Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

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 and 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 a force of nature. Muscles bulged under thick, weathered skin that bore the scars of countless clashes, and his arms, as thick as tree trunks, were 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 and deadly, finish every foe with a precision that belies his unassuming appearance."

From the opposite gate stepped Aelric. He was old-aged, with a graying beard and calm eyes, and 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, seeing his size and raw power as an overwhelming advantage, although a few whispered in awe of the monk's mysterious and deadly reputation.

The battle erupted with a brutal charge from Gorrak, his 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 and narrowly evaded the blow as the ground trembled beneath the impact. "Power without precision is wasted energy," he muttered, his 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 with a wide and heavy arc 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 tightened 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 and felt the rush of air as the strike missed by inches. "Brute force alone won't break me. You lack finesse."

The giant's frustration became increasingly visible as 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 remained unchanged, and his voice was calm. "Relentless offense, but predictable. You give too much away."

The half-giant snarled quietly, his muscles tense and 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 was nearly deafening, yet at 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 becoming a blur of sharp, well-placed strikes. He first hammered the half-giant's knees with quick blows to the vulnerable spots just below and behind them, causing the giant's legs to go weak and unsteady.

Gorrak staggered as his massive legs refused to obey, and he fell to one knee, confusion clouding his wild eyes.

Without pause, Aelric unleashed a rapid series of jabs to the elbows and the sensitive area just above the shoulders where the arms draw their strength, leaving his opponent's limbs numb and useless.

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 and forgot that without control, power is wasted. You attacked blindly, leaving openings I exploited."

He sighed and shook his head. "You focused on offense while neglecting defense. The art of battle is balance, a harmony between offense and denial, seizing moments when your foe is weak."

Aelric rose, his eyes cold yet serene. "I hate this part." His right hand straightened like a blade, four fingers rigid and 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 and found the vulnerable carotid artery.

It was over.

The colosseum fell into stunned silence, broken only by scattered cheers. Some groaned in bitterness 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 and whispered a few sacred words.

Then, like a monk leaving a shrine, he turned toward the gates. His robes trailed behind him, blood clinging to the folds.

But just as his foot reached the edge of the colosseum's shadow, he heard it.

A hum.

A pull.

No sound, yet a chant.

The claymore, still half-sunken in the middle of the bloodied sand with 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 and still.

His voice was quiet, not quite a whisper, not quite speech. It was unclear if he spoke to himself or to 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, yet never the steel, for blades are loyal only to the kill."

Then silence returned.

He turned back toward the gates as the chanting of the crowd swelled behind him like distant thunder. The claymore, however, remained in his periphery, watching and waiting, as if it too had something to say.