Callion rose from the ground slowly, his body a testament to the brutal fight. Blood trickled down his face from multiple cuts, and his muscles twitched with the strain of each movement. His armor was cracked and shattered in several places, revealing bruised and battered skin underneath. The once pristine white of his armour was stained with dirt and blood, a stark contrast to his determined expression. Despite the searing pain that radiated from his injuries, Callion’s face remained stoic, his eyes focused solely on Salada.

His breathing was heavy, laboured, yet controlled. Each inhale was deep and deliberate, as if he was pulling strength from the very air around him. Blood dripped from his split lip, and his knuckles were raw and bleeding from the sheer force of his attacks. Every inch of his body screamed with pain, yet he stood tall, unyielding. His left eye was nearly swollen shut, but the right one glinted with an unbroken spirit, a fierce determination that could not be quelled. Callion’s silence spoke volumes. He did not need words to convey his message; his very presence was a testament to his resolve. He stared at Salada, his gaze unwavering, as if to remind her of the warrior's spirit that refused to be extinguished. His stance was steady, legs slightly apart, back straight, and arms hanging loosely by his sides, ready to continue the fight if necessary.

His body may have been battered, but his mind was a fortress of unshakeable will. The pain, the blood, the broken bones—they were all just external manifestations of a battle he had already won within himself. He embraced the suffering, using it as fuel to stand firm against any adversity.

In this moment, Callion embodied the essence of stoicism. He accepted his pain without complaint, faced his challenges head-on, and remained resolute in his purpose. His silence was not one of defeat, but of inner strength, a quiet resilience that spoke louder than any words could. Callion took a step forward, his movements slow and deliberate, each one a battle in itself. His legs felt like lead, his muscles screaming in agony with every inch gained. The ground beneath him seemed to shift and sway, but he kept his gaze locked on Salada, refusing to show any sign of weakness. His right leg dragged slightly, a testament to a deep bruise or possibly a fracture, but he forced it to move, maintaining an iron will over his body.

His chest rose and fell with heavy, ragged breaths, the effort causing a sharp pain that radiated through his ribcage. Blood seeped from a gash across his forehead, running down into his eyes, turning his vision a hazy red. He blinked it away, the world around him coming in and out of focus, yet his determination remained unblurred. His hands, raw and bleeding, hung at his sides, fingers twitching involuntarily from the strain of the fight. His face was a portrait of pain and resolve. The left side was swollen, his eye nearly closed from a powerful blow, and his jaw was slightly misaligned, indicating a likely fracture. Blood caked around his nose and mouth, the metallic taste a constant reminder of the beating he had taken. Despite this, his expression was one of calm stoicism, his lips set in a firm line, his remaining good eye filled with an unwavering fire.

With each step, his body protested violently. His back and shoulders were marred with deep bruises and cuts, the fabric of his armour torn and hanging in tatters. His arms bore the signs of countless blocks and counterattacks, the skin raw and bleeding in places. His torso, beneath the cracked armor, was a mosaic of purple and black bruises, each one telling the story of a savage hit absorbed.

Yet, he continued forward, inch by gruelling inch, like a force of nature that could not be stopped. His blood-red eyes bore into Salada, the silence between them heavy and charged with unspoken defiance. He was not just walking; he was making a statement. Each shambled step was a declaration of his indomitable spirit, a testament to his status as an Elite-Class Saiyan. He might have been battered and broken, but his spirit was unyielded, a stark contrast to the physical damage he bore. As he closed the distance, his presence grew more intense, the air around him seeming to thrum with the energy of his willpower. Blood trickled down his chin, dripping onto his chest, but he ignored it, his focus solely on Salada. His silence was profound, filled with the weight of his resolve. He didn’t need to speak; his eyes, his stance, his sheer act of rising again despite his injuries spoke volumes.

He. Is. An. Elite-Class. Saiyan.

And nothing, not pain, not blood, not even the brink of death, could strip him of that identity.

Callion's gaze remained locked on Salada, his eyes burning with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the very essence of her being. The silence between them was profound, each second stretching into an eternity. Blood dripped steadily from his wounds, pooling at his feet, a silent testament to the battle he had endured. His body was a canvas of pain and injury, each mark a story of resilience and unyielding will. His face was a mask of determination, the left side swollen and nearly unrecognizable. His eye, bloodshot and nearly closed, still managed to convey an unbreakable spirit. Blood caked his nose and mouth, the metallic taste a constant reminder of the savage beating he had taken. Despite the disfigurement, his expression was one of calm resolve, lips set in a firm, unyielding line.

The gash across his forehead continued to bleed, the crimson stream mingling with the sweat and grime that coated his face. His chest heaved with laboured breaths, each inhale a struggle against the sharp pain radiating from his ribs. The fabric of his armour, torn and tattered, hung in shreds around his battered torso, revealing deep bruises and cuts that marred his once powerful frame. His arms hung at his sides, fingers twitching with the aftershocks of the fight. The skin was raw and bleeding in places, the result of countless blocks and counterattacks. His hands, once capable of delivering crushing blows, were now swollen, and bruised, the knuckles split and bleeding. Every inch of him screamed with pain, but his eyes remained focused, his resolve unbroken.

His legs, bearing the brunt of his weight, trembled with the effort of keeping him upright. His right leg dragged slightly, a clear sign of a deep bruise or fracture, but he forced it to move, each step a testament to his indomitable will. His back and shoulders, covered in deep bruises and cuts, bore the signs of a brutal battle, the muscles beneath strained and torn. As he stood there, the blood continued to drip from his various wounds, the sound barely audibles over the deafening silence. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, each one a battle against the pain that coursed through his body. Despite the injuries, his stance was one of defiance, his back straight and head held high, refusing to bow to the pain.

For what seemed like an eternity, he held that gaze, the silence between them growing heavier with each passing moment. His eyes, filled with a fiery determination, conveyed a message more profound than words ever could. He was a Saiyan, an Elite-Class warrior, and nothing—not even the brink of death—could strip him of that identity.

Finally, with a slow, deliberate movement, Callion turned away from Salada. His steps were shambled and uneven, each one a struggle against the overwhelming pain. His body protested violently with every inch gained, but he continued to move forward, his willpower driving him onward. He walked away, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, his destination clears in his mind. The journey to the medical facility in the Elite District was arduous, each step feeling like a mile. His vision blurred, the world around him fading in and out of focus, but he kept moving, driven by the need to heal and rise again. The blood continued to flow from his wounds, the pain a constant companion, but his resolve remained unshaken.

As he disappeared into the distance, the silence he left behind was filled with an unspoken challenge. Callion would leave Salada to stand there, possibly leaving her to contemplate the events that had just transpired, the weight of what she had awakened pressing down on her. Callion had shown her the true meaning of being an Elite-Class Saiyan, a warrior who refused to bow, even in the face of overwhelming odds, especially to a fellow Elite-Class Warrior. The blood on the ground, the battered and broken body that had risen again and again, was a testament to his spirit. Callion's departure was not just a retreat to heal but a promise of his return, stronger and more determined than ever. The silence he left behind was filled with the echo of his resolve, a reminder that a true Saiyan never gives up, never surrenders.

And as Callion left whilst leaving Salada to just stand there, the realization of what she had awakened began to sink in. Callion was more than just a warrior; he was a force of nature, unyielding and relentless. The battle may have ended, Salada by rights may have won that fight, but the war was far from over.


[EXIT]

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Word Count: 1,587
Total Word Count: 8,575