Resonance Unbound

Annakin moved with precision and speed, his every strike calculated and cold. His sharp eyes scanned Carlos's movements, finding and exploiting every opening with brutal efficiency. Carlos, on the other hand, became increasingly erratic.

His attacks grew wilder, his frustration evident as he struggled to land a clean hit. The crowd roared with excitement, caught up in the chaos of the battle, but Ezra noticed what others seemed to miss—Carlos's movements were subtly shifting, becoming faster, his strikes sharper, as though something unnatural was amplifying him.

Then, in a desperate burst, Carlos threw a wild punch that connected solidly with Annakin's head. The impact reverberated through the arena, silencing the crowd momentarily as gasps filled the air.

Annakin staggered back, his mask wobbling dangerously on his face. Blood trickled from a gash above his brow, dripping onto the floor in dark, rhythmic splatters.

The arena fell into a tense silence for a brief moment, the crowd collectively holding its breath. Annakin clutched his head, his stance unsteady, as though the blow had shaken him deeply. For a fleeting moment, it appeared Carlos had gained the upper hand.

"The Undertaker has landed a devastating blow on The Wolf!" the announcer's voice boomed with theatrical exuberance, the excitement in his tone feeding the crowd's frenzy.

"Could this be the end of his legendary streak? And—more importantly—will his mask finally come off? Who knows, ladies and gentlemen, perhaps the rumors are true, and he is as handsome as they say!"

Carlos grinned, his teeth gleaming under the lights as he reveled in the crowd's roaring approval. He raised his fists triumphantly, playing to the audience as though the fight were already his.

But Ezra's eyes stayed locked on Annakin. Despite the blood streaking his face and the unsteady sway in his stance, there was something in his posture—a simmering focus, a quiet determination that hadn't faltered for even a moment.

The fight continued, but the tide seemed to shift. Carlos began pressing forward relentlessly, landing multiple blows as Annakin focused solely on defense.

The once-dominant fighter seemed cornered, refusing to go down but offering little in return. The crowd's cheers grew louder, some already declaring Carlos the victor.

"It seems that our winner here is obvious!" the announcer exclaimed, his voice triumphant as Carlos delivered another heavy blow.

But something wasn't right. Ezra's brow furrowed as he squinted at Carlos, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. There was a strange energy about him, a subtle glow that flickered just beyond perception.

Then he saw it—a faint purple light gliding around Carlos, wrapping around his fists like a serpent.

Ezra's heart raced as realization struck. He looked around, but no one else seemed to notice. The crowd remained oblivious, swept up in the spectacle of the fight.

That light… it can't be…

The glow pulsed faintly as Carlos landed another strike, the energy clearly augmenting his blows. Ezra's stomach twisted. If that was what he thought it was, Carlos wasn't fighting fair.

The fight had become one-sided. Carlos was cheating, and it was working—for now.

The match dragged on, neither fighter willing to back down.

Ezra watched with bated breath as Carlos's strikes, once fueled by the glowing purple energy, began to weaken. His punches slowed, his movements losing the sharpness they had just moments before. Annakin, battered but unrelenting, must have noticed the shift as well.

With a measured step forward, Annakin unleashed a devastating counterattack. A brutal kick landed squarely on Carlos's liver, doubling him over with a guttural groan.

Annakin followed up instantly, delivering a crushing blow to Carlos's face that sent him reeling. A spray of blood and spit flew through the air as Carlos stumbled back, spitting out several gold teeth.

The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and gasps, the tide of the battle clearly turning in Annakin's favor. Ezra leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the ring. Whatever advantage Carlos had gained, it was slipping through his fingers, and Annakin was ready to capitalize.

Then it clicked.

Ezra's eyes widened in realization. There was no way Annakin hadn't noticed Carlos's cheating. He'd seen the purple glow too—or at the very least, felt the unnatural weight behind the punches. Ezra watched Annakin's movements closely, the truth dawning on him.

Annakin had known. He was taking those hits deliberately, letting Carlos wear himself out.

Each blow was weakening Carlos further, his stamina draining along with whatever power the glow granted him.

Annakin wasn't losing. He was waiting.

Ezra's lips curled into a small grin as he muttered under his breath, "Smart move."

Back in the ring, Carlos stumbled, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His strikes, once sharp and punishing, now lacked force, and the purple glow around his fists began to flicker erratically, like a candle about to extinguish.

Annakin didn't hesitate. He closed the gap between them in an instant, his strikes precise and unrelenting. Another crushing blow to Carlos's ribs sent him crashing to the mat, his body convulsing slightly as he tried—and failed—to get back up.

The crowd's cheers reached a fever pitch as Annakin stood tall, his imposing figure towering over his fallen opponent. His mask remained firmly in place, and with one final glance at Carlos, he raised a bloodied fist in victory.

Ezra let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Annakin wasn't just strong—he was strategic, methodical, and utterly unshakable. His movements carried the precision of someone who had seen every possible outcome and had chosen the one that led to inevitable victory.

As Carlos staggered backward, gasping for air, Annakin seized the opportunity. In one swift motion, he closed the distance, wrapping his massive arms around Carlos's neck in a vice-like chokehold.

The crowd erupted, their cheers echoing through the arena as Carlos flailed helplessly, his struggles growing weaker by the second.

Annakin held firm, his stance unyielding, his grip unrelenting. Seconds felt like minutes as Carlos's resistance faltered, his frantic movements slowing until, finally, he tapped out—a desperate, frantic motion signaling his surrender.

The arena exploded in a thunderous roar, the crowd on their feet as the referee stepped in to pull Annakin back. The victor raised a bloodied fist, his imposing figure towering over Carlos's defeated form.

Ezra could have sworn, just for a moment, that Annakin's gaze flickered toward him through the crowd. A sharp, knowing look—one that sent a chill down Ezra's spine.

The announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, barely audible above the chaos. "Ladies and gentlemen, the fight is over! The Wolf reigns supreme! Your winner—Annakin!"

Ezra sat back, letting the tension drain from his shoulders. Annakin hadn't just won—he'd proven, without a doubt, why he was called The Wolf.