His Limits

Suddenly, Lars extended his leg, his foot hovering just above the ground like a poised snake ready to strike. Arthur dashed forward with a rapid kick aimed at Lars' midsection. After Lars retracted his leg just in time, blocking Arthur's foot with his shin, a sound rang out like a drumbeat that echoed in the arena.

The crowd couldn't tell what to expect!

Arthur didn't relent. Legs still raised, he attempted a kick aimed at Lars' head. Again, Lars met the challenge with his forearm, deflecting Arthur's foot away.

The audience marveled at the fluidity of their exchanges, witnessing a level of skill that transcended the ordinary. Their simple attempts felt almost choreographed while holding an unpredictable control that kept everyone on the edge of their seats.

Arthur pressed forward, rushing in with a jab that aimed directly for Lars' throat. Lars moved, blocking the attack just as easily as he had before.

It became a battle of wits as they engaged in a close-quarters exchange, arms swinging out.

Arthur attempted a backhand, but Lars ducked smoothly underneath, arching back just enough to avoid the swing. As he emerged upright, Arthur seized the moment, going for a swift chop across his collarbone. But with cool determination, he positioned his forearm to intercept, causing the sharp sound of flesh meeting flesh to echo through the arena.

This was no ordinary fight—it was a battlefield of fists.

The two continued to probe one another, each anticipating their opponent's moves with a level of acumen reserved only for those truly worthy to call themselves fighters.

Lars attempted to counter Arthur's efforts with a sharp elbow strike, but Arthur dove low, almost instinctively, sidestepping the attack.

As they momentarily disengaged, Arthur took another quick sidestep, aiming for a counterpunch. Lars caught it with the same hand he had tried to use for an elbow strike.

The two fighters were reduced to mere inches apart. In this close range, it was like two lions sizing each other up, preparing for the inevitable clash.

Arthur unleashed a flurry of three rapid punches. Lars dove each one with precision. In retaliation, he threw a single swing; Arthur sidestepped, evading the attack effortlessly. But just as he began to move again, Lars anticipated the counter, executing a swift leg sweep aimed at Arthur's ankles. Arthur, with surprising agility, hopped slightly, evading the sweep as Lars' momentum flung him upright again.

It was a back-and-forth dance—neither fighter willing to cede an inch, both persistently considering their next moves.

Lars prepared a spin kick, throwing his body into the motion. But Arthur was equally quick, ducking under the kick and deflecting the power of a second strike as Lars spun back around to regain his stance.

The spectators marveled at the genius of their movements; this was not merely combat but rather an emerging art form. Just what sheer discipline did these two fighters undergo to be able to fight with such competitive spirits?

Surely a match worthy of legends.

They began to inch closer again, both with guards raised high. In an instant, they sprang into an array of strikes that seamlessly blended into chaos. The assaults flew, fists meeting forearms with violent smacks.

For a moment, they lost track of time, each attack turning into small quakes that could be both felt and heard in the arena.

Arthur was most pleased because Lars wasn't taking any damage despite him using his chakra-enhanced strength.

Jada, a skilled observer attuned to the essence of battle, felt moved. With her Sharingan now activated, she watched Arthur's technique with awe; it was raw yet refined—a blend of streetfighting grit with a sense of control.

The way he shifted and manipulated blows was telling; it was a style born not from rules or belts but from endless hours forged from survival.

Her heart raced, but a nagging thought refused to leave her mind—why did this "Hoshikaze" feel so familiar? There was an unshakable sense of recognition lingering at the edge of her consciousness, but she brushed it aside, focusing entirely on the battle unfolding before her.

Lars and Arthur's moves were both precise and tactical.

Arthur executed a swift two-kick combo; the first kick skimmed Lars' side as he slipped under the second, narrowly avoiding impact. With a flash, he rebounded, executing a roundhouse kick, but Lars bobbed beneath it, eyes unblinking.

Lars tested the waters with a low kick aimed at Arthur's foundation, but Arthur merely hopped back.

Space between the fighters, Lars sprung into a spin kick, an elegant arc of power that everyone expected to connect easily. But with incredible dexterity, Arthur sidestepped, his body bending forward with perfect precision, absorbing the moment without a hint of strain.

As they regrouped, most of the audience stood on their feet.

The two fighters paused, rising to a sudden stillness. Lars was clearly intrigued as he assessed Arthur; meanwhile, Arthur remained focused.

The crowd observed this surreal moment—a suspended realm that none of them could see.

In a flash, the two surged toward each other again in an explosion of tactics and countertactics. Fists flew like projectiles, and the impacts echoed like symphonies.

Jada's hair stood up; she could see layers in the fight that others were blind to—the subtext, the game behind the game.

Lars began to unleash a string of jabs with remarkable speed; Arthur danced around them, every punch feeling like a near-miss. Lars therefore moved into a feint, tricking Arthur into blocking one punch while he threw another, landing square on Arthur's shoulder with a loud smack that sent vibrations through the arena.

Yet Arthur hadn't budged; he executed a swift pivot, thrusting his foot forward in a powerful kick. Lars tilted his body, absorbing the blow with his entire frame. He countered with a sharp elbow jab aimed toward Arthur's ribs.

But Arthur was not to be caught; he transitioned into a defensive position, swinging around with a rapid hook that caught Lars momentarily off-guard, the strike connecting with an even louder smack!

Like Arthur, Lars was unfazed, regaining his composure instantly.

In response, he launched a knee strike aimed for Arthur's jaw, only to have it thwarted as Arthur weaved aside at the last second.

The audience was beyond captivated; even those who had come simply to witness violence saw they were experiencing something extraordinary—a true display of art in motion.

Finally, Lars and Arthur found themselves locked in a grapple, each trying to gain the upper hand. In one swift motion, Arthur twisted his body downward, aiming to trip Lars. But Lars shifted his weight, evading the roll and attempting to seize Arthur's other arm.

The crowd jumped with every twist, the tension pulling tight, feeling the competition intermingle into their heads through each swing and block.

As both fighters shuffled toward a conclusion, Jada marveled at the spectacle before her. The aura of these two fighters—their control, their skill—signified that they were engineered for combat. She could practically feel the resolve exuding from both of them, like warriors of old.

As they took a step back, the moment crystallized, and both fighters lowered their guards. The crowd stood collectively on the edge of their seats, and their hearts pounded in unison.

The announcer's voice boomed, "Ladies and gentlemen, there have been some outstanding fights shown here, but I have never seen this before!" The crowd mimicked his energy, fueling the adrenaline pulsing through the two on stage.

Without a moment's notice, Lars sprang toward Arthur, his feet barely grazing the ground as he darted into action. Arthur unleashed a quick jab that whipped forward.

Lars dove just in time, feeling the rush of wind as the jab narrowly missed his face. He retaliated with a fierce right cross that connected with a thwack that echoed off Arthur's cheek.

When Arthur recovered, his expression remained the same as he moved his jaw to spit blood on the floor.

In a heartbeat, Lars launched a heavy left hook, arm extended. Arthur sensed it coming; he pivoted, the weight of the punch barely grazing him as he answered back with a tight uppercut. The boom of flesh against flesh echoed as the strike connected with Lars' jaw.

With each move, the fighters exchanged more than just blows; they exchanged wills, each refusing to yield.

Arthur targeted Lars's ribs, delivering a vicious series of body shots. The thudded sounds in the air was evident with every impact.

Lars felt the sting, a hot rush of pain as he absorbed the punches. His resolve was unbroken. With a sudden shift, he launched an overhand right, striking with a force that sent Arthur slightly back. Then, like a shadow, he slipped around Arthur's blind spot.

Arthur bore down, throwing a sequence of punches—one-two, hook, uppercut. Lars evaded one, dodged another, and as the last left hook swung high, he ducked and launched a counter right that almost landed squarely above Arthur's ear.

This drew gasps from the crowd. Their footwork wasn't something to overlook.

'The way he's moving…' Arthur thought. 'He's not leaving me any room…'

His eyes flared, closing the distance. In the relentless dance of fury and strategy, he unleashed a series of combinations: jab, cross, hook—each punch met with a smack, hitting against Lars' armour.

"What a show of heart and strength!" the announcer declared. "These fighters are giving it all in the center of this arena!"

As Arthur was about to land another blow, he unconsciously retreated, allowing Lars the moment to recover.

"Why'd he stop?" a spectator wondered.

Little had the crowd known, Lars was purposefully being hit to test Arthur's instincts. Had he not fallen back in time, he could have been dealt some serious damage.

Lars was by no means a pushover, and this fight was far from finishing.

Suddenly, Arthur lunged forward and launched a sharp jab aimed at Lars's jaw. But Lars was ready; he bobbed to the side, the punch cutting through the air, inches from connecting.

Arthur could see his opponent's twisted grin.

With a counter, Lars' fist darted out. Arthur tilted his head back, the punch narrowly missing him. He then circled, his feet gliding on the floor, eyes fixed on his opponent, assessing, and calculating.

Lars wasted no time. At such a close distance, he unleashed multiple strikes—hook, jab, cross—each punch ringing out like cannon fire. Arthur ducked and weaved, moving like water while evading the barrages.

Finding his rhythm, he then retaliated with a powerful right, the fist colliding squarely with Lars's ribcage!

Lars slowly stumbled but quickly corrected himself. He managed to plant his palms on Arthur's chest, shoving him back to create some distance between them.

"I felt that," Lars admitted, hand on his side.

Arthur didn't say anything. Instead, he lowered himself, springing off the ground in a low, spinning kick that aimed for Lars' legs.

The move was decisive, but Lars anticipated it. He sidestepped, the kick barely missing him as he swung back, landing a solid punch to Arthur's raised forearm.

Staggering back, Arthur regained his balance, shaking off the impact. A clear bruise could be seen on his arm. He met Lars' fierce stare with one of his own, and in that brief moment, they understood something about the other: both understood the depths of what it meant to lose.

With that, Arthur charged again. This time he mixed up his approach, darting in and out, throwing hooks meant to confuse and mislead. He landed several strong jabs, causing Lars to slightly falter.

Unwilling to be outdone, Lars bellowed, summoning his own ferocity as he launched a brutal kick aimed at Arthur's midsection.

Arthur, anticipating the attack, dropped to one knee, the kick whistling just above his head. Using the momentum of his lower position, he swept one foot into Lars's legs, taking him off balance.

The fighter quickly twisted his body midair and flipped himself back to his feet as the crowd let out a frenzied cry.

Arthur didn't hesitate. He pushed himself off the floor, closing the distance in one fluid motion. He aimed a blow at Lars' face, but it was caught like it was nothing.

Clearly the latter wasn't finished. With a sudden flick of Lars' wrist, he used the floor to propel himself backward, dodging another strike.

The urgency of the moment fueled him as he pressed ahead, launching into an impressive array of spinning kicks and jabbing punches. Arthur blocked and dodged; the pair entangled in a relentless exchange.

The air felt electric as each man fought—savvy instincts colliding with raw ones.

Arthur found an opening, twisting his body into an uppercut that caught Lars off-guard. The punch landed squarely, and Lars reeled back.

But it wasn't over yet. Lars charged, leaning low and driving his shoulder into Arthur's midsection. The impact was staggering, knocking the wind out of Arthur as he was driven backward.

It only took a fraction of a second for the oxygen to return to his lungs. Yet as he was standing back on his feet, the raw adrenaline coursing through him put him into remembrance.

Every time he performed one attack, Lars had six more ready for him. And every time he dodged, Lars positioned himself in a manner that rendered Arthur's moves useless.

This was it; this was what it meant to fight someone that could truly make him push his limits!