Ten men stood before Brusk—each battle-hardened, their kill counts ranging from thirty to fifty, faces grim with a mixture of determination and dread. Brusk's kill count rested at eighty-six. Ten more, and the century mark would come nearer, tantalizingly close.
A bitter thought flickered through Brusk's mind: Garrik was dead. That bastard had fallen, cut down by a boy—Caelvir, they called him now, the Blade King. He before whom swords kneel. The title grated like a jagged stone in Brusk's throat. But he shoved it aside, burying it beneath a grin of savage hunger.
He didn't see men before him. No, these were fresh meat. Flesh and bone ripe to be shattered. His palms ached, the fire in his hands clawing for contact. His axe thrummed, eager for blood and ruin.
The first man rushed forward, breath ragged and wild. His eyes darted, pleading, flickering with a silent prayer. His voice cracked as he spat words—bargaining or begging, Brusk never heard. The axe swung, a cruel arc carving deep through flesh and muscle. Blood burst like a geyser, spraying the sands with hot, sticky red.
The man's body trembled, knees buckling, hands clutching at the torn wound as if to hold himself together. A faint, broken sound escaped his throat—half prayer, half curse—but it faded beneath the roaring crowd.
Brusk didn't pause.
The second man lunged, fury and panic tangled in his eyes. He swung a sword wild and desperate, breath hitching as if caught between hope and terror. Brusk sidestepped, catching the man's arm with iron fingers. A sickening snap echoed as bone broke.
The man's lips trembled, mouth opening in a silent plea that never found sound. Blood dripped from the shattered limb as Brusk's axe struck, cleaving through neck and nerve.
The body went slack.
A third warrior charged, voice hoarse and trembling, words lost in the clash of steel. Brusk twisted aside, catching the man's dagger-wielding hand mid-swing. The blade clattered to the ground. The man's face drained of color, eyes wide with a silent please.
Before the fear could fully register, Brusk's axe hammered into his chest, stopping his breath cold.
Another came at him with a heavy club, arms shaking, legs trembling under the weight of terror. Brusk absorbed the blow on his forearm, his muscles coiling like a beast ready to pounce. He grabbed the man's head, smashing it against the arena floor in brutal, calculated strikes.
With every crunch of bone, the man's muffled gasps became desperate prayers, lips moving with trembling words no one heard.
The fifth fighter barely hesitated before lunging. His breathing was ragged, a faint whimper threading beneath his curses. Brusk caught the swing, twisted the arm backward until a sharp crack cut through the air.
The man's eyes watered, a breathless gasp escaping his lips—a silent have mercy buried deep beneath rage. His knees buckled, but Brusk's axe drove into his heart without hesitation.
Each man who stepped forward carried the same tremble—the flicker of hope turning into helplessness. Scratches, bites, frantic attempts to claw at Brusk's armor. They were grasping at survival, each desperate move trembling like the last flicker of a dying flame.
But Brusk was the storm.
His blows were ruthless, precise, his laughter dark and wild, filling the arena with the terrifying joy of destruction. A fist shattered a jaw; a knee crunched ribs; his axe bit flesh and bone like a predator.
A slash nicked his arm, hot blood dripping, but it was a mere breeze compared to the storm he unleashed.
One charged with a club, shaking like a man standing on the edge of oblivion. Brusk ducked beneath the swing, countering with a strike that severed the arm clean at the elbow. The spray of blood was a crimson curtain as the man collapsed, silent tears streaking the dust.
Before a scream could rise, Brusk ended him with a brutal thrust through the heart.
The ninth man moved with trembling desperation, lips quivering as if mouthing prayers. Brusk sidestepped a wild strike, twisting the man's wrist until bones snapped. The scream broke free—sharp, broken, desperate—then cut short by a blow to the neck.
The body slumped lifeless.
The last opponent stood alone, eyes wide with a mixture of terror and disbelief. His breath caught, lips quivering as if begging the unseen gods for deliverance. Brusk feinted, then struck a devastating blow to the head that split the skull with a final, echoing crack.
The man's body crumpled to the ground, silence swallowing the last whispers.
Ten broken bodies lay at Brusk's feet, blood seeping into the thirsty sand. Their last murmurs—half-curses, half-pleas—were swept away by the wind and crowd's roar. Words that died in their throats.
Brusk's savage laughter rose above the noise. The whispers of dead men were meaningless.
The crowd was alight with bloodlust, shouting for more—bone-breaking, skull-splitting carnage. Brusk stood tall, chest heaving, hands stained with gore and sweat. His fury had emptied onto the ten before him, but the hunger within still burned, insatiable.
Tonight, the arena was his domain. He was the reckoning—the brutal storm of speed and power that shattered flesh and spirit alike.
Whispers before the break.
They tried to speak. To plead. But Brusk did not listen.
Dead men whispered. And the beast never faltered.