Episode 73: Delicate Touch

"The contestants have gathered completely, anticipation builds up, our heart, mind, soul everything is into this battle now, and we all are just as impatient as children who cannot wait for that favorite toy to be given to them." The commentator's voice echoed over the battlefield, a caress wrapped in amusement and thinly veiled malice. "My love for crimson tells me that now I should officially announce the commencement of the battle. Weapons ready? Muscles tight? Just one more thing, keep your dicks safe and… Assault!"

With a savage cheer, the masses surged. Steel and iron clashed as a tsunami of bodies threw itself into the fray. Griswa stood calm, distant as if half his attention had wandered elsewhere, his stance deceptively open. A machete-wielding warrior seized his chance, rushing in with a snarl, weapon raised high. And in that heartbeat, Griswa's arm moved.

Kapow!! His fist brushed the assailant's cheekbone—a light, effortless touch that belied its force. The man's face contorted, teeth splintered, his body twisted from the impact, spinning in mid-air, the shattered teeth hovered in slow-motion. His scream fractured the air as he landed, sand burst into a dusty halo around his crumpled form.

Fourteen million spectators screamed in unison! The sound assaulted Griswa's senses like a living thing. His gaze shifted, slowly sweeping the frenzied battlefield around him. The carnage began in earnest: swords met flesh, blades tore through muscles, hands, legs, toes, fingers, then guts, intestines and then finally the heads. Fountains of blood erupted with each scream. With the limbs sliced and severed, guts shredded, eyes gouged— the ground pooled with blood, a red so deep it seemed to merge with the horizon, also reflecting the blood-red atmosphere, casting a grisly, surreal haze across the chaos.

Oversized warriors lumbered through the melee, bringing down maces with sickening crunches that sent bone fragments and shattered skulls scattering. The drums hammered on the speakers, thumping in sync with each brutal strike, each desperate stab and parry intensifying the gore to the next carnage level. The battlefield itself had become a creature of madness and savagery indicating how low their desperation could sink, a gruesome reflection of the country's decay. This was no mere tournament; it was a grotesque arena of survival where poverty and hunger pressed people into madness, into murder for money.

Griswa stood still, his gaze narrowed. He understood these men fought out of desperation—driven by forces that left them no choice but to claw, to bite, to kill. An energy of frustration pulsed through the crowd, like heat emanating from the very earth. The weight of money meant little to Griswa; he had not come here to partake in senseless butchery. But he also sensed something else—a tension beyond hunger for wealth. A frustration that went deeper.

Then! From the edge of his sight, a wave-mass of killers advanced on him, their bodies forming an almost fluid mob. Blunt weapons were carried, like daggers, poniards, swords, axes, machetes, labryses, khandas, tsurugis, spathas, takobas, sweihanders—every blade possible, yet Griswa's eyes barely acknowledged them, his gaze was unfocused, as if it was unnecessary. A thought solidified in his mind: Just touch them, do not hit them, just touch them, power control.

And with that before those people could attack him, he hit them or precisely just touched them as if he was acting! First punch, a man tossed in the air and fell on the ground in slow motion! Second man was punched in the chest, his ribs shattered and he flew in the air, impacted on the ground, erupting sand clouds! Third man was attacked on the legs, his bone cracked, his face hit the sand and sliced roughly on the sand tearing the tissues of the face as he rotated and fell down! Fourth man was punched on his face and he simply hit the ground unconscious. Griswa's main motive was to just hit them unconscious or at least knock them enough so they couldn't get up anymore. He hit the fifth man and he flew in the air. Griswa caught hold of the dagger that the fifth man left from his hand when he was punched.

"Let's end this soon."

The assault continued, and so did Griswa. He weaved through the mass, bruising them on non-vital parts like like legs, shoulders, hands, upper left chest, upper back, etc. Their bodies littered the sand like discarded toys. He blurred like a ninja, and within seconds, around hundred and eight attackers lay motionless, groaning in agony. He pivoted toward the last remaining group, those who, even through the haze of fear, were still determined to rush to him.

With a fluid motion, Griswa tossed aside the dagger and slid past the nearest assailant's swing. A nudge from his elbow connected with the man's cheekbone, a delicate touch that shattered bone. The man's crooked face, crooked more, spittle mixed and danced with blood in slow motion as he twisted in the air, his body floated horizontally before plummeting to the sand with a DHUSH!!

Another two men advanced together, but Griswa moved faster—the guy on his left was kicked on his right leg's ankle and the guy on his right was kicked on his left leg's ankle. This brought both to their knees, limbs splaying in the sand. He stepped between them and, with a brutal elegance, delivered a sharp kick on their balls. Their screams fused and echoed all over the arena. Griswa's fists followed, a light touching blow under each man's throat. The men flipped through the air, their bodies inverted with hands braced for impact, legs kicking high above in a display of agile acrobatics in slow motion. Dust billowed beneath them as they prepared to meet the ground in a controlled descent in slow-motion, their screams echoed and then they impacted on the ground.

DHUSH!! 

The final warrior stumbled forward, shouting as though his voice alone could conjure enough courage to best Griswa. But Griswa, unmoved, struck out with a single slap that sent the man spiraling through the air with his limbs whipped out. He crashed with such a force that he bounced off the ground in slow motion. His scream reverberated through the blood-atmospheric arena.

From somewhere amid the pile of broken men, voices rose, hushed but indignant, laced with pain. "Who the hell is this guy?"

"We attacked him thinking he was all alone and we were together." muttered another, his tone thick with disbelief. "Does he wear the mask because he's a big shot? Like the Serpent?"

"He spoiled our plan," another groaned. "We attacked him thinkin... and he just… he just took us out like we were bitches. One of us was supposed to knock the rest of us out when the battle would come closer to its end. Then we could've won the money, but now we're just… left like this…bitches."

Griswa interrupted, his voice low and unmistakable. "So, people come here making plans?" The men looked at his masked face that was haunting with the red atmosphere.

"He heard us!!"

"You come in herds, pretending to fight one another so one of you can win and split the money?" Griswa continued.

One of the men sighed. "Now what? We're done. And it's not like fighting those giants is an option, they've come in herds too…"

Griswa tilted his head. "Bruh, not that I care about the herds. Just got some general info. As the rule hasn't changed, nothing else matters. In the end, one shall remain standing."

Griswa turned and took one slow step impacting the sand. That one step sent ripples through the sand as the ground shook. That one step was metaphorically indicating that Griswa had taken the step to the next level where giants and brutal, insane, monstrous, animal-like contestants were gonna approach him. 

Undeterred, and with not a care in the world, Griswa took the next steps ahead.

The air thickened as Griswa strode forward, unfazed by the swarm descending around him. A pulse beat through the arena speakers as a heavy action-adventure track rumbled to life, setting the tone as the masked figure wasted no time. He glided into the fray, dodging an attacker's lunge before shoving him down with dismissive ease. Another charged, swinging a chain, but Griswa's hand caught it midair and pulled him off the ground, yanking the attacker face-first to the ground. He moved swiftly, delivering blows to the next three challengers.

The sixth fighter swung a wild strike, and Griswa seized his wrist, kicking a seventh man directly in the face. The man flew backward, limbs flailed before he hit the ground. Griswa's fist struck the sixth fighter's cheek, flipping him to the dirt, his body bounced twice, each impact was accompanied by an audible crunch and an echoing scream in slow motion. Another fighter charged, only to be met with a well-timed strike that spun him full circle; Griswa's open palm smacked him to the ground, leaving him sprawled with a reverberating thud.

Not far off, two other contestants clashed—one wielding a massive triple-bladed axe, the other gripping a seven-pronged heptadent. With a wild leap, the heptadent-wielder arced high above his opponent, his prongs aimed at the axe bearer. But before he could strike, another man was hurled through the air, crashing into him midflight and sending both fighters spiraling to the ground in a tangled heap of limbs and weapons. The collision caught the attention of those nearby; their heads turned, tracking the source of what just happened. Out from the blood-tinged fog stepped Griswa, a flick of his wrist dispersed the haze with a sound like rushing wind. He walked forward with a deadly calm, his long hair rippled as he approached.

The fighter, the one with the three-bladed axe, sneered, a glint of savage intent in his eyes. "Got some food for parcel," he spat, a wolfish grin spreading. "I'll cut you open and feast on those eyes under that mask."

Griswa continued in silence, his steps steady, his posture cold. The axe-wielder lunged—and met with an unanticipated response. Griswa's hand rose with lightning speed, delivering a single slap that froze the man mid-stride, leaving him in a statuesque stance as the world seemed to pause. Then, slowly, he toppled backward, crashing to the ground unconscious, his eyes rolled back as the bloodlust faded from his face.

"Who's this guy?! He ain't even using any weapon!" came the panicked voices from the onlookers, contestants whispering in disbelief.

"Yeah! He's fighting barehanded! What about that blue sword—won't he use it? What's he even carrying it for?"

"And no armor, no helmet, just an old, dirty mask? Is he insane? Is he asking to die in a mass battle like this?"

A ripple of confusion swept through the crowd, but one voice hissed above the rest, cutting through the uncertainty. "Why the hell do you care?! Kill him! Then we can kill each other!"

Yet among the grumbling challengers, a man wielding twin hammers shifted nervously. A grotesque man asked him "Oi, we're a group—he isn't even using his sword. What the hell are you scared for?!!"

The hammer-wielder shook his head and took a gulp as his hands shivered. "He knows it. He knows it's a mass battle. And yet he's fighting barehanded. Anyone would shit their pants!!"

Realization dawned among the crowd, settling over them like an iron weight. But the growing tension snapped with a thunderous impact—a massive giant, towering over the battlefield at a staggering thirty-five meters, leapt from red the fog with an earth-shaking roar. Dust and red mist billowed as the giant aimed a massive warpick straight at Griswa, his enormous frame descended like an avalanche. And yet, Griswa remained undisturbed, still as a shadow, calm as water, yet stormy as water too. Then, with a perfect, almost lazy movement, he slid aside, evading the weapon just as it crashed into the sand with a brutal, bone-rattling shockwave. The entire arena trembled, but Griswa didn't even blink. His coat and hair billowed with the wind and sand clouds in style.

The giant crouched low, his face close to the ground from the force of his own strike, as though prostrating himself before Griswa. Griswa's lips curved slightly beneath his mask. "Hehe, my turn," he said, his tone as casual as if greeting an old friend.

He slipped forward, sliding through the sand, then rose just enough to plant a seemingly light punch against the giant's cheek. The effect was instantaneous!! The impact rippled visibly across the giant's massive face, his eyes squeezing shut as the visceral shock of pain twisted his expression. The force of the strike launched the giant backward in a slow, spiraling arc, his enormous body turning at an angle as he crashed into a nearby Pillar of Agony in slow motion, his spine collided with the stone in a reverberating crack. Sand and dust erupted on impact, the particles suspended in the air, the very earth shivered from this impact. The tremor echoed through the stadium as even the other Pillars of Agony quaked in resonance.

Across the battlefield, around 67,000 contestants staggered back, an involuntary recoil at the sight of Griswa's effortless power. The giant's helmet clanged loudly as he finally crumpled to the ground, landing with a dull, final thud. Griswa took a moment, almost as if he were measuring the shockwaves still rolling through the dust-choked air.

The commentator's voice cracked in, barking with a feverish energy. "THAT! THAT MASKED MAN JUST HIT THAT GIANT IN SLOW MOTION!!! THIS IS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE!!! MAN, ANOTHER WARRIOR WHO JUST DEFEATED A COLOSSAL GIANT IN ONE FREAKING BLOW! MAN, I'D HAVE LOVED TO SEE HIM IN A DUEL! WHAT IF HE HAD FOUGHT OUR ONE-BLOW JESDALA?!"

"Ooh, I was asked not to be harsh, but that was harsh. Sorry, sorry." Griswa's voice broke through, a tone so unexpected that the fighters nearby were left speechless. Their jaws dropped and eyes widened.

The crowd froze. For a moment, the surreal image of this man—the unarmed, masked fighter apologizing—settled over them like an inexplicable dream. Then came the shouts, half in disbelief, half in shock,

"DID HE JUST SAY SORRY????????!!!!!!!!!!"

A deep, bellowing voice called out, slicing through the murmurs. "Who hit our brother?!" The silhouettes of a group of colossal figures seemed to emerge from the haze. It was an army of titans looming through the red fog, their massive forms multiplied.

"Shit, the giants are coming!" someone cried from the mass of contestants, their voices laced with the crackle of terror.

Griswa let a slow, wicked grin spread under his mask, his eyes gleamed with a deadly thrill.

"This is gonna be interesting," he said, a dark smile curled his lips.