Welcome to Gaia! ::

The turquoise-eyed finalist let out a growl as he felt something jab hard into his neck; specifically, his throat. His opponent had managed to lock his arm around the back of his neck, but the distance was too much for him to choke the man - but the finger-jabs to the throat area still hurt pretty bad. It wasn't enough to cause him any serious trouble, but it did break the skin a little where the middle-finger had jabbed him. The fighter's eyes watered at the pain - like any man, his throat was sensitive to pain, because the body knew it was an important place. Instinctively, he tucked his chin in the hopes that he could guard it from his opponent's inquiring fingers.

CRACK--~

Deitric slammed Omi down to earth on the stone floor of the arena with a resounding crash of sound that momentarily drowned out the roar of the crowd in his ears - the sound of his own heart thumping notwithstanding. His forearm was locked hard into place while his neck was forced to remain tense in the vice-grip of his opponent's bicep and forearm. He could feel a throb in his head - the lock wasn't on his jugulars, but was tight enough on the back of his neck to affect the blood-flow enough for him to feel his heartbeat distinctly.

Too tricky; can't let this go on much longer..

The warrior had only a few options - he could try to escape, try to pummel his opponent into submission in their current situation (not bloody likely), or do something altogether different, albeit a lot more dangerous for both of them, but mostly Omi. Out of all his options, it was the most simple. And he didn't hesitate to do it - as soon as Omi hit the ground, the tribesman moved (what little amount of motion was needed, if any).

Deitric's leant-forward body tipped a bit on the balls of his feet and he let his upper-body weight settle on his forearm-- abruptly, somewhere around a hundred pounds or more of force was suddenly pressing down on Omi's neck - especially the breathing passageway - through Deitric's forearm, only the weight of his lower-body and legs not present. It only took four pounds to damage the breathing tract in the throat, but that was with a strike - this had a great deal more weight behind it, but with no actual force.

It wouldn't crush the passage-way completely - the man's jugulars and neck would help take the pressure, naturally - but it would hopefully do some hefty damage. Ontop of that, Deitric's upper-body weight was also pressing now against Omi's jugulars, restricting the blood-flow to his brain. Altogether, this simple, almost lazy action could cause more than a little damage, and had no telegraph beyond the sudden increase of force Omi would undoubtedly feel. It worked almost like poison - imperceptible for only a moment before striking out to choke the life from the target.

Deitric growled out a wheeze - even with his chin tucked, there was a few inches of his throat unprotected that his opponent could grab at, and he felt a clinching grip grasp at that exact point, squeezing his breathing passageway down to a much smaller size than it should be.

The fighter's eyes narrowed as he held out for a moment, glaring down defiantly before offering his opponent the a slight inclination of his head - the best nod he could manage given the situation. The arm that had been pressing down on Omi's neck straightened, placing the palm down against the floor to relieve the pressure before the finalist slid his right foot forward with the knee bent under him. Using the hand and leg, the tribesman threw his weight back while releasing the captured leg, sending him back-pedaling nearly out of control, leaving the other finalist down on the ground.

Once there was some space between them - about two meters, give or take a few feet - the Khasmin man came to a halt, standing up to his full height. The only signs that spoke of the scuffle were a few red lines on his neck - no blood, but they were red and raw.

"...," Deitric remained silent as he watched the other finalist warily, his features chilly and emotionless. The only hint of what had gone on was that his breathing was deeper than normal as his lungs sought to replenish him with oxygen. He hadn't been deprived of air for long, or even completely, but his body could only react in one way to such a danger - try to get back to normal as fast as possible.

"Hrm..," the warrior made a soft sound under his breath as his brows knitted together in what might've been irritation - or contemplation. So far, their exchange had been intense, but both fighters had fought for little gain - neither of them took a great deal of damage, and that meant they didn't deal much. However Deitric felt about it, he didn't show - instead, he moved on. His own breathing had since calmed down, the flow of air moving steadily in and out of his nostrils. He could hear the crowd again, the sound of blood rushing in his ears receding into the background once more.

Sidling his left foot back to put his right side forward a few degrees, Deitric brought his fists up again, his left sinking just a little lower than his right while he squared his feet with his shoulders, the right leading again. His hands were balled into fists, but not too tightly - if he needed to grab something, he wanted to be able to do it quickly. The fighter seemed to buzz with a vague, implacable motion - a tiny, minute bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet; waiting for something.

Without pomp and circumstance, the fighter closed in to just nearly arm's reach, but he didn't opt to attack, instead slipping back again - bobbing about just at the few inches of range needed for one of them to make an attack. Whatever the man's plans were, they didn't involve attacking - not yet, anyways.

A slight "Hrm," issued from the larger finalist with a flare of his nostrils as he exhaled a breath and he took one.. two steps out of their reach at the same time Omi did so. It was hard to say if the sound he made was one of consternation or something else, but his mannerisms changed. His features were still collected and composed, but something else seemed to peek out from just beneath his calm.

The crowd around them booed as the tribesman's arms fell away to rest at his sides, his pearlescent eyes burning beneath his brow. His stance still suggested a sense of readiness, and he knew Omi had probably gotten a measure of his speed from their previous round and knew that even in his current stance, Deitric could respond in a flash. Unfortunately, the warrior had also had to show one of his cards - his weight. He weighed nearly double Omi, but didn't look it - the red-skinned fighter actually looked to weigh only about two-ten. Like a hunting cat, he seemed to pack on muscle efficiently enough to hide it.

From his new position, Deitric didn't seem to move - his hands were at his sides, but the splay of his hands and fingers and the set of his arms suggested that he was more than ready from combat from this position. He knew the man in front of him was a tricky fighter - he found means to disrupt almost all of the Khasmin man's tricks, though Deitric had done the same to him in return. While he'd entertained the thought of simply barging forward, he knew that was likely to be expected; given his weight advantage, it was only proper thinking that he would be the more aggressive, physical fighter.

But life had taught him to be a little more careful than that, and he didn't have the same room for mistakes as he did with other opponents. Pulling back served his purposes, at least for the time being. Even with his cautious nature, it was a little uncharacteristic for him to withdraw back from combat for even this long, but if he had a plan or was just finding new ways to improvise, it was hard to tell.

Deitric watched his opponent change stances, but the only thing that he changed was-- nothing. When Omi came forward, Deitric moved to meet him, bringing up his own hands to a sort of half-guard - his right was up closer to his face, while his left was considerably lower for some reason. His keen eyes didn't reveal anything, nor did his features, but the warrior had picked something out of his opponent's stance and movements.

'He wants to try and open me up..'

He was right-forward and attacking with that fist - but his left was up guarding his face from the rear of the stance, so to speak. To Deitric's fighting instinct, that didn't say "guard", it said "attack." As far as his mind discerned in the sparse time between the change of stance and the attack, he figured his opponent had a trick up his sleeve. He wasn't sure what, but he knew that his opponent could lay in a weighted, hefty strike with the left fist so long as it was kept to the rear like that.

THWAK

Omi's first punch connected against Deitric's abdomen with a dull smack, but it was only a jab - there wasn't any weight behind it. It stung and hurt, and would probably leave quite a bruise, but in the scheme of things, the tribesman knew that jabs weren't going to win the fight.

Deitric's response was a little more extreme. He'd just begun moving forward when his movement abruptly changed for the worst - his long, powerful legs hurtled the fighter forward across the span of the scant few feet between them, following the retracting fist Omi had loosed. He was on a collision course with the smaller fighter, looking as if he were going to bodily knock the other man flat to the ground. The space between them was small, but he hadn't needed a lot - in the vein of many sports participants, he could loose a quick burst of speed at the blow of a whistle, even if it only lasted for a split second - that was all he needed.

If Omi continued with the flicker jabs, he might of gotten one more off - but like himself, Deitric was made of sturdy stuff, and while jabs might've stung him, they didn't slow him down much, if at all. He was by no means an unstoppable juggernaut, but he was hard as nails and it would take more than a speedy jab to falter Deitric's progress. Whether or not Omi threw another jab or not - the red-skinned mercenary was going to be right ontop of him, and probably smashing bodily, simply using his weight and power to manhandle Omi into whatever trap he had planned.

Deitric's eyes almost seemed to flash with a barely-visible predator-nature, something simmering just beneath the thin calm that covered the storm of physical motion the warrior was going through as his opponent brought his attacks to bear. They had taken their measure of each other, and the fight was going to be hard-won no matter who took the victory.

'GOT YOU!'

Silently thought the fighter in front of Omi. He hadn't anticipated the exact attack - but he had anticipated something about his opponent's maneuvers very well, and it was coming into play in the unfolding chaos of their up close and personal combat.

The elbow of Omi's arm came in, only to be met with resistance - but not that of Deitric's redskinned cheekbone. The hand Deitric had raised just seconds before was already waiting for the attack, and hadn't even been clinched into a fist - when the elbow shot in, Deitric's taped hand intercepted and stopped it, aiming to wrap his fingers around the smaller man's forearms in an iron vice-grip, forcing his opponent's arm to stay in place - pinned off to the side where it couldn't stop him.

At the same time the fierce knee came in - a brutal one-two combo of two of the most punishing manners of attack - Deitric's lowered left arm had been there, too. The arm straightened out at the elbow in what looked to be an almost typical low block of Karate, except it was lower and to the side, smashing down against the offending leg with the forearm to halt it. It had struck around the knee, but not exactly on it - it halted, but didn't take the punishment from the actual striking area of the man's knee.

The warrior twisted his arm to an almost awkward position and looped the arm under his opponent's knee as he blocked the attack, the point of his elbow nearly pointing down - apparently, the Khasmin fighter was a little more flexible in the limbs than he let on, although his overall flexibility must've paled in comparison to Omi's. The hold wasn't the best, but it didn't need to be - his opponent's leg was up, and now it was trapped.

Now it was Deitric's turn to offer his own one-two riposte in the scant, split second moments that seemed like an eternity when one was in combat. He was right on his opponent - and for all intents and purposes, his brute-rush had given him the power for what he wanted to do now--

What he wanted to do, and what he was doing, was simply continuing all his forward motion for one blow. His taller - and longer, by that means - body lent forwards and lashed his neck forward as he slammed his head across the few inches that were held between the two warriors with all the force and speed of his charge behind it, aiming to smash his forehead into Omi's nose and smush it flat. For those in the crowd, it might've been so abrupt a motion that it would have looked as though the Khasmin tribesman had just given himself whiplash - but it'd be worse on Omi's end if he ate that headbutt, to be sure.

As an added bonus, Deitric had purposefully trapped that elbow-ing arm and when his head approached his opponent's that arm would be forced out with his own to keep it wide and from interfering - even if Deitric hadn't wanted to do so, he couldn't keep his own arm that close after having moved it to block the elbow strike. And for his opponent's other arm - it would of hopefully been caught between their bodies, forced to be scrunched between them, though it wouldn't take any damage.

But Deitric wasn't done-- not just yet. Whether or not his headbutt was successful wouldn't matter now - the "two" of the dark-haired tribesman's one-two combo was coming into play. With his opponent's leg trapped, that left one means for Omi to stay balanced - and with Deitric's full weight bearing down on him, it was likely to be unstable at best. The last step Deitric took to complete his headbutt motion was much longer than it should have been - the leg was coming forward in a sort of odd stomp-kick, using the self-same momentum as the headbutt did - that of his outwardly-appearing brutish charge.

The foot was going to slam home (with any luck) on the side or front of Omi's knee (depending on his stance) and with the lighter fighter being pushed backwards off balance, but held up (if only by Deitric's hold on his arm), then in the continued momentum of Deitric's charge his stepping-stomp-kick would crush Omi's knee beneath it as he stepped down to plant his foot - hopefully on the man's ruined leg, crushing it beneath his heel.

From there, it was only up to the other finalist.

Deitric came on like a red-hot train-- and like a train, there was no way he could have stopped now that he had thrown himself into the attack - his headbutt even used that same momentum, and he and Omi were going to collide head-to-head, whether or not it was a good idea for either of them.

The sound of bone cracking fiercely against bone echoed across the stone floor of the arena as the two warrior's headbutted like raging animals and spiraling galaxies erupted behind Deitric's eyes. Like any good brawler, Deitric's headbutt came from the "sharpest" part of his head and the part that could take damage most easily - the hairline. The dividing line between the scalp and forehead and often considered part of both, it was the most potent weapon ina brawler's arsenal (barring chairs and bottles of liquor) if he could find the right target.

Omi's attack would leave the bigger finalist reeling in pain (though still on task, if only because he couldn't actually stop, even if he wanted to), but in the realm of butting heads and smashing someone's face with your own, momentum and weight carried the day when the same parts of the skull (or nearly so, anyways) struck, and Deitric held both of these advantages in spades.

Weighing nearly double Omi's weight and moving with the intent to charge, not bob, weave, box, or lure Deitric wouldn't be the one giving way beneath the assault - though, that wasn't to say it didn't hurt. Both of them would most certainly be seeing a bit of inky blackness 'round the edges of their vision, and it probably hadn't been that good of an idea to butt heads, but with no risk there was no reward. If they broke apart, it was a sharp assurance that both of the warriors would be feeling quite their fair share of skull related agony.

The smaller fighter's arm hooked in adroitly for the tribesman's unprotected side. While Deitric couldn't guard it, he at least had a slight buffer - his arm near, having intercepted the previous attack of the knee. It gave a small guard for the soft target, but it didn't stop the attack - at most, Omi's seeking fist would clip both the red-skinned fighter's elbow and the intended target. It didn't do much to lessen the force-- at most, it might mean that only two knuckles found their target, or three, instead of four.

Burning, liquid agony spread out from the point of the attack, but it wasn't going to halt the full-steam charge that Omi's opponent had committed to. Did it hurt? Most definitely. But Deitric could handle it - like Omi, he knew how to take the pain of an attack; the fighting mentality did nothing but steel one for such pain. The fighter didn't cry out, and having already jutted his head against Omi's, but only gritted his teeth.

Crrrk-rack-k-k

Would be the sound heard 'round the stadium. To say Deitric had simply pushed on through the pain would of been, perhaps, not entirely true - he simply couldn't of stopped - he couldn't do anything else once he'd charged and set the stomp-kick in motion. Even if he wanted to disengage or stop, he simply couldn't; he'd committed himself to the attack and couldn't magically reverse his momentum.

With that, it could only assumed that the fighter's booted foot would find its intended target of Omi's leg and crunch the bone and tendon and gristle down beneath his leather boot, doing all sorts of grisly, shock-and-awe inspiring damage to the join and surrounding area. It had been an attempt to cripple Omi, and it seemed to have succeeded, at the cost of more than the Khasmin man's fair-share of pain.

Once/if the leg was bear-trap crushed beneath his charge, Deitric would simply push forward with his arms to force his opponent back and to the ground - if he hadn't already been on the descent in the first place, thanks to his leg being abruptly tugged down by the crashing stomp-kick that would drag the crippled limb down to earth beneath it.

If Omi didn't grab at him or try to halt him, Deitric would careen off to the side - not part of his original plan, to be sure - and stumble barely catching himself as his sense of equilibrium reeled at the pain he was feeling. While the blotchy lights had begun to fade in his immediate vision, any time he blinked he could still see bright, light-but-not-quite dots of shifting colors, and when his eyes were open there was a creeping blackness around the edges of his peripheral vision. His side screamed at him as the muscles ached in protest, burning hot and cold at the same time--

--But the finalist didn't fall! Oh, he had most certainly stumbled - and for the barest of moments, it seemed as if he would join Omi on the ground - but instead he had managed to catch himself with his hands and continue on his stumble-jog. He could taste blood in his mouth - he had gritted his teeth and made a small gash on the inside of his cheek as he maintained his stoic composure through the sheer force of will only a human could possess.

Wincing in pain, the tribesman had been in a controlled enough state of mind to turn himself about to watch Omi. His eyes watered in pain, but that'd go away soon - he lurched his upper-body down and forward and slapped his hands onto his bent knees, letting out slow, pained breaths through his open mouth, spitting out a bit of pink saliva-blood mixture to the floor. He was definitely in some pain, but he had gone through worse and come out on top.

The question was-- what about his opponent?

The warrior watched as his opponent stood up - if he was surprised, the emotion never touched the features of his face. The attack would of - should of - kept most fighters from getting up after having their knee bowed in a wrong direction and crushed beneath the foot of someone Deitric's weight. Not only that, but walking or moving on the limb could only compound the damage further-- using it to walk was only asking for some sort of permanent, crippling damage in the long run.

He's not stubborn.. Just a fool. He'll cripple himself, at this rate. I'd rather find a way to end it before that happens..

The fighter rose up to his full height as he watched Omi slag his way across the arena towards him. He knew what he was looking at-- he'd seen it many times before. Pain could be used to fuel aggression, Deitric did it as often as any other fighter. But too much pain equaled too much aggression, and pushing forward after that point would only send the fighter tumbling down a slippery downward spiral - a berserk rage that refused to let go until the person simply couldn't move any longer, or they were forced to succumb to the wounds that had driven them to such madness.

The Khasmin tribesman had seen other opponents force themselves into that state - in war, he'd seen those on both sides of the conflict fall to it. Sometimes it was brought on by the intake of a some sort of herb or plant, sometimes by righteous fury or the pain of injuries. The result was an indifferent carelessness that left openings, simply because they had no thought of defense present and had no sense of anything beyond the offensive.

The finalist rose up to his full height, nostrils flaring with the deep intake of air, forcing his lungs to conform to a more calm level of respiration. The pain in his side was still throbbing, but the initial burning sensation had begun to fade. His head felt like a drum, albeit one that was marching slowly away. His vision no longer swam and the inky blackness threatening him receded, replaced by something else.

Unlike Omi, Deitric rarely, if ever fell into a raging storm of emotion and pain - his means of drive and motivation were different. In his eyes gleamed the same animal viciousness that showed in the eyes of the hawk or the wolf. The predator - that was what swam just beneath the sea of the man's calm. Pain fueled it and resistance fueled it, but it did not control the fighter--

It was simply a part of who he was. Kill or be killed, win or die. Those were the rules that had shaped the young warrior's life, molding his combative mindset into that of the predator. The longer the fight went on, the further Deitric delved into his killer instinct, the simple, animal drive to succeed. The faster his heart beat, the more adrenaline that went into his system, the closer Deitric came to the peak of his instinctual urge to come out on top It was an integral part of him, but how far did it go?

In the Heaven or Hell tournament, it had driven him to smash down his samurai opponent, Kuroha. He'd nearly drowned the man before sending him hurtling through the bath-house and ending the fight on the snowy ground outside of the building. In his next match - arguably his toughest fight, along with the one he was in now - was against the scum Ebris, who had driven the tribesman to an almost masochistic will to survive and succeed, stabbing the electrical cables of lighting around them into his arm to gather more energy than could have ever been safe. He had managed to knock the hunter out, while being laid low himself, though not without great sacrifice on both of their parts.

The sound of the bones of Omi's ruined leg grinding against each other and the gristle and muscle shifting told Deitric what the other finalist would have had to of known, if he hadn't succumbed to his rage - that the leg was ruined. The man had seemingly gone into shock and worked himself into a rage, but even that wouldn't let him deny the grim fact that his leg was going to be useless in attack and defense, and that if he lost the precarious balance he had managed, he wouldn't be able to hold himself up.

There was still a distance between them, and Deitric took that chance to bring up his guard again. He knew Omi couldn't charge him - even if he was in a rage, a ruined leg still meant that any amount of speed was impossible to achieve. The fighter brought his hands up again, this time in a much more normal guard - both fists up to about the chin, although his left seemed to take a slight dip again. It was most likely a particular of his own style of fighting than anything else - it had happened more than once in the duration of the bout.

"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. He knew Omi probably wouldn't respond or concede, but he felt the need to offer it anyways - he had done so for Akechi in his second round of the GTB II, and that fighter, too, refused to stand down. Taking a lesson from that bout, the red-skinned finalist kept his guard up and ready while he spoke. At least that way if Omi did find a way to close the distance with any speed, he'd be ready.