The crowd howled. The stone above the arena trembled with boots and fists and roaring, animal-throated hunger.
"Behold!" came the bark of the announcer, high on his platform, arms wide. "The Cannibal Beast returns—our dark horse with seventy wins behind his bloody heels!"
The word Cannibal rang false. Caelvir did not eat men anymore. He barely remembered the first blood-haze of those days. That title was a chain tied to the past, dragged like rusted iron behind him. But the crowd clung to it, savoring its cruelty like spoiled meat.
"And against him," the announcer continued, his voice cracking under the weight of what he said next, "Garrik the Skullsplitter! Bringer of Red Dawn! Wielder of the golden greatblade! Seventy-five souls taken!"
The cheering swelled to thunder. Even the walls groaned.
Caelvir stepped forward. The sun, high and spiteful, caught the edges of his blade—the Sword of Seren—casting shimmering arcs across the sand. His hair was long now, black strands touching his shoulders like dark ropes. His body had changed, too—no longer a sack of ribs and hunger, but solid, thickened by trials. Muscles rippled under his skin, earned not from rest or meat but the rigor of steel and survival. Each fiber of his form remembered pain, remembered motion.
Garrik waited across the arena. The man looked like he had been carved from stone and then broken free with a hammer. Towering, arms thicker than most men's torsos. His face, a crooked sneer of half-teeth and a square jaw covered in untrimmed beard. Across his broad back, the claymore gleamed—longer than a man's leg, its hilt wrapped in torn leather and the blade etched with golden spirals and symbols. It sang of importance, of power. Its mere weight demanded silence.
The gate slammed behind them. The arena swallowed the sound.
Garrik spoke no words. His hand gripped the claymore's hilt and pulled. The steel came free with a ringing rasp, and the crowd hushed, watching it in awe as the golden edge caught the sun and held it hostage.
Caelvir stepped forward.
Then they began.
The sand exploded under Garrik's charge. Despite his mass, the brute was fast—his legs pumping like the pistons of a war machine. Caelvir dropped low, knees bent, blade drawn tight to his side. When the claymore came down, it was not like a sword—it was like a falling wall.
Caelvir twisted. The greatblade slammed into the earth beside him with a roar of impact, sand exploding like smoke. He circled, slicing in with a fast cut toward Garrik's thigh—but the brute spun, backhanding his sword in a sweeping arc that forced Caelvir to leap back, feet dragging in the grit.
Big swing, big holes. Don't stay where he can control the pace.
Caelvir darted left. The weight of his sword gave him fluidity. It wasn't speed that mattered—it was rhythm, timing. His shoulder faked one direction, then he slipped right, slashing a sharp line at Garrik's ribs.
Steel met steel.
Garrik had caught the strike on the middle of his blade, turning the great sword sideways like a shield. His laugh was loud and wet.
"Like piss against a boulder!" he bellowed, lunging forward.
Caelvir barely ducked in time. The claymore screamed through the air inches above his skull. He rolled away, came to his feet, and braced himself again.
He circled. Garrik's strikes were sweeping and wide, dangerous and slow. But the man knew his weapon. He didn't overextend, didn't fall for feints. The blade wasn't just heavy—it was wielded with purpose.
The next clash came fast. Garrik feigned left, then stepped in, pivoting the claymore on one hand to slam its pommel toward Caelvir's face. Caelvir ducked, struck upward with Seren—blade meeting gut.
But the claymore twisted again. Garrik caught the blow with the flat of his blade and pushed Caelvir away with raw strength.
Caelvir stumbled, breathing heavier now.
Too strong. Too big. His reach means I have to commit every time. And he's not bleeding yet.
They fought again—steel flaring, each strike matched with sparks or sound. Caelvir managed a cut across Garrik's shoulder, a shallow line. Garrik answered with a glancing blow that sent a dull thunder across Caelvir's ribs, nearly knocking him breathless.
Each of Garrik's strikes could end the fight. Caelvir's sword whistled like wind in grass. Fast, accurate, deadly—but none of his cuts had gone deep enough to slow the monster down.
And Garrik laughed. Not just once, but again and again—between strikes, between thunderous swings, between dodged death and brutal intent.
His eyes were alight. Not mad, but burning with joy.
This was sport to him. Worship, almost.
Caelvir tried a new angle. He ran forward, this time aiming for Garrik's legs. The brute dropped low to block, but Caelvir fainted the strike, kicked sand up toward Garrik's face, and spun around him, slashing for the hamstring.
A grunt. Blood. A line.
He had drawn first blood. Garrik staggered slightly.
Then the claymore came from below—an uppercut motion so wild and reckless Caelvir didn't expect it.
The ground cracked where it landed. Caelvir scrambled back. He was tiring now—lungs burning, arms shaking.
Garrik rose slowly, grinning wide. The blood on his leg didn't even seem to bother him.
"More," he growled. "More."
Garrik charged, swinging wide with a brutal horizontal sweep. Caelvir leapt, the steel roaring just beneath his feet. He came down fast, blade aimed for Garrik's shoulder in a tight arc.
But Garrik twisted. Dropped low. A sudden boot caught Caelvir square in the chest, sending him crashing backward, breath stolen from his lungs.
He rolled, coughing. The sand stuck to his skin. He pushed up.
His grip on Seren was still firm. His eyes never left Garrik.
But he was slowing. His breathing shallow.
One mistake. That's all it takes.
Caelvir knew he couldn't outmatch Garrik's strength. Nor the raw confidence of a man who had never needed to be clever. But maybe… maybe that was the flaw.
As Garrik bore down on him again, Caelvir sidestepped narrowly and slashed for the wrist holding the greatblade. Steel met flesh—but the blow was weak, deflected off bone.
Another step back.
A sudden upward swing from Garrik came so close it shaved a lock from Caelvir's hair.
He was too slow now.
Garrik's laughter echoed through the arena.
When it ended, it was not with a final blow. It ended in a pause.
Caelvir stood, shoulders rising and falling like waves. His sword pointed low. Blood ran down his side from a hit earlier he hadn't noticed until now. His muscles ached.
Garrik was untouched save the nick at his leg. His chest heaved too—but with excitement. He stood like a monument to violence, claymore resting against his shoulder, golden and terrible.
"You're fun," he said, breathing hard. "But you ain't enough."
Then, turning to the crowd, Garrik raised his blade high.
The arena thundered.
Two men had entered, but only one stood with triumph in his eyes. The other with fatigue.