as the left fingers made warm-up finger stretches, he was nearing the youth quickly as per the limited distance in this battleground. He couldn't spot the shield, but certainly could spot the handle of the opponent's blade, and it was his intention to make drawing that blade an action that necessitated utmost haste-

[**Crimson Comet Redux**]

Or be met with an untimely end.

In Barsait, a lone candle illuminated the darkness- and the flame was growing into something quite monstrous. Whether that was morally correct or not, was better left to the spectators - id est, those the dark clad fighter howling on ahead had absolutely no interest in the opinions of. However, one particular murmur emanating from his last match had opened his ears in great irritation. Claims that he was careless in his battle against the ice fiend Snow.

It was an understandable claim, even the [Serpentine Manipulation Artist] had to acknowledge it. Were the medical treatment at such competitions not stocked with either the finest, the most bizarre, or both staff that money can buy - he knew in his heart that right limb of his would be no more. However, the notion he was careless still rang in his head like a symphony of misinformed drivel; he won, did he not? Those fighters whom desired just the money couldn't understand. Those onlookers licking their pen tips and counting their coins couldn't comprehend, not in the slightest!

The world around you stops existing once you're truly immersed in this ring.

"Non-lethal" was just a misnomer to lull the duller fighters into a false sense of security. Here, you either won, or you lost. Omi knew better than anyone, he felt, that while he had no qualms about losing to a worthy opponent, the sting in his very soul from losing to said opponent over careless mistakes weighs heavy on the mind and body. So then for the amorphous crowds to babble about him performing such careless deeds in that last epic clash against his rigid rival was..

.. absurd! "Absolutely ABSURD! Once in this ring, fighters who won't give it their all have only good fortune to pray for. Snow was a worthy opponent, I had no problem giving an arm to bring him down and likewise," such as his racing thoughts would come to a close with their distance becoming null. The dark-clad young man would suddenly swing his left arm fiercely in a horizontal slash, the [Ignus Pata] blade on his left gauntlet singing through the air with the right edge coming towards the youth from said boy's perspective's right. Mid-blade length, a standard attack albeit with all of Barsait's heart-pumping strength as his tread boots ground into the frost and soil below with sick crackles.

It was a simple maneuver. An expected one, even. Yet, as the crimson blade sang towards home and no doubt resistance.. something else veered to Omi's left most wildly. Namely: his other, right arm. Demonstrating the doctors' handiwork in action, it gently let the left arm's momentum carry it along, bent so the right hand was palm-first facing Link along the left arm's mid-section.

All five fingers were wiggling like they were separate entities, alive and wriggling in delight.

[**Berserker**]

All five fingertips glowing a faint yet ever so distinct red, seemingly flickering to life.

Omi Barsait wasn't much expectant of folks to remember his name nor recognize him in reverence. He had a mild following, likely due to his fanatical nature mid-combat at times if not for the fact he was a regular in some circles of combat. Perhaps he had even earned a few folks here and there's respect, fortune permitting - but certainly, he had earned no such title as being a "hero."

Nor would he ever enjoy such a pompous and useless title.

Barsait was at one time a budding swordsman, but nothing more - and long ago threw away such a premise. Perhaps his opponent was a swordsman of exceptional skill, regardless of their likely misleading youthfulness. But truth be told, the [Serpentine Manipulation Artist] was hardly even the slightest bit interested in making this a mere sword clash; were someone so inclined to think then, that Omi fancied himself a swordsman, they would be a fool. The [Ignus Pata] was an edge. Another component to help achieve victory, nothing more. Those who put so much faith in their swords and their shields, toting themselves as heroes and demonstrating how virtuous they felt they were by action or word..

They were usually asking for a fierce beating.

Again, Barsait was no swordsman and nor did he claim to be, but the Pata was actually his ideal weapon. A simple gesture of his hand could turn the blade faster than a conventional swordsman could twist their blade about whether they'd care to admit it or non, and it allowed him a lethal edge on that hand while still keeping it relatively free for his own purposes- not to mention, it let him reinforce the blade with his forearm. Yet.. that really wasn't too important, now.

The important thing was, this "Link" reminded Omi of himself some time ago. Too naive. Walks down an alleyway and sees a man, pulls out a knife, and assumes the opponent won't slip out of a gun. More so in Barsait's case, he simply loved a good boxing match in these tourneys - so much so, he would simply forget the fact his opponent could grapple him, lift him, kick him - because when in a brawl, he felt more comfortable throwing them fists. Likewise, perhaps this Link was a renowned swordsman of tremendous skills..

..but this wasn't the [Gaian Fencing League.]

That left horizontal slash was bland. Obvious. Even for an initial attack, it was telephoned to the extent a blind man could as easily hear it coming. Link ate the bait amply, dealing with the blatant threat while ignoring the more subtle. Going for the projected "win" move was respectable; were it so easy to do, wouldn't we all?

Regretfully, it simply wasn't.

As the [Ignus Pata] was parried to Omi's left, the right hand parted from the left arm most quickly - palm still facing the blond enemy's position. More importantly however, the earlier mentioned square positioning of Barsait's gave him one simple advantage those so preoccupied with "combat stances" forget to acknowledge: it let him turn one way or another most easily.

Letting the momentum of the left arm be the signal, Omi would follow it by shifting his left leg backwards, right forward - from his perspective, counter-clockwise. If Omi's left horizontal slash was evident, raising a sword of that magnitude above, the attempted thrust towards the dark fighter's throat was seen for eons to come; those dark leather boots of the long-haired serpent fighter's grinding him to a halt as Link's ample sword screamed on by.

Of course, if you thought with a whiff of such proportions that Omi Barsait the overly toted "opportunity" would simply just let Link withdraw his weapon or create distance..

[**Pound for Pound**]

With a grin like a monster's, Omi's left fist would quite simply turn so the palm was facing the sky- before coming right on back towards ol' Omi, the mesh-covered left limb securing both of dear Link's limbs whom were so preoccupied thrusting that blade. With as much force as he could give it, stocky legs that were amply more well grounded than Link's mere pants already well slid past the point of simply being kicked out from under him given they were right against each other- the one-two came like lighting.

Were someone so very foolish as to ridicule the [Ignus Pata], they would find now a bitter moment as Omi's left arm, clenching the two outstretched upper limbs of Link's with all their furor as the metal ground into his limbs angrily, did something most unfortunately. The left clenched fist would simply bend to the right, the upper-wrist doing the same..

..and so too would the blade crash. The advantage of a Pata was that again, it could be employed in more restricting circumstances. Perhaps Link would discover this, as the double-edged crimson blade would have one edge flicking right into his unguarded face - presumably towards Link's right eye. You didn't need to exert much reinforcement to get results like that, one would have to note.

That right hand meanwhile, now had ample room on the other side to grasp the back of Link's fluffy head. And out of the earlier glowing fingertips, began to fester an initial three crimson, ghastly snakes- oozing right on down over poor Link's forehead with no possible obstruction, Omi happily giving a loud chomp as his teeth crashed to signal their ignition into flames that intended to bore themselves right into the swordsman's eyes & surrounding tissue.

Finesse wasn't just how you swung a sword. Finesse was skillful handling of a situation; people who honed themselves in an extension of their being and not the being itself..

..found themselves so deep in the snake's stomach, time nor space mattered!

Combat was not as simple as "who was the strongest?" Here in this ring, there were only the fewest of "guidelines;" Omi had seen such competitions elsewhere where there were even fewer, and you could more or less bash your opponent's skull open against the floor and suck out the juices if you were so inclined. Not to say he didn't love a good honest throw-down, but he realized just being steadfast and courageous was never enough. Your whole being had to simply seethe with the intent of victory; you couldn't be preoccupied with doing your best, because you had to instead focus on exceeding your limitations a thousand times in a single day.

He was a stranger to this 'Link,' much less his arsenal. All he did know however, was that despite cutting Barsait's attempted destruction of the youth short with commendable skill, observation was lacking with his opponent. At least, just yet.

Barsait's armor had its flaws that were demonstrated time and time again. They had holes which could be filled by any number of bizarre things his opponents had handy. They did deafen the impact of blunt strikes, but only to an extent. Thin weaponry could simply pierce right on through, if the opponent was dexterous enough to pull it off. A variety of other problems would prove a concern, but of course.. there were advantages plentiful enough, he kept wearing the mesh without many qualms 'lest he was in a true frenzy.

One such advantage was that a blade like Link was wielding was while not too much so to wield, a ways too bulky to simply skewer his legs as such. Especially when it was an improvised slash mid-motion from another maneuver, even with the momentum applied. Had that been bare leg, no doubt the metal could have torn through Barsait's left leg quite nicely, severing flesh and crushing through bone for what could have been a crippling blow. Instead however, the blade merely made a nice slash across the dark metal that greeted it. Repeat slashes against that metal with sufficient might could no doubt make the mesh groan in futility, but the thing about that was: the ring wasn't so forgiving.

Whether Link withdrew his blade, attempted to re-adjust it, or what else have you - Omi's stocky leg would suddenly mash against it most furiously, sliding said leg forward forcefully to go along with the sword regardless of its destination. And while Barsait's arms would take a moment to become much use just yet, both gauntlet-covered hands grasping towards Link's backside to prevent a timely escape and appropriate adjustment of the sword said opponent wielded..

..given they were face to face, normally Omi might have headbutt his blond foe at the cost of perhaps, vice verse- an unsatisfactory possibility the [Serpentine Manipulation Artist] intended to nip in the bud at once by dropping his jaw, his heated breath coasting through the frigid air. So little distance between the two now and proper, that as a single serpent emanated from the dark-haired fighter's throat, happily crashing towards Link's left eye with perhaps a narrow inch or two to cover as Barsait's right index finger and thumb 'snapped' and his tongue flicked upwards the slightest bit..

Even if Link decided to bash his skull forward, whip it back, or jut it side to side, the distance was too short to cover at this point; flames would be digging into the youth's eye with absolutely no restraint, happily scolding through the thin layer of eyelid flesh if it decided to intervene. Mistakes were always capitalized upon in this ring, Barsait knew this well; he had absolutely no intent regardless of what this opponent was or wasn't capable of, all mistakes were held accountable!! Both his..

[**To Obtain Victory..**]

..and most certainly, those of his foe.

"*HGN?!!*"

All Omi could do in that brief moment as his attack was literally reflected away, the serpent dissipating into nothingness, was stare in mild surprise as his eyes expanded wide. The possibility of meeting unexpected resistance, that was certainly always within his train of thought; but to have the raging coil deflected outright by some kind of supernatural force, it was an unexpected moment that would cost the dark-clad fighter.

One saving factor, was that the 'artist' had no fear of his tongue receiving damage; while his mouth was most certainly parted, the tongue was behind his teeth curling upwards - not extended outwards. Fortunate, as fighter Barsait's senses came crashing back to reality with a deadening force crashing into his jaw to remind him just what he was facing once more.

[CRUNCH]

A full-force uppercut landing in plush would cause those pearly teeth to slam together with such force, the gums would most certainly stain them crimson. It was less the teeth that he was really concerned about though, as much as the jaw muscle; bash it right, one's mouth won't shut right. That could prove horrendously costly..

..fortunately, the 182 pound fighter Omi Barsait had seen his fair share of injuries to the skull. One man in particular landed such a vicious 'rabbit punch' (a blow to the base of the skull), and placed so much overwhelming force onto the [Serpentine Manipulation Artist] before, breaking a leg and battering in a skull, crushing his muscles and bashing him against the ground..

Omi Barsait was a good sport. When he lost, he accepted it. After all, didn't he do the very same to his opponents past? Yet, to think the only man who could send him to the ground in years, let alone twice was so close.. that the peak was there in front of him again, and that someone dared try and intervene..

..that such a fierce uppercut would strike him.. trying to inhibit him..

[**Sense of Tense**]

..suddenly became utterly infuriating beyond his wildest dreams!!

Yet, as his teeth clenched tight in nerve-wracking pain, the taste of blood filling his mouth whilst the dark-clad fighter's body lurched backwards with the force of that sudden surprise strike.. something seemed off. If imaginable, it wasn't that momentarily, the Round V fighter battling Link suddenly loss general control of his body as his mind delved into a deep haze from the sudden skull-penetrating agony. It was more that within that haze, something was digging its claws into him..

Both pupils immediately went level again to try and at least get the enemy back in sight, hands at their respective sides as they began to lazily raise upwards at a very gradual pace. Even amidst that shot, Barsait knew he was going to be hurt more. An uppercut like that begged to be followed up upon; Link was going to deliver the goods in the form of damage. Normally, as the 'artist' and his boots slid back an arrant inch across the frosty floor, he could predict this and react accordingly even outside of a guarded stance. Yet, the shock of that blow was well felt.. and more restraining yet, was this sudden new sensation.

Chin digging against the offending right fist, all Barsait could think of as he sluggishly pressed his body against Link to make a follow-up as difficult to position as possible though likely inevitable.. was this strange world his mind was suddenly taking him to. It felt so dark, without the slightest trace of heat as he gazed into the abyss in every direction .. yet it didn't feel empty. Something..

"*He'll hit me.. damn it, I can't move!* DAMN IT!"

.. something festering inside of him. Was he hit that hard?! It was mind-boggling, the sensation started cold with the bitter ice abound but suddenly exploded into a wave of synapses connecting in hateful retaliation to his recklessness, his mind traveling from a lulled calm into a frenzied roar. All he could feel flood him, even as his eyes involuntarily winced a bit at the doubtless second shot..

.. was some kind of sick hatred that was burning him alive, taking his near-extinguished torch and giving it absurd levels of fuel. He felt hot, head to toe; his skin felt the icy air's stinging embrace, but beneath that, behind his eyes, in his head - it felt..

"Uhnn..!!" A small sucked-in gasp between his pursed lips, one might have attributed this to that fierce upper. Yet, it was that feeling exploding inside of his skull, no, deeper still - it felt like someone just flooded his entire body with some kind of intangible inferno threatening to pull in everything close and burn it to eternal smoldering ash.

It was time for phase II.

The two were close. Truth be told, Omi was rather used to fighting opponents larger than him by feet and by tens to hundreds and even thousands of pounds, so being the dominant in presence was a unique event. He was a man whom enjoyed striking his foes into the dirt, yet has been faced with overwhelming situations past where an opponent would dominate him either by force, guile, or a deadly merger. Such was war; their battleground, the ring. It never went quite how you desired it.

But, if there was a range he excelled at more than minimal distance, the 'Artist' didn't know of it. Pressuring foes into moving towards the direction he desired, weaving by in manners they weren't expecting, launching surprise attacks that took fighters posed for victory by horrid surprise - it was at this distance that many faltered and had to resort to instinct. Not so with fighter [Omi Barsait], who long ago promised he had no problem losing an arm if it meant taking his foe's "soul;" in defeat or otherwise..

He would have attacked sooner, hadn't that uppercut struck him in plush. But he couldn't.. he simply couldn't, and that drove him wild. A similar rage that flooded him in the second [Gaian Tenkaichi Budoukai] tourney when facing the champion, Deitric; one that strained his mind between going completely mad-berserk and keeping relative calm.

Now, however - as his stocky legs kept him in his favorite distance, not letting Link escape so fervently - that rage was manifesting in a most different way. Omi knew, stepping into the cold "ring," what faced him today.. but that fist of Link's brought it into the forefront, and made his eyes see nothing but it.

That he was close.

That if he could persevere, he would get another chance..

..that if he did not..

[**Nightmare**]

That if he did not, his burning desire would FALL!!

Barsait couldn't raise his arms to guard his skull quick enough, but the unexpected happened; the hand that crashed into his jaw.. it faltered. Something was off about the aftermath regarding it, though he had little time to estimate on about it. Instead, the dark-clad mercenary went for his next move, the one his right gauntlet could go for: if it couldn't reach his skull to defend.. it most certainly could reach Link's remaining fist in time to stop the too familiar one-two combo he had been expecting from before!

Thus, the nimble right hand would slide his mesh-covered elbow tip on back towards himself at an angle heading towards Omi's right, crashing furiously towards where Barsait saw motion, bone & metal first to bash against it defiantly and guide it away Quickly, the long-haired fighter's eyes darted down oh-so-briefly to see just how Link was going to no doubt grab..

"He still.." Eyes widening momentarily at his error, they immediately whipped back up towards the enemy swordsman with that furious demeanor. Momentarily losing general control of his body with that fierce uppercut that caused his jaw to scream, he was so positive Link was going to follow it up with a second blow to capitalize on Barsait's condition that he hadn't considered in his wildest dreams the sword was still well in hand.

Not even an instant later, the furious Omi was not going to let this moment go without results, albeit its briefness. The sting of that uppercut was happily screaming through his chin and beyond; he needed to give his foe that feeling.

Without warning, his skull suddenly rammed forward, jutting down a bit via his neck bowing at the last instant. Both as a simple means of throwing Link off guard so he couldn't simply twist his head and reduce the damage taken, and more importantly: to bash his skull directly into the opponent's eyes and surrounding bone. A risky maneuver, no doubt - but the wondrous thing about their height difference was that Omi needn't worry about reverse-bite wounds as he had made taller fighters suffer, simply due to their positioning.

His skull would, upon impact, grind into the point of impact furiously regardless of the skull-clearing agony that would no doubt grip him. This was his retaliation for that upper, two-fold; and as their heads would meet in a most unpleasant manner, he would take that ire a step farther by performing one more simple action.

The blood fresh in his mouth, thick and causing his salivation reflex to just keep on churning the stuff - he hadn't swallowed since the impact. While Link attempted a fight finisher post-initial strike, Barsait would not be so careless. Instead, as the upper skull would clash with Link, the lower - his grimacing lips - would gladly give the enemy a sudden splash of that thick mixture of liquids, which would likely hit right below the swordsman's nose and ooze on downward.

Keeping his legs stomping furiously forward, squared stance as before, and his right arm keeping that blade momentarily at bay until Link retracted it for undoubtedly the next strike, that was the situation present.

Regretfully, there was exceedingly little length between the two at this point due to the fact Omi never allowed the distance to be recovered to begin with; his height again gave him the advantage of simply leaning on over the wounded left fist for the headbutt in question - because as uncomfortable as a wounded fist scraping down his neck to high-upper chest was, it was hardly a restraining factor.

Such was war.