The clouds above the Sky Colosseum drifted slowly, as though reluctant to witness two souls from different worlds standing against one another.
A gentle breeze swept through the arena, carrying the scent of blood, sweat...
and something far deeper.
The tranquility that comes before a farewell.
Tiago stood firmly in the center of the shattered battlefield.
His weary eyes reflected a strange calm. His body, covered in dust and wounds, somehow seemed lighter, as though he had finally cast aside the burden he had carried for so long.
Across from him, Asterion still stood proudly.
His broad chest rose and fell with every heavy breath.
His right hand clenched tightly, enduring the lingering pain that coursed through his legs.
Neither of them spoke.
The once-deafening arena had fallen silent.
Only the whispering wind remained, stirring the dust suspended in the air.
Sunlight pierced through the clouds, spilling between them like the final curtain of light before dusk.
Asterion slowly raised his hand.
Then clenched it into a firm fist.
A symbol of pride.
Of strength.
Of a warrior's eternal resolve.
Tiago, meanwhile, opened his hand.
The palm that had once existed only to strike...
now rested open.
Without hatred.
Without resentment.
Their eyes met for one final moment.
The hostility that had once burned between them was gone.
Only understanding remained.
A faint smile touched Tiago's lips.
"If someone still has to play the villain..."
"...then let it be me."
The wind surged through the arena, sweeping away the dust...
and the tears rolling down his cheeks.
Asterion stepped forward.
His hoofbeats echoed like those of an exhausted warhorse.
Tiago lowered his stance calmly.
His movement was gentle—
like the wind yielding before an approaching storm.
An instant later, he stood directly before Asterion's chest, separated by no more than a hand's breadth.
His five fingers spread open.
Then...
he thrust his palm forward.
Not as a strike.
But as a gentle touch—
placed precisely upon what he had calculated to be the centaur's center of qi, deep within his broad chest.
A faint light shimmered between them.
Then Tiago spoke softly.
Yet somehow...
his voice echoed throughout the entire Colosseum.
"With this..."
"...it's over."
He squeezed his eyes shut.
As though praying this would truly bring the battle to an end.
Tap.
Asterion coughed softly.
The heavy sound resonated through the silence of the Sky Colosseum.
His body stiffened.
The veins across his chest and arms bulged.
Yet a peaceful smile appeared on his face—
one Tiago had never seen before.
"Thank you..."
he whispered hoarsely,
his voice filled with sincerity.
"...for showing me compassion, human."
His eyes slowly closed.
The mighty guardian began to collapse.
The towering half-man, half-horse fell first to one knee...
before finally crumbling to the marble floor.
Dust spiraled gently around his body.
Tiago remained frozen.
His brows knitted together.
Something...
felt terribly wrong.
He instinctively stepped backward.
Then slowly opened his eyes—
only to see the fallen centaur lying motionless beneath him.
His eyes widened.
Without thinking, he dropped to his knees beside Asterion.
"Hey!"
"Wake up, big guy!"
He desperately shook the giant body,
even though he already knew it was futile.
"Hey!"
"You were only supposed to be paralyzed!"
"Why..."
His voice faltered.
His jaw clenched.
"I only sealed your energy center, damn it!"
His desperate cry echoed toward the Shaolin monks seated among the spectators.
Silence answered him.
The monks exchanged uneasy glances.
Then an elderly monk stepped forward.
His orange robes fluttered gently in the wind.
"You misunderstood, Tiago,"
the old monk said in a calm, compassionate voice, his pronunciation of the Latin American name still slightly awkward.
Tiago slowly looked up.
A bitter smile appeared on his pale face as tears streamed freely down his cheeks.
"The Buddha Palm..."
"No one has successfully wielded it for hundreds of years."
"...What?"
Tiago whispered.
His voice was barely audible.
"That's impossible..."
"So..."
He froze completely.
Then stared at his own right hand.
The same hand that had gently touched his opponent's chest.
He had only wanted to stop the centaur.
Instead...
he had killed a kind soul.
For the first time in his life,
Tiago cried...
not because he had lost.
And for the first time in the history of the Sky Colosseum,
a human being shed tears for a creature of mythology.
Still kneeling,
Tiago could hear nothing except the pounding of his own heartbeat.
Then—
from the peaceful sky above—
countless tiny lights began to descend.
Like a gentle rain falling from some distant forest.
One after another,
the inhabitants of the mythical forest descended from their stands.
Tiny fairies with delicate wings that shimmered like emerald glass.
Forest spirits whose bodies were woven from moss and mist.
Birds capable of speaking ancient spells.
Even wolves draped in cloaks of living leaves.
Together, they descended.
Not to attack Tiago.
But to escort home the guardian they had lost.
The moment their tiny feet touched the marble floor,
absolute silence enveloped the arena.
The fairies floated around Asterion's body,
forming a circle of gentle light.
The forest birds sang softly,
their songs sounding less like music
and more like an endless lament echoing to the roots of the world.
A white stag lowered its head before the fallen centaur,
its eyes glistening with tears.
"Our guardian..."
"...has returned to the earth."
Its quiet whisper was answered by the forest spirits kneeling around him.
Tiago could only stand there,
motionless among them.
He wanted to apologize.
But his voice refused to come.
Only tears remained—
offering the most honest answer he could no longer speak.
From the eastern throne,
the President gripped his armrest tightly.
His aged face carried the weight of what he was witnessing.
There was sorrow in his eyes.
But also pride.
For the first time,
humanity had shown that even its enemies could move its heart to tears.
Libra slowly rose from her throne.
Her gown shimmered beneath the arena's light.
The golden scales in her hand slowly turned,
their delicate chime ringing like the bell that marks the end of all things.
She gazed directly at the two figures below.
One stood with slumped shoulders,
trembling hands,
and empty eyes.
The other lay peacefully,
as though merely asleep—
a guardian finally returned to the embrace of nature.
Libra raised the scales high above her head.
A gentle light descended from the heavens,
forming a radiant circle around Tiago.
"This match..."
"...has concluded."
"Victory belongs to humanity."
"Tiago Ghost Moreira..."
"...the Street Fighter."
Her voice echoed gently throughout the Sky Colosseum.
Yet no one cheered.
No applause followed.
Only the soft wind drifted between the towering pillars of light,
carrying with it
the scent of blood,
of sweat,
and of grief that had yet to find its words.
Tiago lowered his head.
His eyes rested upon his right hand—
the hand that had stolen the breath of someone who should never have died by it.
Behind his victory lay an emptiness too vast for words.
Silence still blanketed the Sky Colosseum.
The last particles of light drifting from Asterion's body slowly ascended,
forming faint trails that resembled the roots of a great tree dissolving into the heavens.
Meanwhile,
upon the rooftop of the eastern grandstand,
where the holographic banners of the world fluttered dimly,
stood a lone man.
His sharp eyes pierced the distant horizon.
His posture was unwavering beneath a sand-colored leather coat.
His short hair danced in the wind.
A leather falconer's glove rested upon his shoulder.
High above,
three falcons circled in a perfect spiral.
He looked down toward the silent arena below.
There—
Tiago still knelt before the centaur's body.
The man's voice drifted softly with the wind.
"So..."
"...this is the price of victory."
One of the falcons folded its wings and dived.
Its feathers sliced through the air,
producing a soft whistle.
The bird landed gracefully upon his arm.
"Saigal,"
he greeted gently,
like an old friend.
The falcon stared back with cold, golden eyes.
The other two continued soaring among the clouds,
circling above the Colosseum like three guardian stars.
Each beat of their wings seemed to carve streaks of white light across the silver-blue sky.
The man slowly lifted his gaze.
His voice deepened,
becoming little more than a whispered prayer.
"Wind..."
"Carry news of this victory."
"Not so it may be celebrated..."
"...but so it will never be forgotten."
"Because after today..."
"...nothing will ever be the same."
He slowly lowered his left arm.
Saigal beat his wings once,
sending a veil of fine dust swirling into the air.
His eyes then shifted toward the President's grandstand.
"...Perhaps..."
"...it's my turn now."
He spoke quietly.
Yet the wind carried every word.
The heavens trembled softly once more.
Two towering pillars of light slowly separated.
Once again,
the Sky Colosseum had chosen the next two destinies.