Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

The crowd howled. The stone above the arena trembled with boots, fists, and roaring, animal-throated hunger.

"Behold!" came the bark of the announcer, high on his platform with 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 and barely remembered the first blood-haze of those days. That title remained a chain tied to the past, dragged like rusted iron behind him. Yet 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 into 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 had grown long, with black strands touching his shoulders like dark ropes. His body had changed as well; no longer a sack of ribs and hunger, he now stood solid and thickened by trials. Muscles rippled under his skin, earned not through rest or meat but through the rigor of steel and survival. Each fiber of his form remembered pain and motion alike.

Garrik waited across the arena. The man looked as though he had been carved from stone and broken free with a hammer. Towering and massive, his arms were thicker than most men's torsos. His face held a crooked sneer of half-teeth and a square jaw covered in an untrimmed beard. Across his broad back, the claymore gleamed, longer than a man's leg, with its hilt wrapped in torn leather and the blade etched with golden spirals and symbols. It spoke of importance and power, and its mere weight demanded silence.

The gate slammed shut behind them, and 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 in awe as the golden edge caught the sun and held it hostage.

Caelvir stepped forward once more.

Then the fight began.

The sand exploded beneath Garrik's charge. Despite his immense mass, the brute moved with surprising speed, his legs pumping like the pistons of a war machine. Caelvir dropped low, knees bent and blade drawn tight to his side. When the claymore came down, it was not simply like a sword, it felt like a falling wall.

Caelvir twisted as the greatblade slammed into the earth beside him with a roar of impact, sand erupting like smoke. He circled, slicing in with a fast cut toward Garrik's thigh, but the brute spun and backhanded his sword in a sweeping arc, forcing Caelvir to leap back, his feet dragging in the grit.

A big swing meant big holes, so he couldn't afford to stay where Garrik could control the pace.

Caelvir darted left. The weight of his sword gave him fluidity, and what mattered most was not raw speed but rhythm and timing. His shoulder faked one direction, then he slipped to the right, slashing a sharp line at Garrik's ribs.

Steel met steel.

Garrik had caught the strike in the middle of his blade, turning the great sword sideways like a shield. His laugh rang out, loud and wet.

"Like piss against a boulder!" he bellowed as he lunged forward.

Caelvir barely ducked in time. The claymore screamed through the air just inches above his skull. He rolled away, came to his feet, and braced himself again.

He circled, observing how Garrik's strikes were sweeping and wide, dangerous yet slow. But the man knew his weapon well; he never overextended or fell for feints. The blade was not just heavy; it was wielded with a sense of purpose.

The next clash came fast. Garrik feinted left, then stepped in and pivoted the claymore on one hand, slamming its pommel toward Caelvir's face. Caelvir ducked and struck upward with Seren, his blade aiming for the gut.

Again, the claymore twisted. Garrik caught the blow with the flat of his blade and shoved Caelvir back with raw strength.

Caelvir stumbled, breathing heavier now.

Garrik was too strong and too big. His reach meant Caelvir had to commit with everything on each attack, and Garrik still wasn't bleeding.

They fought again. Steel flared, each strike meeting with sparks or sound. Caelvir managed a shallow cut across Garrik's shoulder, and Garrik answered with a glancing blow that sent a dull thunder across Caelvir's ribs, nearly knocking the breath from his lungs.

Each of Garrik's strikes could end the fight, while Caelvir's sword whistled like wind through grass, fast, accurate, and deadly but none of his cuts had gone deep enough to slow the monster.

Garrik laughed, not just once but again and again between strikes.

His eyes were alight with a burning joy.

Caelvir tried a new angle. He ran forward, this time aiming for Garrik's legs. The brute dropped low to block, but Caelvir feinted the strike, kicked sand up toward Garrik's face, and spun around him, slashing for the hamstring.

A grunt, blood, and a line.

He had drawn first blood, and Garrik staggered slightly.

Then the claymore came from below, an uppercut motion so wild and reckless that Caelvir hadn't expected it.

The ground cracked where it landed. Caelvir scrambled back, lungs burning and arms shaking as exhaustion crept in.

Garrik rose slowly, his grin wide. The blood on his leg didn't seem to bother him in the least.

"More," he growled. "More."

Garrik charged again, 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 and dropped low. A sudden boot caught Caelvir square in the chest, sending him crashing backward and stealing the breath from his lungs.

He rolled, coughing, the sand sticking to his skin. He pushed himself up.

His grip on Seren remained firm. His eyes never left Garrik.

But he was slowing, his breathing growing shallow.

One mistake was all it would take.

Caelvir knew he couldn't match Garrik's strength or the raw confidence of a man who had never needed to be clever. Perhaps that was the flaw he could use.

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 and deflected off bone.

He took another step back.

A sudden upward swing from Garrik came so close that it shaved a lock from Caelvir's hair.

He was too slow now.

Garrik's laughter echoed through the arena.

Caelvir stood, shoulders rising and falling like waves. His sword pointed low, and blood ran down his side from a hit he had not noticed until now. His muscles ached.

Garrik stood untouched, save for the nick on his leg. His chest heaved too, though it was 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 while the other stood with fatigue.