The sand beneath Caelvir's feet was thick with sweat and iron. His breath stuttered, dragging itself through clenched teeth. The sword of Seren weighed heavier now—not in metal, but in muscle. His shoulders ached. His left thigh was numb. Blood ran in thin streams down his side, as if his skin had forgotten how to hold itself together.
Across from him, Garrik looked fresh.
No—worse. Garrik looked amused.
The brute paced slow, deliberate steps. Not with caution, but cruelty. His claymore rested on one shoulder, the hilt kissed by fingers thick as bricks, the gold engravings catching light like a god's grin. That blade—too wide, too long, too grand—should've been clumsy. But it danced in Garrik's grasp like a toy.
Caelvir moved first, or tried to. A forward lunge, sword close to the body, tip aimed for the ribs. Garrik deflected—not with the blade, but with the side of his knee, lifting it like a wall of bone. Caelvir's sword glanced off with a clang. Pain shot through his wrist. He stumbled back.
Then came the retaliation.
Garrik stepped forward with his entire body. He didn't slash; he threw the flat of the claymore like a battering door, smashing it sideways into Caelvir's shoulder. Caelvir's body spun midair before crashing into the sand. Blood frothed between his lips.
He forced himself up. No time to count injuries.
Garrik didn't give room. His foot drove forward, fast for a man that size. Caelvir twisted his torso just in time as the claymore came down, carving a deep trench into the dirt. A heartbeat late, and it would've cut him in half.
From the ground, Caelvir kicked up, foot driving for Garrik's shin.
Garrik caught the leg midair. With one hand.
And with the other, he punched.
No blade. No elegance. Just a raw, hammer-like fist to Caelvir's jaw that cracked against bone and dragged his vision white. His head snapped to the side. Seren's blade fell from his hand. Again, he was in the sand.
"Bleed," Garrik growled—not aloud, but through the motion of his body, his grin, his posture. "Bleed and bow."
Caelvir didn't bow.
He rolled.
The next downward strike of the claymore shattered sand inches from his back. He kept rolling, gathering his blade, rising to one knee. He swung upward. The tip of his sword scraped Garrik's ribs—metal touching skin but not cutting. Too slow.
Garrik retaliated not with blade but with elbow—ramming it down into Caelvir's spine.
Caelvir collapsed again.
Fists. Feet. Elbows. The fight had become more than a contest of swords—it was now body against body, man against storm.
Garrik pressed the advantage, stomping forward. Caelvir was up again—barely. Breathing hurt. Movement burned.
This time, he changed the dance.
Caelvir feinted left with the sword—Garrik lifted his blade in defense—but Caelvir didn't commit. Instead, he dropped low, sweeping a leg toward Garrik's knee.
The brute stumbled slightly, but didn't fall. Instead, he brought his pommel down—like a war club—toward Caelvir's temple. Caelvir caught it. With both hands. Metal crashed into bone, but his arms took the brunt. He used that hold to drag himself up, body to body.
Then his forehead slammed into Garrik's nose.
Blood.
Not Caelvir's.
Garrik roared.
It was the first time the brute had bled.
But the cost was steep. Garrik grabbed Caelvir by the ribs and threw him—threw him across the sand like a sack of meat. Caelvir bounced once, rolled, and came to a halt.
The crowd above the arena had grown quiet.
Garrik stood breathing heavy now. His nose trickled crimson. But his smile hadn't left.
"I will break you," that smile said. "And the sword too."
Caelvir pushed himself up. Every limb screamed. Blood soaked his chest, thighs, and forearms. His hair clung to his face like strings of black rope. He could feel his pulse in his wounds.
Garrik walked again—this time with purpose. The claymore lifted high.
Caelvir ducked low. Too low.
The blade missed.
That was the plan.
With a sudden burst of instinct and desperation, Caelvir launched upward—not at Garrik's center, but over the incoming blade. As the claymore swept beneath him, he stepped on it mid-swing, using the wide flat of the steel as a fleeting foothold. His left foot then drove off Garrik's thigh, giving him just enough lift. In midair, the Seren Sword flashed downward, gripped in both hands.
He came down like an arrow.
And stabbed.
Right into Garrik's side. Just under the arm. The blade sank, biting past muscle. A sound erupted—part growl, part howl, part wounded animal's scream.
Garrik staggered back. The claymore fell from his hands, clanging against the ground like thunder made solid.
Caelvir landed in a crouch.
He didn't rise.
His lungs were fire. His body—cut, bruised, ragged. A line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to his neck. But the sword of Seren still sat in his hand. Dripping.
A dozen feet away, Garrik clutched his side, half-laughing, half-snarling.
Neither had won.
Neither could keep going.
Caelvir limping, bloodied and battered, his blade whispering songs of defiance; Garrik dragging his claymore behind him like a child sulking with a broken toy.
The space between them grew. Garrik stumbled back, clutching his bleeding chest, staggering a few paces before planting his feet firm into the earth.
Then—he screamed.
A sound that tore from somewhere deeper than lungs. A roar. Beastlike. Blood and rage bellowing from his throat as his chest heaved, the golden engraving on his claymore catching the sun's eye.
His arms opened wide.
And his eyes—They glowed.Gold. Bright and terrible.
Still gripping the claymore, he stood tall, defiant. The crowd stirred, confused at first, then hushed.
Then came the trembling.
The ground beneath their feet shivered. Not a quake. No cracking stone. Just… a stirring.
Sands began to move. Trembling across the ground like leaves in wind. Then faster. Spiraling. Curling.
A small storm.At first.
Caelvir's eyes narrowed, chest rising and falling, wounded and wary. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin. He braced, sword trembling in hand. This wasn't the fight anymore—it was something else.
The crowd leaned forward. Then back again.
"What is that?" someone muttered aloud.
A woman near the rails held her child. "A sandstorm?"
"But just in the arena?"
A man with scarred arms pointed down. "I've seen it once. In a high-tier colosseum. Years back. This ain't normal."
"It's the gods! The gods' wrath!" another man shouted.
No answers came.
The sands lifted. They rose, whirling with growing violence around the two fighters. Not the whole arena—but a circle, wide and precise, as if drawn by an unseen hand. The sun dimmed in that space, light fractured by the haze.
Then, the shrapnel came.
Blades.
Shattered edges of old weapons buried beneath the ground. Bits of iron and steel, long rusted and forgotten, now caught in the spiral of fury. They danced in the storm like knives in a cook's hand.
A sliver zipped past Caelvir's cheek. Blood drew thin.
He lifted his arms. Tried to guard his eyes. The wind screamed around him now, cutting deep. A jagged knife slammed against his shoulder. Another spun across his thigh.
He moved—low, hunched, trying to find rhythm, to understand. But there was no pattern. Just a storm of steel and sand and something far worse:
Laughter.
From within the center, Garrik stood unmoved. His golden eyes ablaze. His mouth wide in a maniac's grin. His hair whipped back by the rising storm. The claymore anchored like a monument in his fist.
"He's not even flinching," someone gasped from the stands.
"Is that magic?"
"No," said another, voice quiet with awe. "It's not quite that. Elemental mastery, maybe. A gift…"
Caelvir turned in the whirlwind, every inch of skin kissed by sand or steel. Small cuts. Dozens. Stinging like memory. His sword felt heavier now, dragging in his grip.
He looked up—eyes bloodshot, breath shallow.
And there, in the heart of the storm, Garrik still laughed.