"How long have the two of them been fighting?"

"Almost three hours...... Three hours and twelve minutes. ”

"Three hours, what a hell: it's been a full three hours, but there is not even a drop of blood on the whole sand, and those who don't know think that we thousands of people are here to watch an afternoon tea party."

"Heh, I'm more curious than this, when Sigismund will get off Dantioc's body, the two of them are almost together now: then again, this Imperial Fist is really a master of art, who would have thought that he would dare to fight like this?"

Morgan's Praetorian Guard squinted his eyes, leaned forward, leaned against the railing, and divided his attention into two uneven halves, the larger half being used to watch the movements of the three genetic protogens on the high platform, and the remaining few would be thrown into the sand to enjoy the seemingly evenly matched sword fight.

But even so, whether it was the experienced Lana, or the Bayar standing beside Lana, or even further away, Hecht and the others, who were relatively less experienced, gradually noticed something wrong in the tossing and turning of the two swordsmen on the field, as well as the traces left by the spiral-like footsteps on the sand.

"Sigismund is getting back from the underdog, he's getting smarter the more he plays."

Bayard whispered praise, no one refuting his point, and in fact, not only the Daybreakers, but also the think tanks beyond, the elite of the various legions, and the battle-hardened Templars of the Fist of the Empire, were also caught in a whisper because of the strange situation in the sand: more and more people were seeing the Fist of the Empire's way to victory.

It was a long process, so long that by the time they remembered a little, they could clearly distinguish the thread: the three hours of hard fighting were divided into three phases, from Dantiok's crushing to Sigismund's advantage, everything was so natural.

"That Imperial Fist was completely one-sided for the first hour, running from one end of the sand to the other, and back from the other, as if it would be knocked out of the field at any moment."

Lana and Bayar looked at each other and smiled, and everyone present could clearly remember the embarrassment of the Imperial Fist in the first hour: his chainsaw sword couldn't break the Terminator armor that the war blacksmith used to wrap itself, but instead shattered the chainsaw teeth on the sword after a fierce firefight.

"If it weren't for the fact that he still had a power sword in his backpack, he would have to go straight to admit defeat: but now that I think about it, he can actually hold out for an hour in such a disadvantageous game, and he is indeed a character."

Bayar nodded, his swordsmanship was higher than that of everyone present, so his praise for Sigismund was stronger than that of his brothers: then the second company commander's gaze moved to the other side of the sand, his brow furrowed.

"As for Dantiok, his performance was not so good: he obviously didn't know how to use the Terminator Armor to fight, and at the beginning he fought too much, exerting his physical strength excessively, and when Sigismund pulled out his power sword and was able to leave a wound on his Terminator Armor, Dantioc was actually very passive."

"Although he still has the advantage: the Iron Rider Terminator is used in short-range combat, and he is still too supermodel, even a new recruit can play an amazing record."

"I'm more curious about the other point."

Lana's eyes followed the Imperial Fist on the field: Sigismund's figure was still so vigorous and swift that he couldn't see the fatigue of fighting for hours, but became more and more frenzied and excited, and the glint in his pupils could even be caught by everyone in the audience, which was too dazzling.

"Sigismund obviously has a better power sword, so why does he have to use that chainsaw sword in the early stage, even until the chainsaw sword is completely broken?"

"That's the kind of guy he is."

Bayard snorted softly.

"Have you forgotten our previous conclusion: Sigismund is plain on the outside, but he is extremely arrogant in his bones, and there are few people in the whole galaxy who are more arrogant than him, and the outward manifestation is that he always likes to challenge the impossible, to challenge the worst and most dangerous situations."

"For example: take a chainsaw sword and scoop the Terminator armor."

"It's not a good thing."

"Yes, but who told this kid that he can really fight: just like he did just now."

Lana licked his lips, a dangerous glow in his pupils.

"Obviously, I was still being beaten in the first hour, but I found my way of thinking in the second hour, relying on the power sword and Dantiok, who gradually couldn't keep up with his physical strength, to fight back and forth, and he was able to fight while pressing step by step, and now he was almost sticking to Dantiok's body."

"In this way, Dantiok's greatsword is useless."

"Do you think Dantiok didn't find out?"

"He found out, Dantiok discovered Sigismund's plan early on, and he did his best to stop it, each wave of his attack was more fierce than the previous one, but he still couldn't stop Sigismund's footsteps: there was still a gap between the two men's swordsmanship."

"So, that's what we're looking for."

The Praetorian Guard shook his head and let out a slightly helpless laugh, his dark blue eyes sparkling as he followed the two Legion Champions on the field in circles: the two of them were so close to each other that they could barely be separated by Ranna.

In the third hour of the battle, the two champions still maintained their fanatical fighting spirit, their speed getting faster and faster, their expressions becoming more and more hideous, sweating and arguing endlessly, trying their best to squeeze the last bit of energy in their bodies. It's as if the next round will be decided.

At this time, Sigismund had already shortened the distance between himself and Dantioc to less than half a meter, no matter how fierce the war blacksmith fought back, the Imperial Fist never got out of this range, the dark green blade was almost useless in such a short distance, and the war blacksmith's other methods, such as punching, ramming, or retreating, were all dissolved by the sons of Dorne one after another.

Sigismund's blades were as dense as the raindrops of a spring night, and the war blacksmith didn't even have time to pull out the matching sword behind his back.

But even so, Dantiok was still as unshakable as a mountain, and none of the dense scratches and wounds on the Terminator's armor were fatal: instead, every powerful punch of Dantiok required Sigismund's breathless dodge.

But the Son of Dorne is also exhausting all his offensive methods, and he even uses the power fist that he disdains before: the power fist cuts an afterimage in the air, and the masonry shatters under one blow, and the five are injured, and the Terminator armor is terrifyingly dented.

The Sons of Dorne were even able to strike back five times between the blacksmiths of war's attack, knocking the champion of Perturabo to the ground, but never being able to knock him down: it was an effective attack by Dantiok that made Sigismund's bones shatter so clearly that the audience could hear it.

As a result, all means of defense lost their effectiveness, and the Power Sword and Power Fist of the Imperial Fist were able to threaten the Terminator Armor on the War Blacksmith, and the War Blacksmith was gradually adapting to the speed of the Imperial Fist, greatly compressing Sigismund's dodge space: after a few hours of grinding each other, the two sides finally completely figured out each other's style, and the brutal blood exchange battle finally began.

The battle went on like this: the third hour passed by in a snap of a finger, and the fourth, fifth, and sixth hours followed, without the slightest pause, until everyone began to stop counting the time.

Until the laughter on everyone's faces dissipated, until the entire arena was finally covered in silence, until even the three genetic prototypes stood up with serious expressions and saluted the two warriors on the sand.

No more defense, no more skill, no more dodging, Sigismund gritted his teeth, the hand he held with the Power Gauntlet was pinpointedly hit by the war blacksmith, and was shrugging feebly, the armor on his arm tattered like an old newspaper.

The War Blacksmith who had succeeded in the first blow was also uncomfortable, as the Son of Dorne had traded it for a fatal opportunity: his blade had finally pierced the Terminator's throat armor in exchange for wounds, and had been weakened for hours before the blow almost pierced Dantioc's throat.

Although the war blacksmith narrowly escaped the fatal blow, a sense of unease gripped him: for the first time since the sword fight began, he felt his flesh exposed to the cold air, and a fatal throat and chest, and for the first time he found his blood flowing. Drip drop by drop to the sand.

If he is hit again, Terminator A will not be able to protect him.

The war blacksmith realized this, his breathing became heavier, and he subconsciously looked at Sigismund: he saw that most of the Imperial Fist had been cut off, and the remaining half of his body was shaking, but the hand holding the hilt of the sword was as hard as iron, and it never showed any signs of loosening.

The war blacksmith even had the illusion that if he punched him again, maybe Sigismund would be knocked to the ground, but Dantyok soon began to laugh at his fantasies, for he had thought so at least three hours earlier.

And he was sure that Sigismund thought the same way, but he thought the exact opposite of Dantiok: they both believed that they would be victors, but they both doubted whether they would be losers.

No one knew what the outcome would be, not even Bayard and Lana: the two Terra veterans had stopped talking and laughing, and they leaned forward with a little nervousness, watching the two champions charge at each other: it stands to reason that at the level of Sigismund and Dantiok, they would not be weakened to death after a few hours of fighting, and the only explanation was that their self-exploitation and madness for victory had exceeded their physical threshold.

The two men looked as if they were going to fall in the next second, and as if they could continue to fight for hours, if not longer, in their current state: the Astartes whispered, relying on their instincts and experience to calculate the winner, but it was undoubtedly a difficult choice.

Everyone could see that blood was already flowing from the leak in Dantiok's breastplate, and he couldn't stop it, constantly pulling out the already emaciated body of the war blacksmith under the weight of the Terminator armor, and anyone with a discerning eye could see that Sigismund was almost paralyzed on at least half of his body, and he had to bear the same amount of reaction force as he furiously punched so many gaps in the finisher armor.

So, who will win?

Or: who will fall behind?

The most elite warriors looked at each other, but none of them could make up their minds: by this time, the cause of the battle had long since ceased to matter, and neither the honor of the legion nor the dignity of the original body had been defended in the face of these two warriors who fought to the death.

No one will discuss the gains and losses of their own legion in front of the blood-stained sand.

On the contrary, even the most hardened Iron Warriors and Imperial Fists have realized one thing: sword fights are going badly, and what should have been a contest of friendship and will now threatens to devour two of the best fighters.

And this situation ......

——————

[It should never have appeared.] 】

Morgan's tone became serious, and she turned away, no longer interested in the dying struggles in the sand, but looking at her two brothers: the Lord of Avalon knew very well that only these two primordials were the ones who could end the race, not Dantiok and Sigismund, who were fighting to the death.

To put it mildly, if the Lord of the Fist and the Lord of Steel had remained silent, the only fate of the Templar and the War Blacksmith would have been to consume each other until one of them fell, or both of them died of exhaustion: Astarte was no more small than the Original.

[But we certainly can't let this happen, at least not in front of the eyes of so many Legion representatives and thousands of Legionnaires: let two of the best warriors die of exhaustion on the sand of the arena?] Come on! This is not the sacrificial ground of the Legion of the Bearers! 】

The Spider Empress banged on the table, her tone was extremely tough, and her confidence was the serious expressions of the two genetic protogens: Needless to say, even Peturabo may not want to let his most trusted and favored Dantiok die meaninglessly because of the honor of the so-called Fourth Legion.

After all, even if the war blacksmith dies on the smallest battlefield, he is still contributing to the Great Expedition and is something to be proud of, and as for dying in a race with another Astarte like now?

"That's pointless."

"You're right. Morgan. ”

It was Dorne who spoke first, and Dorne rightfully so, and he nodded to Morgan, then at his Iron Brother, the proud Inwitt with his head bowed slightly, and his voice sounding humble and courteous.

"So, brother, I'm here to make you a suggestion: are we going to use our authority as genetic protogens in our respective legions to forcibly end this race?"

"It seems that the course of events has now been detached from our original motives: that our offspring should be fighting for the legitimacy of our respective demands, that this should be a race to the point for fairness rather than righteousness, and that there should be no blood shed and no good warriors to die for it."

"No, a death like this is not even a sacrifice."

The Lord of Inwitt had a serious face, after he finished speaking. He and Morgan's eyes turned to the Olympians.

“……”

Perturabo was silent, his slightly narrowed eyes staring into the center of the field, at the undying pair of opponents: no one knew what the Iron Lord was thinking today, and his pale grey pupils, gazing at the blood on the sand, had for a moment an expression akin to intoxication, but it was quickly detached, and then complex emotions such as hatred, thought, touch, and take it for granted were revealed.

His lips were also accompanied by the complex and constant snorting in his pupils, and this inexplicable struggle lasted for maybe a dozen seconds, constantly wandering and accumulating, and after retreating when he was about to touch his lips countless times, it finally brewed into a long sigh.

“……”

"You're right, Dorne."

Peturabo said only that, and then he said no more, and he turned away, hiding all his thoughts, as if deliberately hiding from his blood relatives.

Behind him, the Lord of Avalon nodded unsurprisingly and gestured to Lana, who had been watching her, and the Praetorian Guard then called out to the second company commander next to him.

The next moment, with a burst of exclamations, I saw the champion swordsman of the Second Legion turn over and jump off the audience.

And just as Bayar's expression was serious, he pulled out the twin blades on his waist and rushed towards the two who planned to fight to the death again, the Iron Lord, who was originally facing away from his brothers, suddenly opened his mouth without warning and threw a fatal question at his two blood relatives.

"What do you say......"

"Who won this?"

(End of chapter)