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Trei grins as they go to collide, and just before they touch, his arm arcs around, hurling he blood-blade from point blank range and aiming it for his oncoming opponent's throat.

If it connects, even if Trei dies, Snow will be headless, because this blade has been surrounded by the same explosive energy of Trei's original "grenades." The only difference? With this little space between them, and a longer projectile, Snow's gonna be hella hard-pressed to dodge the oncoming attack. Even as the waters seep in, and Trei enters the range of Snow's "hiken" attack, the young elemental throws his every effort into offense, into taking this ******** down here, now, and for good.. ..

Sun.

It's rays shone across the arena grounds, no roaring crowd screaming in the stands. No betting hopefuls in the sides, waiting to make their fortunes. No competitors laying in the under works, ready to take their spot in the magnificent glory and risk their lives for a purpose truly unique to each individual; silence was what the warm, practically glowing sands gave off.

"Damn.. this is almost depressing." A familiar voice mused, hopping over the lowest point of the arena's spectator area before sliding along the hot soil below, gazing forward once more at it all; trying to recollect what it was like to be a combatant in a place like this. "Empty, empty, damned empty. If it wasn't for the championships, this place'd be fitting for the ghosts.."

Making these statements, was none other than previous Gaia Tenkaichi Budoukai participant "Omi Barsait", defeated in Round IV of the [Barton Branch] after it was decreed he had done less favorably than his opponent, Mooo, via judge panel. Admittedly, he left the grounds somewhat bitter, but all in all, with good spirits. Yet, to return here and glance around.. it was nostalgia, put in simple terms.

All of his attire was the same as that which he wore in his final, official bout; save the dark cloth had been attended to and sewn properly, no longer ragged from the tournament's abuse to it all. His dark hair, slightly longer yet still retaining that trademark characteristic almost to a fault of being wild and strewn about all over. Though, a bit of hair at his chin could be spotted .. Toothy grin flashing, a 'fang' glistening; his body finally came to a full recovery from the tournament's many rigors a week and a half prior to the mercenary's trip back into the pits of this combat ring. It was by coincidence his path took him back to the arena grounds, much less . . the fact that it seemed, yet another bout was going to commence. It would seem, even with his time in the mashing of combat the tournament was, one more match at the least was in store.

Boots dug into the sand below, hands lazily at their respective sides; his eyes, amber brown still shining brightly, glancing here & there for a sign of what was expected. "Alright. I've exerted myself endlessly in seclusion to refine myself, yet.. Really, I haven't gotten into a good scrap in a damned good while. Feel kinda bad about being so rusty, actually." More idle musing to himself; Barsait was merely passing the time, as the hot sun beat down overhead. Soon, he would likely have less time for such a relaxed deposition - though, the lack of time would unlikely stop him from carrying on all the same, either..

Spotting Snow for the first time in ages, Omi lazily rose his right arm in a sort of wave, bellowing out: "Yo. After the competition, you say? Nn.. I'll admit," Pausing just long enough to clear his throat awkwardly, the dark-clad mercenary yet again started up in a chipper tone of voice, "I left that last match feeling damned bitter. Not at my opponent, but at myself; damned good scrap, hadn't had one like it in quite some time. I've been pretty good, actually."

Posture correcting itself, the swordsman suddenly rose his right, gauntlet-endorned hand. The fingers tensed, before suddenly forming a fist with an audible sound of bone cracking; the trademark "O" on his handplates catching the sun rays and glowing a soft auburn. "But! Same question to you before we get this rolling, man; how'd you make out in the competition, I didn't get a chance to see you after my last bout in Barton! You in the championships, or did you get knocked out?"

Suddenly grinning at the heat, it was clear: Omi enjoyed how warm it was outside. This had nothing to do with his innate.. abilities. Rather, he merely loved the rush extreme weather entailed, even as beads of sweat began to form at different points of the 17 year-old man's body. "Nah, doesn't matter! We'll put that crap to shame today anyway, for sure. I hope you're not too rusty, I've got.." A soft groan escaped his lips, as he began leaning back and fourth for a few simple stretches. "..Well, just a little trick I've been working the kinks out on I'm real eager to test out. You won't mind being a ginny pig for me now, will ya?"

Languardian metal composed that likewise trademark of a chain mesh Barsait wore so often. Many would find it agonizing, given the heat, to wear a full-body chain mesh; yet, again, Omi was a lover of the elements. And as the Barton round marking his leave of the Gaia Tenkaichi Budoukai showed, that armor held an amazing resilience to blunt force. It wasn't to where Barsait wouldn't feel a good bit of impact or anything; but it deafened the roar of a good punch, that much was clear.

Once again, his blade, even with impending battle imminent, was sheathed and laying in it's holster calmly. Yet, it didn't take much analysis to tell one thing.

Omi was almost horrifyingly eager to get this bout going.

Even amidst that eager gaze Omi held, his eyes widened on cue at the word "killed." It wasn't quite the answer he had in mind. "Now, that sounds damned unpleasant. I guess I should count myself fortunate for just havin' a wounded pride, than." One soft chuckle followed those words. Shaking his head to take in the heat about him, the mercenary once again regained his composure; even in stillness, a kind of energy in the tension of his body signaling: Any moment, movement would begin.

As the words "Have at ye!" rung out, Omi suddenly clashed his 'fangs' together with an audible dull sound, his left shoulder and leg inching forward whilst the right side came back. Left arm crossed over his gut, eyes gazing out loftily above the shoulder-blade, the cloth of his own shirt just beneath eyesight. "Very well. Forgive me if this is unpolished, won't you?"

Right arm outstretched, fingertips much the same; the sight for a single red light flowing from one of his right index-fingertip's pores. It was around two inches in diameter, and took the shape of a snake, going as far as the 'head' itself to show it's fangs, as it were. Yet, as the spectral figure's "mouth" opened wide, something bizarre was in it's 'jaw'. It was a pulsating, green whisp of smoke.. no, more than smoke, though retaining that basic quality. Revolving in place like a sphere, it had a black core. If one didn't know better, one would say it was a ghastly eye.

So quick to continue, Barsait's right eye suddenly began taking on a strange metamorphosis. Red veins etched along the immediate skin about the right eye-socket, as the white sections of the swordsman's eye took on a pulsating, glowing-green hue; the pupils, even more so. Swirling rapidly like that of a miniature tempest.

"Well." Barsait merely muttered, sucking in air slowly to retain a sense of calm. "Armor will play more of a roll here than first glance . . shows, methinks." What did this bizarre show mean, as Omi began gritting his teeth harsher to keep the slight sensation of pain from becoming a nuisance? Quite simply, his right eye's vision was no longer that of what was immediately before the mercenary. The left eye, unaffected, merely gazed on as normal. Yet the right.. in a bizarre, hallucinatory-like miasma, saw from the serpent's perspective. In effect, Omi's right eye was now in full effect, remote viewing. The serpent, some three feet ahead and slightly to the right of Barsait, held part of his gaze. His vision split in two.

"Freeze, slash, chill and crush; but most of all, make no mistakes on your defense.. or I'll seek them out." Left hand already a formed fist and resting across his gut, the mercenary's single projected serpent was pulsating. The 'eye' merely analyzing Snow with an eerie piercing quality.

The battle was already well underway.

A seven foot body flickered into existance hovering over the center sword emblem in the arena. His metal shoes slowly touching down. All nine of his tails flicking outward in a single gracefull motion.

"Been a while...this place hasn't changed..."

That usual grin as he dragged on his ciggarette. Only now. The figure had raven hair appose to his silver. Same old Ninig though. Spite the constant change of bodys that he had grown accustom to as of late.

"Now if only another tournament would start..."

Crouching down he clutched a handfull of sand, letting it dribble out back into the mass. His head tilted as he watched. Strangely, the ancient markings all over his body would shift every few seconds.

Moving barely noticeably, but moving none the less.

"In anycase....Its nice to be back...the tournament doesn't need to start for me to find a fight afterall..."

Plopping down right there, the man would sit cross legged. His tails curling around him as he waited. At least one person had to happen by. Right?

Walking into the arena from the opposite side of Sparn was Gigey Foxer III. The Yoshi in Human form would enter the arena. The one armed warrior would stand motionless, waiting for his opponent.

Gigey would raise an eyebrow, not knowing if he should help Sparn, or laugh at him. After a moment he would speak. "Hello there. I'm assuming you are my opponent?" While speaking, he would reach back with his left hand and draw a sword from a sheath strapped to his back. The sword would curve back and forth across the blade, giving the sword a serpent like quality. At the bottom of the hilt, what looked to be two metal serpent tongues curved back to the top of the hilt. Also, an aura of cold, dark energy seemed to radiate from the blade. These traits gave the sword its name, Serpentsword. Gigey would hold it in his left hand defensively, not feeling like making the first move.

Gigey would kick his foot up in the air, putting it right in front of Sparn’s head to stop him from getting close enough to get hit by one of his wild swings. He would keep his foot there until Sparn either stopped, or changed strategy.