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Description: Located in an open-roof stadium is the ring where the first round fights will be taking place. The sound of wild cheering from the many fans that have congregated here fill the arena in a loud uproar as cameras zoom in on the action to broadcast the fights all over the world. The floor of the arena is a glossy hard floor with the logo of GTB painted in purple and pink upon the white sheen.

Field Measurements: The fighting area is a perfect circle with a 50 yard diameter. The walls that keep the fighters away from the spectators are raised up to ten feet.

Ten Count Boundary: The ten count begins whenever the fighter is knocked out of the bounds of the fighting area, such as into the spectator seats. The flying count out is also in effect, which means, if you stay above ground by your own will for more than ten seconds, you will be DQ'd.

Fight Ends: After 11:59 PM on Jun 16th. That means when it becomes Jun 17th, fights are over.

A few minutes slipped away since Vash had entrance, and the crowd began to murmur. Did his opponent disappear, or was he unable to fight? News reporters began to rattle off questions to their cameras, and the multitude of fans were growing disappointed.

Then Deitric appeared, and the crowd exploded with renewed fury. The warrior appeared from the southern gate to the arena, cameras turning to try and zoom in on the approaching figure as he made his way along the path that had been cut through on-ground fans by metal fencing and security guards, stemming the tide that sought to overwhelm the man as he entered. He peered straight forward, not looking once to acknowledge the screaming crowd on either side of him.

The dark-skinned tribesman ascended the steps onto the arena proper where the fight was due to take place, opposite of his opponent. He was dressed markedly different from before - garbed in black leather and denim with studs, straps, and spikes abound, he looked like a biker from some nightmare; the shine of silver and steel providing the only contrast to the black he wore.

Only three weapons hung from his waist - two tomahawks, one on each hip, and a ball-head club cinched tightly into the loop of belts behind one of the tomahawks. The only readily apparent armor was the metal plating on his boots, providing protection up to the knee caps. He offered a faint nod to his opponent, ignoring the steady roar of the crowd, a faint glow emanating from his eyes once he removed his shades and deposited them into some pocket for safekeeping.

"Good luck," Deitric called out, his voice cutting across the distance above the roar of the crowd. His facial expression seemed unreadable; walking the lines between calm and careless, stoic and cold. The tribesman began forward, but unless his motion was checked, he'd simply stop in the middle of the ring, promptly halving the distance between the two fighters.

"Whenever you're ready."

Unlike his opponent, Deitric didn't seem to have any sort of mechanical equipment, no technological aid of any sort. He was a walking, talking generator - no help required. The air around the fighter audibly thrummed with energy, as if a powerline had been cut and left to thrash in the air.

Deitric's body language immediately changed when Vash took the offensive and charged forward - his hands came up in a loose guard; but unlike before, he didn't immediately switch to a southpaw stance, keeping his body a little more even, given that he was still walking forward. He adopted the same tight, practiced sway of a trained fighter just as before. From behind the cover of his thinly gloved fists, Deitric's eyes blazed, casting pale blue luminescence over the sharp, aquiline features of his face.

Fortunately for the tribesman, he knew Muay Thai - not as a practitioner, but as someone who had fought against it prior. Omi - the same man who had knocked Vash from the tournament last year, and whom Deitric had beaten three times - had twice tried to assault the dusky skinned warrior with various knees, elbows, and kicks. In the first round of the previous year, Omi's decision to throw a kick had been his downfall. Now, Vash was throwing the same kick, albeit in different circumstances.

He recognized the movements well enough, though. The way Vash (and Omi) would whip their leg around to generate the impressive sort of force that had made Muay Thai so strong, and, inversely, so recognizable to practitioners and opponents alike. Like any fighter, he didn't have time to "think" - instead, he could only respond. In the back of his mind, after the fight, he might have thanked Omi, though - prior to fighting the man, Deitric had never had any reason at all to consider the particular way Muay Thai worked.

Bringing his left foot up, the advancing tribesman continued to step forward, but his "step" rose higher than his gait required; by doing so, he checked the oncoming kick, Vash's attack lashing against Deitric's shin, instead of catching him just above the joint of the knee, shin connecting with the lower end of Deitric's leg.

Normally, having a kick checked by an opponent didn't hurt - your shin hit their calf, and you both bounced back without any trouble. In this case, it might have been a bit worse for Vash - from foot to knee, Deitric's legs were covered in plates of metal, and having his foot thwack against that armor probably felt about as good as kicking an I-beam, provided Vash lacked any protection of his own for his legs.

Without halting, the brave's left step continued forward to bring them into closer range than just kicking, his leg only bobbing to the side momentarily from the force of the kick before it was set on the ground again. Left foot forward meant that he wasn't taking a southpaw stance this time, but it didn't seem to bother him - when his foot landed, his left fist lashed out in a jab, aiming to try and crack his opponent square across the teeth, his arm pistoning away to try and sting the man as many times as he could, hopefully while the man was trying to regain his footing.

Even though he was a heavyweight, his jabs weren't exponentially more powerful than anyone else's; Deitric just seemed intent on tagging Vash with his punches and setting him on the defensive for a moment, if he could. His right hand kept guard and he was careful to avoid getting into a constant rhythm, but unless his opponent could get away or put up a suitable guard, Deitric was going to pump his left arm and try to batter his opponent under a barrage of metal-capped knuckles.

Deitric's fist seemed to catch nothing but air, but that wouldn't irk him a bit - the jab itself wasn't important. Jabs were meant to harass an opponent, draw them out, force them to react. It was the one to the two in a one-two combo.

Acting on the impulses that came to him as a fighter, Deitric threw his "two" as his opponent ducked beneath the jab, which now seemed to be retreating towards his body too fast to be plausible. That was because the arm wasn't just retracting - the brave was moving forward in a way that was all too fast, and all too sudden.





Like a kleptomaniac who stole when the opportunity presented itself, the black-haired brave threw himself full force into an attack when he saw the chance. He didn't know that Vash had been throwing a hook, and so didn't offer a conscious defense to it as he suddenly surged forward like a rocket, his right knee leading the way as he aimed to smash it headlong into his opponent's torso, hopefully into the solar plexus or near it. The tribesman was being supernaturally hurled forward - he was moving far, far too fast to have simply leapt into the attack, and chances were he was going to be putting a lot of metaphysical "oomph" behind the blow.

The hook caught him as he moved. It wouldn't land perfectly, thanks to Deitric's rather sudden, explosive movement forward, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt. Getting hit in the floating ribs, or just below the,m hurt anyone, and the brave was no exception. But, literally midflight, he didn't have time to worry about whatever sudden pain he was feeling - hopefully, it'd take all of a tenth of a second before his opponent would get payback in the form of a hard knee to the body, propelled by 225 lb or so of muscle and bone behind it.

With any luck, their proximity to one another would let Deitric catch his opponent off guard with the sudden speed of the movement, and he could bowl him over and smash him to the ground beneath the surprise flying-knee.

If Deitric was ever aware of his opponent's intentions, he never showed it. When his knee struck, there was a crack of what might have been bone or armor - it wasn't always easy to tell the difference in the midst of battle - and he was in the air. While his knee was jammed in the man's torso, where were his hands?

Hovering; hovering right above Vash's now exposed head. While the man was grasping at Deitric's leg, the brave's own hands were grasping at their own target: his opponent's head. His right slipped to hook around the back of Vash's head and grab a handful of hair to try and pull the man's head close to the Khasmin man's airborne body. The left, meanwhile, sought to jam his knuckles into the side of the man's neck. Punching the carotid artery wasn't the most effective attack given his positioning, but it was guaranteed to hurt a lot.

Now, when Vash began to turn, hoping to literally straighten Deitric out in the air like a whip, instead he was only going to spin and have to deal with the sudden excess of 225 pounds hanging from his body, the energy of his attack spent by way of Vash's turn about. As long as the blond haired man held onto the upraised leg, he was going to have Deitric hanging off the front of him, and if he chose to release the leg, there was no clear cut notion of what his opponent might do.

In their position, there wasn't a huge chance of hurting one another, but chances were, Vash wasn't going to sit around and hold his opponent up for long and let the dark-skinned tribesman punch him in the neck a few more times. Chances were, neither of them were going to win as long as they were locked in their current positioning, but being that he was in the air, Deitric had little say in the matter unless he decided to expend more energy for a different attack.

Despite being hauled around as if he were riding on a bucking bronco, once his opponent started to run, Deitric found that he didn't much care to ride for much longer, although both his hands had come to grasp at Vash's head, for greater stability. It was time to get off the ride before the bull decided to buck, he figured rather quickly.



That hold on the head would become very painful, very quickly, although Deitric wasn't exerting all the amount of his now-terrifying strength that he could; that would come later. The point now was to disorient and hurt Vash. When he felt his opponent start to run - an altogether strange feeling to go through in Deitric's position - he simply "kicked out" with both his legs, forcefully extending both towards the ground. If Vash still held onto his raised leg, chances were he wasn't going to be doing so for long; a leg was much, much stronger than an arm, and now Deitric was nearly three times as strong as normal, ontop of his impressive natural strength.

When Deitric straightened out his legs, his booted feet clacked loudly against the ground after Vash had barely taken three or four steps, the metal of his heels grinding into the ground as the two men would no doubt come to a halt, the smaller man's budding momentum arrested by his opponent's greater size and weight. The two of them had only moved perhaps six or seven feet, at most, from their original position.

To the crowd, things must have seemed dead even - the two men were standing literally face to face, with Deitric holding Vash's head in something reminiscent of a clinch, a position where both men could strike each other's body at will. But the tribesman had no intention of staying in that position. Once his feet hit the ground, it was time to break apart.

Rather abruptly, Vash would find himself lifted from the ground and literally thrown back through the air by a man who had seemingly gone from 225 pounds of muscle to 675 pounds - he had nearly tripled in strength, giving more more than enough raw, physical power to lift and throw his opponent back by the hold he had taken onto the smaller man's head. Someone had been eating their spinach.

Assuming Vash didn't try to grab ahold of Deitric to keep them close together, he'd find himself suddenly hurled nearly twenty feet away - a feat that was, frankly, impossible by anything other than clearly superhuman means. Chances were though, it would be better to get separated, than to have your head stuck between a man's hands who had suddenly become three times as powerful. If he chose to stick around in that vice-grip and hammer at Deitric's exposed body, he was likely going to deal with some skull fractures, or at least one killer headache.

If anything, Vash would only feel some pain in his neck and head from the sudden white-knuckle death-grip the brave had taken to his skull and the pain of being momentarily lifted into the air by his head for a split second before being tossed. But unless he were terribly unlucky, or decided to try and keep in close range with his larger, suddenly monstrously strong opponent, there wouldn't be anything more than sore muscles and bruising. The "attack" was, if anything, solely for intimidation and to separate the two men.

"Tch," Deitric chided, staring his opponent down if they had been properly separated as he intended. "Ready to get serious?" he asked casually, still so damnably, annoyingly calm and collected, unruffled by the events of the fight. Blood leaked from his right nostril, but he ignored it, letting the small, crimson trickle run its course down his face.

Deitric also ignored the ringing deafness in his right ear, and the way the colors seemed to fade in his vision, graying the world somewhat, but not completely. It was the draw-off for using his powers so loosely - and for the fact that he was beginning to generate more power at a faster rate. Like a drug addict, he started slow, and built up - what had been a trickle was now becoming a flood, his heart thumping away in his chest as adrenaline and power coursed through his veins, the beast of human arrogance convincing him that he could control it.

For now, that seemed to be the case, and the air around him warped and buzzed audibly. He could only hope that Vash could answer his question with a resounding "yes"; otherwise the fight was going to be short.

The punch caught Deitric while he lifted Vash into the air, cracking against the thickest part of his ribcage, which was covered with the serratus and intercostal muscles. It still hurt, and so did getting your head squeezed in a vice-grip like the one he was applying to Vash's skull, but neither source of pain would have lasting effects.

The electricity discharged through his leather jacket and his body, and there was a momentary sting and burn before the electricity was simply folded into his own pool of power. Electrocuting Deitric was like throwing a bucket of water into the ocean - chances were, you didn't hurt the ocean, you just put more water into it.

It didn't stop his actions or subsequent words in the least. There was a dull throb of pain in his sides where the two blows had struck, but neither one had managed to hit their intended target plush, and he'd been hit by harder punches in the past. Once his opponent landed, Deitric could practically see - or feel, rather - the growing electrical current. The generators whirred into action, and the surging electricity could be sensed like a hum in the air.

"I don't think those gloves of yours can put out enough electricity," he chided confidently, holding up his hand to wave a finger as if he were reprimanding a child; visible, blue arcs leaped from finger to hand and down his arm. Just as before, Deitric began to walk forward, holding both his hands out from his sides in what the crowd might have taken as a gesture of peace - but the audible hum of energy had become a visible display as cackling power grew to life around his upper body.

If Vash was content to try and build up all the power that he could, so was Deitric. But the blonde haired fighter was going to be playing a dangerous gambit if he wanted to try and match his opponent's output - Deitric wasn't limited by the flaws of machinery, and so far, it had already been proven that electricity did little to the brave, save give him more energy to work with. The longer he was allowed to stand around and put his body through the paces of generating energy unabated, the more dangerous he became - to his opponent, and to himself.

"Sure you want to play this game? Your cards might not be as good as you think," Deitric grinned, electricity visibly arcing between his teeth as he spoke, stopping only ten feet or so away from his opponent; daring the man to continue generating electricity with his technological tools in a game of "one up" with the black-haired tribesman. In the past, Deitric had rarely spoke in battle, let alone use words as a means of fighting, but things had changed since his death.

It was a dare - but it wasn't one that most fighters would want to take.

Deitric brought his hands up as Vash charged in. He didn't move to bob and weave, to dodge or get out of the way of the punch. When his opponent threw his strike, Deitric simply let it snap in, as if he were going to take the strike squarely on the chin, other than to reach out with his right hand, as if to block the blow.

Instead, the punch seemed to be drawn slightly off course to the outstretched hand, instead of passing it and striking the face. Vash was wearing metal gauntlets, which were housing an electrical charge; the dusky skinned brave's hands were charged with the opposite, magnetic equivalent of that electric charge.

In electricity and magnetism, opposites attracted. Metal acted not only as a good conductor for electricity, but as a prime candidate for the effects of magnetism. For all intents and purposes, Vash might have just as well thrown a hunk of metal at a giant magnet, and with any luck it would stick.

With a flash of his hand, the warrior would hope to ensnare his opponent's punching hand in the magnetic trap and catch it in the grasp of his palm, squeezing the hard metal of the gauntlet in his hand for one reason - to drain the electricity the gauntlet had charged, attempting to siphon off its power for his own use.

However, the attack wasn't solely metaphysical in nature - if he managed to catch his opponent's metal-covered hand in his magnetic grasp, his left fist would immediately hook in, aiming to smash his opponent's flank quickly. Deitric, being the taller of the two warriors, had a slightly longer reach - if Vash could get close enough to punch him, then the brave could certainly return the favor without any problem. With any luck, the armor would already be weakened from being cracked and broken beneath the flying knee, and he could finish the job with a strong hook to the side.