The sands of the arena had not yet cooled from the last bloodshed.
In the very center, half-buried and glinting under the sun's harsh gaze, lay a dazzling claymore—its edges bent, its grandeur faded just enough to whisper of a violent past. Its golden engravings, once proud and sharp, were smudged with blood and dirt. Though silent now, it still commanded presence—a remnant of gods brought low, a monument to the fallen commander it once served.
The roar of the crowd thundered through the colosseum as the announcer's voice cut through the tension.
"Behold, the terror of the Northlands — Gorrak Skullcrusher of the Stonefang Tribe!" The voice boomed. "A towering half-giant standing over fifteen feet tall, a living mountain with a fearsome record of fifty victorious battles!"
From the shadowed entrance strode the half-giant. His presence was a force of nature. Muscles bulged under thick, weathered skin that bore the scars of countless clashes. His arms were as thick as tree trunks, knotted and corded with power that rippled with every movement. Around his neck hung a necklace of shattered skull fragments—remnants of foes broken by his hands—each bone meticulously polished and threaded on a braided leather cord, clinking softly as he moved.
In his colossal grip, he wielded a hammer the size of a man's torso, its iron head blackened with age and use. The massive weapon cast a looming shadow across the arena, dwarfing even the largest gladiators. Each thunderous roar from Gorrak shook the air like a tempest, a guttural sound filled with raw rage and primal dominance.
"And his challenger," the announcer continued with a dramatic pause, "Aelric the Fistblade! Hailing from the distant lands of the Far East, undefeated in sixty battles… and yet, he has never wielded a weapon. His fists—razor-sharp, deadly—finish every foe with a precision that belies his unassuming appearance."
From the opposite gate stepped Aelric. Middle-aged, with a graying beard and calm eyes, his broad chest and muscular arms hinted at decades of disciplined training. He wore a simple but battle-worn robe, its muted earth tones concealing the powerful form beneath. His attire was a unique fusion — the humble garb of a monk intertwined with the practical design of a gladiator, with leather straps and reinforced cloth protecting his limbs without restricting his fluid movement.
The crowd murmured, divided in their bets. Most favored the half-giant — his size and raw power an overwhelming advantage. But a few whispered in awe of the monk's mysterious and deadly reputation.
The battle erupted with a brutal charge from Gorrak, the half-giant's massive form surging forward like a living avalanche. His first attack was a devastating overhead slam with his hammer, aimed to crush Aelric beneath its crushing weight.
Aelric shifted his stance, narrowly evading the blow as the ground trembled beneath the impact. "Power without precision is wasted energy," he muttered, eyes calm.
Gorrak's brow furrowed with irritation, his heavy breathing rattling the air.
The giant immediately followed with a sweeping horizontal strike from his hammer, designed to knock Aelric off his feet. The weapon's arc was wide and heavy, meant to sweep any opponent into the dirt.
Aelric slipped just beyond the hammer's shadow, stepping inside the giant's reach before retreating again. "Heavy blows leave openings. You leave yours wide open."
The irritation on Gorrak's face grew, his jaw tightening as he grunted and readied himself.
Next, Gorrak launched a powerful kick aimed at Aelric's ribs, his leg a battering ram that threatened to send the monk flying.
Aelric twisted aside, feeling the rush of air as the strike missed by inches. "Brute force alone won't break me. You lack finesse."
The giant's frustration was evident—his eyes narrowed, and a low growl escaped from deep within his chest.
Without hesitation, Gorrak swung a massive punch from his free hand, aiming to overwhelm with sheer power.
Aelric sidestepped smoothly, his expression unchanged, voice calm: "Relentless offense, but predictable. You give too much away."
The half-giant snarled quietly, his muscles tense, clearly irritated at being unable to land a blow.
"You dance like a leaf in the wind. Foolish to waste such energy dodging," Gorrak said mockingly.
The hammer came down again, casting its long shadow over Aelric's form, the thud nearly deafening. Yet, in the last moment, Aelric slipped away, a barely audible smirk playing on his lips. "That was close."
Seizing the moment, Aelric closed the distance. His fists became a flurry of precise strikes: first targeting the half-giant's knees with short, sharp blows to the patellar tendons and the common peroneal nerve behind the knee — causing sudden numbness and loss of control.
Gorrak staggered, his massive legs refusing to obey. He fell to one knee, confusion clouding his wild eyes.
Without pause, Aelric delivered a rapid series of jabs to the elbows and the brachial plexus — the network of nerves controlling the arms — locking his opponent's limbs into uselessness.
Now completely vulnerable, Gorrak slumped back onto the ground. His voice rumbled like distant thunder. "What… what have you done?"
Aelric knelt, his tone calm and instructional. "I blocked your energy pathways and disrupted the tendons controlling your joints. You relied on overwhelming force, but you forgot that without control, power is wasted. You attacked blindly, leaving openings I exploited."
He sighed, shaking his head. "You focused on offense, neglecting defense. The art of battle is balance — offense and denial, seizing moments when your foe is weak."
Aelric rose, eyes cold but serene. "I hate this part." His right hand straightened like a blade, four fingers rigid, poised like a katana's edge. He closed in, the death grip aimed at the giant's neck.
Aelric's fingers sliced through the air, finding the vulnerable carotid artery.
It was over.
The colosseum fell into stunned silence, broken by scattered cheers. Some groaned, bitter at lost wagers, while others celebrated in screams.
Aelric, calm as prayer, brought his hands together. He bowed his head beside the half-giant's broken form, whispering a few sacred words.
Then, like a monk leaving a shrine, he turned toward the gates, robes trailing behind him, blood clinging to the folds.
But just as his foot reached the edge of the coliseum's shadow—
he heard it.
A hum.
A pull.
No sound... and yet, a chant.
The claymore—still half-sunken in the middle of the bloodied sand, its bent edge like a wing clipped mid-flight—seemed to breathe.
Aelric's gaze turned slowly, his eyes falling upon the blade.
His expression changed.
Solemn. Still.
His voice was quiet, not quite a whisper, not quite speech. It was unclear if he spoke to himself… or something far beyond.
"A blade once borne is a vow not torn — it cleaves through more than flesh alone. A blade once gripped, a burden carried — a flame held fast, not lightly married. A warrior may trust his fists, but never the steel — for blades are loyal only to the kill."
Then silence again.
He turned back toward the gates, the chanting of the crowd swelling behind him like distant thunder. But the claymore remained in his periphery—watching, waiting, as if it too had something to say.