Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

The commander stood like a mountain carved from iron, his armor reflecting the dim sun with a dull gleam. Beneath his helmet, barely visible, two piercing eyes burned like coals.

He was enormous, almost twice Caelvir's height, with arms that bulged like sculpted stone and legs thick as tree trunks, braced into the sand like roots.

And then there was the blade, the claymore. It hummed with the sound of shifting sand, like something ancient whispering through metal. Etchings carved down the length of the blade wriggled faintly in the heat.

The edge was jagged, slightly bent, as if it had broken reality more than once and returned sharper for it. Even from a distance, its sharpness could be felt, as though the idea of death itself had taken form.

It looked less like a sword and more like a relic that had slaughtered kings and been left behind by gods.

In front of him, Caelvir barely stood, his lower face hidden behind a torn rag soaked with sweat and blood. His right arm was swaddled in tight layers of belts and cords, hastily wrapped and desperately bound.

It did little to help. Blood still seeped.

He hunched forward, ribs cracked, each breath a whimper between clenched teeth. The loose armor he'd stolen from the dead hung off him awkwardly, the helmet tilting when he moved, making him look like a child in a soldier's clothes.

They stood twenty feet apart, but that gap felt like an eternity and yet far too close.

Around them, the arena lay littered with corpses; some sprawled like broken dolls, others clutching at torn throats or twitching limbs. Swords were half-buried in sand, daggers glinting dully in the dust.

Silence pressed in, a suffocating, anticipatory stillness.

All eyes were on them.

The commander tilted his head slightly.

"You've come far," he said, his voice deep and grounded, like a drum roll before execution. "Name. Tell me your name."

Caelvir hesitated. His throat ached and his lungs screamed, but he stood a little straighter.

"…Caelvir."

A beat passed. Then another.

The commander laughed, a rich, thundering laugh that rolled through the arena like thunder.

"Ha," he said. "You don't even bother to ask my name? Quiet little thing, aren't you?"

He grinned, teeth flashing beneath the helmet's edge.

"Well, it doesn't matter."

He rolled his shoulders and lifted the claymore.

"You won't live to remember mine."

The wind shifted, a strange cold brushing in from one side and heat from the other, a paradox wrapped in sand and tension.

The commander stilled. He sniffed the air, tilted his head, and listened for the rasp of breath, the weight of footsteps, the memory of movement.

He moved fast, blindingly fast for something so large, his footsteps thundering as he charged and closed the distance like a landslide.

Caelvir blinked—too late.

The commander was within ten feet.

Caelvir twisted, trying to circle, but the commander turned with him. He didn't need to see. Just five feet; that's all he needed.

The claymore came down like lightning.

WHHHRACK!

Air split. Sand exploded. The ground shook.

Caelvir staggered back, blinded by the sand in his eyes. His head spun. His mind flickered, blood loss having stolen too much.

He moved on instinct, dropping low to strike at the commander's legs from where he last remembered them.

But the commander kicked.

CRACK.

One rib. Then two. Maybe more.

Caelvir was launched backward, limbs flailing and lungs gasping.

He crashed into the ground. The pain was white, burning, endless.

The commander didn't stop. He planted the claymore tip into the ground, angled to skewer him like prey.

Caelvir rolled, sand flying as the sword missed by inches.

Another roll. Another thrust. Again. Again.

Whud. Chhk. CRASH.

Steel bit sand, not flesh. Each strike came closer.

Caelvir's roll stuttered as his limbs gave out.

And then a shift.

The commander dropped the claymore, changing tactics.

He lunged forward, massive hands wide.

He reached precisely where Caelvir rolled next and grabbed his chest. Fingers pressed over ribs, then moved down to his throat.

"So this is you," he muttered, voice low and curious.

He felt the boy's frame. "So skinny. So soft. Barely bones and bruises. And yet you killed them all..."

A cruel grin curled under his helmet.

He tightened his grip.

Caelvir choked, legs kicking weakly, his blade-wielding hand twitching.

Stomp.

The commander's foot crushed his wrist.

Another crack. Another bone shattered.

Both arms useless now.

With one massive hand, the commander lifted Caelvir high, choking him midair like a ragdoll. Then he turned and reached for his sword.

"I'll do this properly," he said. "A death by blade. A warrior's death. You earned that much."

He raised the claymore with his free hand.

"Would be nice to hear some final words," he added. "But I can't loosen my grip. You understand."

His smirk widened.

"Still, you should've talked more in life. Made better use of the time you had."

He lifted Caelvir even higher, positioning the claymore for one clean strike.

SHNK.

A sudden sound, wet and sharp.

A blade pierced through the commander's left hand straight through the palm that held Caelvir.

A sickening jolt.

The commander's fingers loosened instinctively, too slow to clench again.

Caelvir dropped.

Thud.

He hit the ground, coughing violently and gasping, throat torn from pressure.

The commander staggered back, swaying, his arm twitching as the dagger jutted grotesquely from the center of his palm.

He snarled.

"You—"

Realization came slowly, crawling through the haze of pain.

That blade had been in his mouth, tucked between his teeth since the moment he realized he had no hands left to use. Through the grit, the wind, and the edge of death, he had held onto it.

He kept it clenched in his jaw like a mad dog guarding its last weapon, waiting for the one chance to strike.

The blade had not missed.

It had gone clean through the commander's hand. Still lodged. Still trembling. Still bleeding.

The commander growled low, his voice cracked with pain and fury.

"If you won't take a warrior's death," he said, turning his head toward the fallen boy, "then you don't deserve one."

Caelvir rolled again, pushing his battered body with all the strength he could summon. His ribs screamed in protest and his throat burned, but he had no choice except to keep moving.

Each breath felt like fire. Stopping would mean death.

For a fleeting moment, there was a spark of hope.

The sand no longer clouded his vision. His eyes, though stinging from earlier blindness, began to clear, even if the world remained a blur.

He was still partially blind, but the blood pouring down his face—the same blood from the commander's strikes—had mixed with the sand, helping clear his sight.

Though not perfect, he could now see shapes again.

He forced himself to suppress the coughs that racked his chest, but the rasping sound of his breath slipped past his control.

It echoed in the silence, betraying his location.

The commander was already closing in.

There was no time. Caelvir's gaze locked onto a cluster of broken weapons scattered across the sand. The jagged edges could be his salvation if he could just reach them.

His body was a wreck, but he pushed himself toward the blades, rolling with what little strength he had left. He hoped the commander's fury would cloud his judgment.

And it did.

The commander's massive boots thundered across the arena floor, charging blindly toward the sound of Caelvir's struggle.

With a sickening crunch, his foot slammed into the blades.

The sand around him trembled as jagged steel tore into the commander's flesh.

The roar of pain was enough to make the earth itself shake, but still the giant didn't stop. No amount of damage could slow him.

He snarled and fought through the agony, his steps slower now, each one sending fresh waves of pain through his legs.

With every movement, the commander grew more cautious.

His gait shifted from a relentless charge to a careful, calculated pace. He scanned the sand and tested each step before taking it, but he still came for Caelvir.

Caelvir flexed his right hand, nearly useless from blood loss and injury. His fingers barely moved, but he spotted something hidden beneath the sand and grabbed it with what strength he had left.

The commander's presence loomed above him. Caelvir felt the weight of his shadow before the giant knelt over him, his hands searching for the helmet.

The commander's fingers closed around it, gripping with unnatural strength. Despite the pain, his hands didn't shake. The force was enough to crush the helmet and destroy anything it touched.

His voice echoed, deep and cold. "You're going to face a much harsher death than you deserve, and there will be no honor for you."

It took only a moment. The looseness of the helmet worked in Caelvir's favor. He slipped out of it just as the commander's hands tightened, ready to crush it into the sand.

In that instant, Caelvir poured what remained of his strength into one final act.

With his wounded arm, he thrust the jagged shard of metal into the commander's throat. The impact was sickening, and blood spurted immediately, staining the sand beneath them.

The commander froze.

For one brief moment, everything stopped.

Caelvir did not hesitate. He drove the shard deeper, carving through the giant's throat, and watched the life drain from him.

The commander's massive body began to go limp.

Caelvir did not stop.

He struck again. Then again. Over and over.

His vision was still blurry, but his instincts drove him.

His wounds burned, but he kept going.

The giant's blood poured in thick streams, pooling around them both.

Finally, the commander's massive form collapsed, his weight threatening to crush Caelvir beneath him.

Caelvir scrambled free, dragging himself away from the fallen behemoth. He barely avoided being pinned by the commander's lifeless body.

He pushed himself to his feet. Every muscle screamed, but he forced himself upright, shaky and barely conscious.

The commander's body lay bleeding in the sand. The fact that he still breathed amazed Caelvir. The giant was unyielding, even at the end.

Caelvir looked down at him, throat raw, breath ragged and stained with blood. He barely had enough energy to speak, but he forced the words out.

"It's rude of me not to ask your name," he croaked, voice barely audible.

The commander's lips parted. His throat gurgled, a rasping sound that was almost a whisper, but it was impossible to understand. His voice was wrecked, shattered by Caelvir's strikes.

He tried again. A strange sound emerged disjointed. It made no sense, but the tone was haunting.

"U-ehh...grr..."

Caelvir strained to listen. It was unintelligible.

The commander's name was lost in the blood pooling in his throat.

Then, with what little force remained, the commander touched his claymore. His hand shook as he struggled to speak.

"Ah ift... fom som oh puh shush... to me... ple... otek uh..."

But the words were nearly inaudible, buried in the gurgling of blood and the faint rasp of his breath. Caelvir caught only fragments.

"Pr...tec... it..."

The commander's eyes flickered. His chest heaved in one final breath.

"Ah... see... a li—"

And then the light in his eyes faded.

The silence cracked, split open by deafening roars from the stands.

Cheers rose like a wave from the southern balconies, voices of gamblers who had bet on the boy no one believed in.

Others stayed seated, stunned, expressions soured and stiff.

Their money had gone with the fallen twenty. Some shook their heads in disbelief. A few spat. Some looked away.

"So much for the cannibal guy not eating anybody," someone muttered from the noble tiers, half-sneering, half-stunned.

Above, in the noble box draped in crimson silk, the five watched.

Venara's lips curved, slow and graceful. "Now, many will want him," she murmured, fingers toying with the edge of her goblet. "The boy may become a fine ornament in a noble's collection, a centerpiece of their bloodsport gallery."

Masquien scoffed, leaning back with a lazy smirk. "Or he got lucky. Even beggars find gold once."

Talen's eyes narrowed, the line of his jaw tight. "The twenty were careless. The commander more so. He should have crushed the boy when he had the chance. Instead, he played."

Faron gave a quiet hum of approval. "Maybe. But the boy took the only path he had. He seized the moment despite being injured. The others didn't."

Venara tilted her head slightly, her smile softening. "He's very... intriguing," she said, her voice low, silk against steel. "There's something else in him. It glimmers, just a little, beneath all that blood."

The old noble leaned forward, his voice like creaking stone. "There is only so much the blind can do." His gaze remained locked on the arena sands. "Relying on the voices of the crowd isn't strength. It is blind faith. And blind faith guides the blind to nowhere."

Down below, Caelvir stood amidst the wreckage. The arena spun faintly around him. His blood had stopped running, and his breath dragged like iron across his throat.

And then he felt it.

A pull.

Buried beneath churned dust and red battle smears lay Seren's blade. It had once been hers, but now it belonged to him.

It called not through words or sound, but a quiet gravity, like something remembered in a dream.

Caelvir turned toward it.

Step by step, he moved slowly and broken. His knees shook with each stride. His fingers, caked in red, twitched faintly as he reached.

The edge of the blade caught the light, dull and waiting.

But before he could grasp it, his vision swam.

The ground beneath him twisted.

He blinked once.

Darkness bled in from the edges.

His legs buckled.

And then he fell, silently, with nothing left to give.