Xu Wenwu advanced across the cratered arena floor, his movements unhurried and methodical. Tony's armor lay broken and sparking, systems failing throughout the battered frame. The right leg dragged uselessly. The left arm hung limp, severed actuators leaving it dead weight.
Time to finish this.
Xu Wenwu's hands moved in practiced gestures, and the ten rings responded with eager precision. They flew toward Tony's position in coordinated formation, ready to systematically dismantle what remained of the Mark 40 piece by piece.
"Prepare to surrender," Xu Wenwu said, his tone carrying absolute certainty.
Tony's response was unexpected. Instead of standing his ground or attempting a final desperate assault, the damaged armor's repulsors fired at maximum output. The Mark 40 launched skyward in a screaming vertical climb, trailing smoke and sparks.
Running. Delaying. Trying to buy time for... what? Xu Wenwu couldn't imagine what tactical advantage altitude provided when your weapons were depleted and your armor was falling apart.
But it didn't matter. The contest would end the same way regardless.
Xu Wenwu gestured, and all ten rings detached from his arms simultaneously. They accelerated upward in pursuit of the fleeing armor, cosmic metal gleaming as they closed the distance with mechanical inevitability.
The rings struck in perfect sequence—head, chest, arms, legs, back. Each impact tore away chunks of gold-titanium plating. Armor became shrapnel. The arc reactor housing cracked, energy bleeding into the atmosphere in brilliant streamers.
The Mark 40 came apart mid-flight, reduced to tumbling debris in less than three seconds.
Xu Wenwu allowed himself a satisfied nod. Victory confirmed. He began recalling the ten rings, pulling them back toward—
His instincts screamed danger.
Xu Wenwu threw himself sideways with every ounce of supernatural speed his rings granted, abandoning grace for pure survival reflex.
A column of white-hot particle energy lanced down from directly above, striking the arena floor where he'd stood a heartbeat earlier. The beam was massive—easily twice the diameter of any unibeam Tony had fired previously. The gold-titanium surface exploded on contact, molten metal spraying outward in a fountain of superheated destruction.
Before Xu Wenwu could fully process the attack, bombs followed.
High-explosive ordnance rained from the sky in a concentrated pattern, each detonation feeding into the next. The arena floor became a hellscape of fire and concussive force. Shockwaves hammered Xu Wenwu's body from multiple angles simultaneously.
Without his ten rings forming a protective barrier, Xu Wenwu had only his enhanced physiology to protect him.
It wasn't enough.
The blast wave caught him center-mass and hurled him backward like a leaf in a hurricane. His body tumbled through smoke and flame, completely out of control. The world became a chaotic blur of sky and ground and fire.
He crashed beyond the arena's boundary, hitting ordinary concrete with bone-jarring force. His traditional robes—beautiful silk that had survived a thousand years of careful preservation—burned away in patches, the fabric ignited by residual explosive force. Smoke rose from his singed skin, and dust covered him from head to toe.
For a moment, Xu Wenwu simply lay there, processing what had just happened.
The spectators sat in stunned silence, their collective confusion almost palpable. Where had that attack come from? Tony's armor had been destroyed—they'd all watched the ten rings tear it to pieces. How could a demolished suit launch such devastating fire?
The massive display screen flickered to life, showing replay footage.
The destroyed armor tumbled through the air, plates and components falling away... but no body emerged from the wreckage. No pilot. The suit had been empty.
The footage rewound further, showing events from before the match began. There—barely visible against the bright sky—a second armored figure ascending to extreme altitude. Climbing higher and higher until atmospheric haze made tracking impossible.
Understanding rippled through the crowd like a wave.
The cunning bastard. Tony Stark had deployed a decoy.
He'd flown into the stratosphere before the match even started, positioning himself directly above the arena at altitudes where visual detection became nearly impossible. Then he'd sent an empty suit—controlled remotely by JARVIS—to fight in his place.
The decoy had served its purpose perfectly. It drew Xu Wenwu's attention, absorbed his attacks, forced him to commit his ten rings to its destruction.
And while those rings were occupied dismantling an empty shell, the real Tony Stark descended from above and unleashed everything he had.
Xu Wenwu pushed himself upright, his movements careful as he assessed for injuries. Bruises, certainly. Minor burns. Possibly a cracked rib or two. But nothing permanent. Nothing that would prevent him from continuing.
His ten rings flew back to his arms, settling into place with soft clicks. The familiar weight brought comfort and reassurance.
He looked up at Tony Stark—the real one this time—standing on the arena floor in pristine armor. No damage. Full ammunition. Fresh arc reactor glowing with maximum power.
Xu Wenwu could have felt angry. Betrayed. Cheated by tactical deception.
Instead, he felt relieved.
"Let me see how many more suits you can deploy," Xu Wenwu called out, his voice carrying across the distance without strain. "I won't hold back in the next match."
Because this confirmed the wisdom of his decision. If he'd accepted Tony's proposal for a single winner-take-all match, this stratagem would have cost him everything. All four Dragon Ball coins lost to one clever trick.
But he'd chosen the steady path. Multiple matches. Room for error. Redundancy built into the system.
Tony had won this battle through superior tactics. But Xu Wenwu would still win the war through superior strategy.
He turned and walked back toward his section, declining medical attention with a gesture. The burns would heal. The bruises would fade. And he'd learned valuable lessons about his opponent's capabilities.
No more assumptions. No more underestimation. The next match would be different.
Smith Doyle appeared on the arena floor, materializing beside Tony with his characteristic speed. He raised the armored Avenger's arm high.
"The winner of this match is Tony Stark!"
His voice carried across the venue, cutting through the murmurs and speculation. "The current Dragon Ball coin count stands at four to three—Tony Stark four, Xu Wenwu three."
In the Stark Industries section, Pepper Potts and Happy Hogan erupted in cheers. Happy actually jumped from his seat, pumping both fists in the air like a championship boxing fan.
"Tony! That was brilliant! No one saw it coming!" Happy's enthusiasm could have powered a small city.
But throughout the rest of the spectator areas, the mood remained skeptical. Tony had won through cleverness, yes. Through tactical deception and perfect execution. But could he do it again?
In the Eternals' section, Thena shook her head slowly. "Tony's luck has run out. Xu Wenwu won't give him another opening like that."
Her golden eyes tracked the Ten Rings leader as he accepted fresh robes from one of his attendants. "The question now is how many more armor variants Tony can deploy. Does he have an endless supply, or was that his last card?"
Ivan Vanko watched the replay with professional appreciation. Remote-controlled combat suits. He'd been developing similar technology for months, using his drone swarms as proof of concept. Seeing Tony implement the strategy successfully validated Vanko's own research direction.
But curiosity gnawed at him. How many more suits did Tony have in orbital storage? The satellite could only hold so much payload. And each descent burned fuel, generated heat stress, risked detection.
Ivan found himself glancing skyward, wondering what other surprises hung in low Earth orbit.
In the Ten Rings section, Xialing's face flushed with indignation. "Father, Tony Stark is utterly shameless! Using decoys and remote control—it's dishonorable!"
She gestured sharply toward where Tony stood accepting congratulations. "Thank goodness you refused his final battle proposal. Otherwise we'd be facing disaster right now."
The Death Dealer approached with fresh robes—black silk embroidered with subtle patterns, identical to Xu Wenwu's previous garments. A thousand years of preparation meant having backups for everything, including wardrobe.
Xu Wenwu accepted the clothing and changed with efficient movements, his expression thoughtful rather than angry. "I won't give him another opportunity like that. Your mother's resurrection allows no room for error."
His eyes found both his children, making sure they understood the stakes. "This tournament's power level exceeded the previous ones dramatically. Gods. Immortals. Cosmic beings. Who knows what variables might appear in future competitions?"
He smoothed the fresh silk across his shoulders. "That's why we must succeed now. This opportunity. This moment. No failures. No risks."
Both Xialing and Shang-Chi nodded, understanding the weight behind their father's words. The first Dragon Ball tournament had featured enhanced humans and skilled assassins. Dangerous, certainly, but comprehensible.
This second tournament? Asgardian deities. Five-thousand-year-old Eternals. Sorcerer. The escalation was terrifying.
What would tournament three bring?
Better to secure victory now than gamble on future opportunities that might prove even more challenging.
Tony returned to his section with considerably less fanfare than Happy's enthusiasm suggested. He dropped into his seat heavily despite the armor's servo-assistance, his mind already racing through tactical assessments.
"Tony, that strategy was genius!" Happy began, but Tony raised one armored hand to forestall further praise.
Pepper recognized the gesture. She'd seen it countless times over the years—Tony retreating into his own head, processing information, running calculations that existed only in the space behind his eyes.
She settled into her own seat silently, giving him room to think.
And Tony had plenty to think about.
Four Dragon Ball coins to his name now. One more than Xu Wenwu. The score had actually reversed. He'd pulled ahead through clever execution and perfect timing.
But he had nothing left to fight with.
The satellite's hangar bays stood empty. No more suits in orbital storage. The gold-titanium Mark variants he'd prototyped back at his Malibu workshop? Those lacked arc reactors entirely—display pieces and test frames, not combat-ready platforms.
The armor he currently wore represented his last functional asset. Palm cannons drawing power from the arc reactor. Chest-mounted unibeam. Everything else—missiles, bombs, rotary cannons, armor-piercing rounds—depleted or destroyed.
The stratagem he'd just executed could only work once. Xu Wenwu would never commit all ten rings again. Would never leave himself vulnerable to aerial bombardment. The element of surprise had been spent, and it could never be recovered.
Could he win the next match? Maybe, with perfect conditions and extraordinary luck. Though even that seemed optimistic.
Two victories in a row? After Xu Wenwu adapted to his tactics and stopped making mistakes?
Impossible.
Tony's mind drifted to desperate options. The satellite itself massed several tons, housed multiple arc reactors, included a self-destruct sequence. He could potentially de-orbit it, turn the entire platform into a kinetic impactor, crash it into the arena at terminal velocity.
The destruction would be catastrophic. Arena vaporized. Blast radius extending into the spectator sections. Dozens if not hundreds of casualties.
And even then, Xu Wenwu might survive through his ten rings' protection. While Tony would definitely be disqualified for mass murder.
So... last resort. To be considered only if genuinely no other options remained and the stakes exceeded mere tournament victory.
He and Xu Wenwu now had matching records. One win each. Honors even. Not a terrible place to end things, except that the tournament structure meant they'd keep fighting until someone claimed all seven Dragon Ball coins.
Tony exhaled slowly inside his helmet. He'd fought brilliantly with what he had. Overcome impossible odds through superior tactics. And it still wouldn't be enough.
The Baymax robots completed their repairs with mechanical efficiency, and Eddie Brock descended to the restored arena floor. "Please welcome Tony Stark and Xu Wenwu for the fifth round of competition!"
Both combatants materialized on the platform—Tony via repulsor flight, Xu Wenwu via energy platform. This time, no additional suits descended from orbit. No orbital shadows crossed the sky.
Tony wore the same armor as the previous match, its surface already showing stress fractures and scorched plating from Xu Wenwu's earlier assault.
Smith Doyle appeared between them, his expression neutral as always. "The match begins now."
But before he could vanish, Xu Wenwu spoke.
"Stark. Aren't you going to change armor?"
His tone carried neither mockery nor malice. Simple curiosity mixed with tactical assessment. "Or perhaps you're planning another aerial support strategy? Hidden reserves waiting in the stratosphere?"
The ten rings on his arms hummed with barely audible resonance. "Regardless of your approach, I won't give you another opening. No more mistakes. No more opportunities."