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When Omi released his left hand, the tribesman knew something was going to happen. Most men would have given beneath the constant barrage of pain in various forms that the man had been subjected to, but it was more evident than ever to Deitric that one could never give enough credit to Barsait's ability to find new avenues of attack. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the larger warrior must have admired that trait, one that was rarely so keen in a fighter as it was in his opponent.

It wasn't quite the right time to be giving the man any complements on his grit and determination, though. As though he had any to give; he would have been more likely to curse the man's ingenuity in the midst of a fight, given it was being set against him.

By virtue of being limber and a downright tricky sort of man, Omi had managed to not get one arm free, but two. The dark-skinned brave's immediate thought was that the other finalist was going to try and use his arms to push himself up, and so he pushed down hard on Omi's head to grind it back into the dirt, locking it in place.

Instead, Barsait made a sudden attack, though it was only half-successful. With Deitric's right arm extended out to push down Omi's head, it was right in the way of the oncoming attack - the right arm batted into his own right and reached futilely, unable to reach his neck. Because Deitric's other arm had been slung back when it was suddenly released (holding onto the pauldron, no less!), Omi's left swooped up, aiming to get some sort of a hold right on his neck.

The tribesman could tuck his chin and little else - the man's fingernails dug rivulets of crimson across the side of his neck and his jawline painfully, tearing away skin. Omi could no doubt feel and get a grasp for the carotid from that position, but little else. That was enough to constrict bloodflow though, and that was bad. Assuming he had long enough to hold on, he could seriously weaken the tribesman.

Now though, with his left free, the way to victory was open; clear as day to the champion. The opposing finalist might have gotten a good grasp to begin chipping down the growling warrior, but he wasn't going to have enough time to fully utilize it.

Deitric promptly dropped the pauldron, arm already half-cocked, and loosed a quick punch like a bat out of hell. It was aimed to go over the arm that was choking him; he wasn't aiming to knock it away. At the very last split-second before impact, Omi might feel it brush against his own arm. With his head turned down and forced into place, he wouldn't see it coming.

Then, with any luck, it was going to be lights out for Omi Barsait.

Why?

Because the punch was aiming just below the base of the skull: the brain stem, which controlled one's ability to keep conscious. It was one of the most glaring weak points of human anatomy, and even if he didn't know all the complex names, he knew a good target when it was put in front of him. And that was one hell of a good target; it was a key striking point in ambushes to quickly take down a foe that needed to be kept alive.

Right below the skull, where the neck connected into it, where the brain stem lead to the spinal cord. Even if Omi realized what was coming and aimed to twist his head, it wouldn't help - the neck couldn't move in the same fashion, and Deitric's fist was big enough to cover the whole width of it the intended target.

With any luck (and a dash of quick thinking on the champion's part), Omi wouldn't know what hit him until the medics woke him up.

Deitric felt his fist connect soundly with its target, and the pressure on the left side of his neck gave out nearly as quickly as it had been applied. The brave could tell that his blow had done its job; Omi had gone limp, but was still showing signs of life.

Untangling his half-mangled fingers from the man's hair, the tribesman stood slowly. The surging adrenaline of battle and need to win had helped numb the pain, but now that his system was cleaning it all out and his mind was clearing away thoughts of battle, the wounds became immediate and painful as if he felt them for the first time all over again. Three of his fingers were throbbing with searing pain and his hand was covered in dark bloodstains. The sand and grit that had worked its way into the wounds didn't help, either.

Blood ran down in slow, dribbling rivulets from his neck on both sides, and the skin on the right side of his neck looked like it was darkening into a bruise, but otherwise he the warrior seemed in notably decent shape; three fingers needing immediate medical attention notwithstanding.

When the crowd saw the reigning champion rise and his opponent stay on the ground, they seemed to rise up as one and loose an earth-shaking roar of cries, the meaning lost in the rumbling sound of the thousands of voices rolling together into one massive, unintelligible sound.

Deitric could do little else but stand and listen though, while waiting for the medical crew that would eventually see to getting Omi off the field, and hopefully begin the process of patching up his hand and neck. Until then, he was content to stand and wait.