It's finally been changed,I hope we shall see sir Ogunmola in action soon.

tunjilomo:
It's finally been changed,I hope we shall see sir Ogunmola in action soon.

Very soon sir. Just hold on tight

holarbolu:


Very soon sir. Just hold on tight

� OK

tunjilomo:

� OK

I'll sure treat you to a special treat.

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I'm sorry I've not been updating good people...anyways, I promise to make it up to you soon

OK patiently waiting.

holarbolu:
I'm sorry I've not been updating good people...anyways, I promise to make it up to you soon

Happens. Best not to burn out. Goodluck

The next episode in the chain of events for the day get on the way, along with the frantic shouts of the onlookers, cheering the combatants.

It rained, but not in heavenly showers as stroke after stroke hammered squarely upon the buckler, in the distinct cadence of a throbbing drum, creating a passing flash of sparks as metal clashed against the other. Hunkering beneath the buckler, that was his umbrella against the sudden hail of offenses, with a noose coiled around his right forearm, while the other held firmly the shield, for dear life, the squat, buck-eyed man felt the heavy landing of each blows; a mix of arcing, direct, and diagonal swipes. And could swear each and every thundering lunges inflicted upon him by his opponent, who was nothing short of a berserker in manifest, with his savagery and unusualness sent a thousand network of twinge through him.

For once in his span, he loathe the day he was begotten, cursing under his breath as more blows came pounding on him. For one, being a decorated laqueary (one who's skilled with the noose) as he was could amount to naught against his adversary.

Knowing he had to find a way around the sticky situation, and knowing he ought to as fast as possible, he wriggle free from the tentacles of his fear, and fell him with an arcing slide kick. He went for a follow up with his buckler, but missed by an inch, as the man scrambled away minute from impact. The effect of which raise a cloud of dust, and etched an imprint of his shield upon the sand.

Holding his ground, the beefy, bare-chested man danced around the whips of his opponent noose in smooth ease, waiting expectantly for the right time to launch his riposte, which he did neatly with his morningstar, after deflecting more blows for a while, and led to an open season of blows from the fellow's shield.

Syrupy blood sprayed out his mouth as each blow met solidly with his face, bruising the surface upon which they landed, and raising a cluster of lumps on instant. With his weapon out of his reach, and the blows coming in a ceaseless hail, he was sent reeling backward, at a loss to the twist in fate. Like the thresh of a Prad's tail, his head jerked sidewise as more connected with his face, before his knees gave in under him, and brought him face first against the wet ground.

Without making much out of the turn in events, and with a precise toss of his noose, the low-set man had the slipknot coiled around his adversary's neck, and watched as he gagged with a little pull on the cord.

The man knelt to his mercy, trying with his might to claw at the noose around his neck while also throwing him a pleading look, which speaks unvoiced volume of his accepted defeat, as well as his superiority over him as a victor.

Fully aware that his victory was sealed, he relaxed the noose around his neck with a smile, which spread upon his face, like a dark stain on a white linen. In self-action, his hands flew up in the air in concordance with the laudable shouts of the spectators.

And that was it. All was lost, but not for him, an underdog from the start of the duel. He had won against all odds, against the scale of fate, against his own very fears, to clinch victory.


Sir Ogunmola stood at the midpoint of the arena, his entire attention pored on the spectators, while his hearing faculty put down the minute shouts of his name by his devotee amidst the throng. Every fibre of muscles in his fine drawn body stood taut at attention, coiled like a snake, at the ready to strike. His nimble hands were gently wrapped around the cruciform hilt of his arming sword, eagerly awaiting the feel of action.

He ignored the show boasting of his feathery-haired, quarterstaffed opposition, turning his gaze back at the restless sea of spectators. A look back at those faces, and the clarity of what ought to be done to peace their urging wants hit his conscience with the full-hot surge of a floodhead.

With it came a singsong voice in his head, calling to him to Fight, to please the crowds, and stir up the whole arena, like none of the combatants has ever done.

At the call of the king, along with the mightily roar of the crowds, both men ran atilt at the other, weapons raised and aimed to engage each other in a ferocious fight.

Both combatants twisted and swayed to the ballad of their clashing weapons, each unveiling their swordsman skills to the crowds gathered in the arena, in a show of quick reflexes and exchange of blows.

And here cometh the hour!

Haha here is the awaited update when is the part two coming up.

tunjilomo:
Haha here is the awaited update when is the part two coming up.

The hour is nigh brother!

The king watched the contest with an undivided attention from betwixt his wife and brother, ensconcedly seated to his side. His attent gaze pinned on his champion as he glided around every lunges of his adversary in a motion too smooth to be real. Like ever, he was assaulted by a familiar trigger, which came oft from when he had first seen the knight fought years since past, and he was still awed by his unparalleled swordsmanship ability.

Nothing had really changed since that age, but time, which of course has brought with it, a desirable change in the scrawny young teen, who had defeated the finest knights of the land in that famed tournament of old. Muscles had replaced excess bones, tensile nerve fibers had fallen in places where lies tender flesh, the scattering of freckles upon his face were now away, as a man was born of the whilom, younger boy.

But instead of waning in strength in the process of growing, he waxed like the moon, ever reaching more for his peak. And in this alone, the king pride himself, knowing what promise it holds.

With as little strain, Sir Ogunmola dealt with his opposition blows as they come, twisting, sidestepping around them flawlessly, to the cheers of the frenzied onlookers.

Then, he shook the arena to its core, with a feint, which did well to gull his adversary into opening a crack in his defense, to ushered in a blistering counter in their contest. The crack as little as it seem, was all needful, to land huge blows that sent the other man grabbling on the sandy ground.

That simply, he had him lying helpless at the point of his blade, to the background jeers of the crowd of spectators.

Having done the king's proud name some good, and the crowds, he watched yet again as the arena shook with the chant of his name, juked his head in deference, and tossed his hands midair in what plainly was a pushover victory.

Nice update.

I'm sorry good people, I've been having issues lately with the Antispam bot

Hope the problem has been resolved.

Likely sire... Update will resume soon

The silent flaps of the slight creature filled his ears, long before he saw its dainty colorful wings, with the certainty of sight for the briefest of moment, as it fluttered past.

Cleft-lips witnessed this through the latticework of the net he was snared in, weighing the chances of the sight of the fluttering butterfly, with that of a huge figure standing with a smirk from across him in his head, as to identify what was indeed reality.

As he was caught in the web of his retiary opposition, so was his mind, which was mired from the near-death beating he had been a recipient of, for no less than fifteen minutes. He had started out well enough in the fight, or so, he agreed in himself, as thinking was evenly hard as breathing at the moment.

Had he just seen a butterfly fluttered by? Or was it a paranoiac manifestation? Could it even be his ill-looking opponent smirking down at him? Or could it be his double blade lying down few paces away? The thoughts carried on in his head, like the turbulent roll of sea waves.

He wagged his head in a crank, till it hurts to the core of the thousand neurones in him, trying to get his mind out the mush it was caught in, which he had the mind the ogre-looking man must have a hand in.

He must be a sorcerer! an evil one at it, he argued silently, while still wondering if all this might be an effect of an excessive thrashing.

Sir Ogunmola removed his gaze from the scene down at the arena, paying less regard to the crowds cheering the last quarterfinal repugn of the day, whose jostling was nothing short of the scend of an agitating ocean. Rather than center his attention on the fight, which was thrilling to all, including him, he had his gaze casted upon the western sky, now tinged orange from the dreary paint of the setting sun, bathing beneath the roving cloud bank afar.

There's no denying the factual truth that the fight was done. And with that agreed upon, there came a budding thought in his head; one he had no mind to fret on, untill it came popping at him.

As the setting of the once orient sun must bring the quarter of night around, so will the end of the fight lead straight to the semis, that was undeniable, but there's something more to it, something which prod at him from the inside, a question he hadn't an answer to yet.

Who was he going to be seeded against in the semis amongst the other four champions, all of whom had reached the summit with no little effort?

He sprang to his feet, and edged his way out of the stands, with the unanswered question registered on his mind.


The stout paladin ignored the scorching palm of the white-hot sun against his nape, likewise the pain in his splayed knee, dealt him earlier by his opposition, to struck his opponent each mightily blows, after the nudge from his little mind, that wouldn't be peace, even while he had pulled himself far over the edge.

He pressed even harder, waltzing around the sandy ground to land more blows, each heavier and stronger than the former thrown.

I can do it! If I had scored a hit on him before, Surely I can. His insatiate mind has had him filled up with the thought. And with that has a drive, he was bent on a win against his mightful formidable opponent.

Sure enough, Sir Ogunmola met each blow of the fellow's gladius with precise circular motions of his blade, backpedaling whilst he lunged at him, as to allow him the space needed to deflect his offenses and throw his own counter. Deep in the rock bottom part of his heart, he knew what he's doing, and was only waiting for the right timing to strike as a viper.

And this, the other man was also ware of and did even justice to, as he came at him more intensely, stepping up the power behind every swipes and clips. He was of mind and heightened consciousness that the knight was out preying on his weakness, which he had also resolved to mask to save his face. In addition to the obvious fact that he was, extending the fight to please the crowds and give them something to shout on. All this he had singled out through the course of their fight, and was willing to put to ruin, even at the cost of his own life.

It was the last contest of the Semis, and the crowds like ever, were full of vim as they screamed their lungs out, to accend the burning zeal of both men to intense build.

The fight went on suently until, Sir Ogunmola reeled a few paces back, after the heavy stamp of his adversary registered squarely upon his chest. Which of course brought with it a jarring pain, and the unshakeable thought➖Time to end this once and for all. The time was more than ripe for him to up his game.

And so he did, throwing on the switches and controls to an all-out attack in his mind. In a wink, he was on the fellow, swirling around him like leaves swayed by autumn wind, rapping at him with his arming blade hard and strong.

If surprised by the sudden twist in the contest, the king did well to hid it under the guise of his give-nothing-away countenance. Instead, he sat composed, rapping gently at the arm of his chair in sync with the timer ticking off in his head. For indeed, the fight was dragging out unusually to him. And the noiance of it was as well building in him.

Soon, the over-the-top fight ended, like a mandolin whose strings has been twanged beyond extreme, as the knight came victorious in grand style, after long brushing his opponent with the wrath of his blade.

The king watched on in unrepressed amusement as his hands thrust the air in triumph. Never was he tired of that sight. Though, it brushed up the memories of when he had first seen him clinched victory on this ground, before this people, who all must have grown sick of his run of victory.

It takes a while for him to release a sigh, he hadn't a hunch he has been holding that long. Then, he reached a finger over to the golden circlet topping his head, stroking it gingerly, with his gaze shied as far as to a figure seated amidst the crowds. That man alone stands in the way of the crown and his champion. Albeit, a look at his husky build sent a wave of dread down his spine, his clingy faith on the knight did a fine job to stub it all out.

All will sure end well, he tried to assure himself as he stood upon his feet, awaiting to be ushered away from the arena by his guardsmen.

Horlabolu
do you remember me your faithful follower. My phone got spoiled so I could not access the internet but I am back

Harchoredey:
Horlabolu
do you remember me your faithful follower. My phone got spoiled so I could not access the internet but I am back

Of course I do brother.... It's been a while since I hit this platform myself