The Second Round, Battle Royale?

First match, huh? Well, no time like the present to advance, Arba thought to himself. Hefting his training blade up onto his shoulder, the Hybrid advanced out slowly into the burning red glow of Planet Vegeta's crimson sun, the morning as lurid and intense as midday with the unusual tinge to the sky. Battles to the death were not unexpected, though it was certainly unpleasant that the hybrid was going to have to go up against his Zarbonian friend... more intimidating than that was the third challenger, whom Arba recognized by name as the ki expert that he'd identified as a possible stumbling block the day before. Striding out into the center of the ring, Arba awaited the rest of the fighters, clad in his cloak with his sword still visible.

Shrouded by his hood, Arba's eyes scanned the crowd once more, a thin sneer of disgust at the gluttonous behavior displayed by Frieza's elite, such egregious waste of calories certainly affording them no advantage on the field of battle... Food was fuel, but when you didn't burn it off it became excess baggage... Though judging by the girth of the thorny one at Frieza's side, fatness was no disqualifier for rank. The rest of the crowd was as rowdy as the day before, though perhaps even moreso now with the prospect of a real fight on their hands... This could be bad, it meant that if he held back even in the slightest, things could go south right quick... He wasn't sure if they crowd was allowed to throw things at the combatants, though given the Saiyans' propensity to fight dirty and violently, it probably wasn't discouraged. Maybe there was a way to work this out... A trick he could use somewhere?

Taking a slow deep breath to still his racing mind, the Grunt decided to push all but the fight from his thoughts for now and focus on winning... He could try and preserve his friend, but ultimately he needed to advance here if he was going to ascend in rank, status was everything in Frieza's empire and it would be paramount to his goals of freeing his mother from slavery. Wondering if Captain Ginyu was somewhere in the crowd, Arba lowered his sword from his shoulder and gave the blade a spin with a simple wrist rotation, picking up speed as he danced the weapon around his body and whipped his cloak in some madly-thrashing display of ferocity and fluidity like some kind of frenzied dervish. Deftly unpinning his cloak with his free hand mid-dance, the hybrid allowed it to fall free as he came to the climax of his display, Drawing his sword arm up and back so that the blade extended from behind him and across his shoulders, pointing ahead, his free hand pointing outward to the entrance where the other fighters would be coming from, his left knee raised as he stood on the ball of his right foot. The Grunt's battle attire for today was far more serious than yesterday's, consisting of the standard FGA battle armor over his usual short-sleeved undersuit, with a strange harness over his chest bearing a reflective surface... Less flamboyance, more business.

"Come then to your deaths, foes," Arba bid his opponents as if they could hear him, the confidence more for the crowd than anything else.