The Magi King remained where he stood, arms still parted from his sides, crimson eyes settled upon the Saiyan-Kryptonian before him. Only a few feet separated them now. Sparga had adjusted himself accordingly, limbs loosened and primed to react while maintaining that deceptively relaxed posture of his. He had been given every opportunity to take the initiative and had instead extended an invitation for Zankai to do so. The faint smirk that had remained upon the Magi King's face finally disappeared, returning his features to their customary stoicism.
“Fine," spoken internally. It was the only warning Sparga would receive from Zankai's expression alone.
That subtle disturbance Sparga had created within the air hadn't escaped Zankai's notice. In fact, the Magi King had felt it as well, though what began as little more than an atmospheric shift steadily became denser and heavier between them. It was almost as though Mount Paozu itself had finally begun registering exactly what stood upon it. Grass bent beneath the pressure, the mist hanging over the nearby pond gradually peeled away, and its once tranquil surface trembled beneath an invisible weight. Yet there was something peculiar about the density gathering nearest Zankai. The air didn't simply press outward from him; it seemed to conform to his presence, subtly bending along the space his body occupied as though the atmosphere had become something tangible enough for him to influence. There was no explosive transformation, nor some grandiose aura flooding the valley with light. For now, the distortion was slight enough to be mistaken for the consequence of two extraordinary presences bearing down upon the same place.
When Zankai initially placed a foot forward, it was the beginning of the movement resembled from his second. His forward foot touched down and his weight shifted naturally onto it, appearing no different from the casual pace he'd taken toward Sparga moments earlier. Then his other foot came forward to complete the motion, and the simplicity ended there. The Magi King's body lurched ahead with an abrupt acceleration that transformed an ordinary step into an unfathomable leap in movement. There was no elaborate windup, roar, or flare of energy to announce it. The few feet between them simply vanished beneath the advancement as Zankai's second step propelled him forward and slightly upward, his body already beginning to change alignment before the movement had even finished.
In that same instant, Zankai had entered Sparga's immediate space and risen roughly two feet from the ground. It was during the ascent that his previously spread arms folded across his chest, removing them entirely from the conventional mechanics of what followed. There would be no swinging arm to generate momentum, no raised hand to balance the rotation, and no immediate hand-guard accompanying the strike. Zankai simply didn't need them. The explosive drive of his legs had already carried him airborne, and from there his core and hips assumed control. His waist pivoted sharply while his shoulders remained comparatively composed above it, the crossed arms held firmly against his torso as his lower body wound beneath them.
But the Magi King's body wasn't the only thing winding. That strange density surrounding him turned with the motion. The air curled almost imperceptibly along Zankai's rotation, bending around his airborne frame rather than simply being displaced by it. Space itself seemed faintly drawn into the path of his movement, enough that the atmosphere immediately surrounding him remained under subtle influence even while his body committed to the kick. It did not yet lash outward, nor did the distortion interfere with Sparga of its own accord. Instead, it remained wound closely around Zankai's trajectory—a precaution concealed within the attack, something already in place should the Hero attempt to exploit the apparent vulnerability of Zankai leaving the ground with both arms crossed.
His left knee chambered through the turn before his hip snapped through and the leg unfurled. Rather than hunting Sparga's flank or sweeping indiscriminately toward his head, Zankai gave the strike a deliberate destination: the
left supraclavicular region, where shoulder, collarbone and the base of the neck converged. His left foot carved toward that point in a descending lateral arc, the elevated angle allowing the strike's weight to bear across Sparga's upper frame rather than merely against its side. The distortion moved with it. The kick was
winded in the most literal sense, air winding along its trajectory as though caught within the same rotation, faint spatial distortion threaded through its wake without yet being unleashed independently.
There was tremendous weight behind the otherwise effortless-looking strike, and its purpose was as direct as its trajectory. A clean connection against Sparga's upper-left frame was intended to compromise his balance immediately; the combination of angle, rotational force and sheer physical power sought not merely to stagger him, but to tear him completely from his footing and send him flying across the valley. Whether that result actually came to pass belonged to Sparga. Zankai expected nothing less than resistance from a being counted among the strongest this universe had produced. Mount Paozu, however, did not need Sparga to be struck in order to become a victim of the attempt.
The force carried through Zankai's rotation and the atmosphere wound around it regardless of whether flesh ever met boot. The earth beneath them ruptured from the violence of his acceleration, grass and chunks of soil bursting upward as fractures tore through the bank in branching paths. The displaced pressure swept outward from the kick's path, stripping mist from the basin and forcing nearby vegetation violently away from the disturbance. Loose stone broke free across the mountainside while the pond Sparga had used for meditation depressed beneath the sudden atmospheric weight, its surface buckling before great sheets of water erupted upward. The shoreline fractured beneath it, earth collapsing into the basin as the waterfall continued pouring into what was quickly becoming a churning mixture of displaced water, shattered stone and debris. Their peaceful sanctuary had become collateral damage before the first blow had even been decided.
And Zankai expected it might remain just that—a decision yet to be made.
Sparga was no novice waiting helplessly at the end of a kick. He was one of the strongest beings Zankai knew, and the Magi King had initiated this exchange expecting his former pupil to answer accordingly. Evade. Block. Intercept. Counter. Whatever form that answer took, Zankai had already accounted for the possibility that his left foot would never reach its intended destination.
And now, amidst sudden disruption of the peaceful Mount Paozu and the damages natural terrain quaking form Zankai's easily delivering strike was to determine who would come out unscathed. It could be a smirk or a face of disappointment from the Magi King.
