Fiend's Fourth Hurdle

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, and with ten more, the century mark would come nearer, tantalizingly close.

A bitter thought flickered through Brusk's mind as he recalled that Garrik was dead. That bastard had fallen, cut down by a boy they now called Caelvir, 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. To him, they were fresh meat, flesh and bone ripe to be shattered. His palms ached, the fire in his hands clawing for contact, and his axe thrummed, eager for blood and ruin.

The first man rushed forward with ragged, wild breath, his eyes darting and pleading, flickering with a silent prayer. His voice cracked as he spat words—bargaining or begging, Brusk never heard. The axe swung in a cruel arc, carving deep through flesh and muscle, and blood burst like a geyser, spraying the sands with hot, sticky red.

The man's body trembled, his knees buckling as his hands clutched at the torn wound, trying to hold himself together. A faint, broken sound escaped his throat, half prayer and half curse, but it faded beneath the roaring crowd.

Brusk did not pause.

The second man lunged, fury and panic tangled in his eyes as he swung a sword wild and desperate, his breath hitching, caught between hope and terror. Brusk sidestepped, catching the man's arm with iron fingers as a sickening snap echoed when bone broke.

The man's lips trembled, mouth opening in a silent plea that never found sound, blood dripping from the shattered limb just as Brusk's axe struck, cleaving through neck and nerve.

The body went slack.

A third warrior charged, his voice hoarse and trembling, words lost in the clash of steel. Brusk twisted aside, catching the man's dagger-wielding hand mid-swing, and the blade clattered to the ground. The man's face drained of color, eyes wide in a silent, frozen plea.

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 and 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 and smashed it against the arena floor in brutal, calculated strikes.

With every crunch of bone, the man's muffled gasps turned into desperate prayers, his lips moving with trembling words that no one heard.

The fifth fighter barely hesitated before lunging, his breathing ragged and a faint whimper threading beneath his curses. Brusk caught the swing and twisted the arm backward until a sharp crack cut through the air.

The man's eyes watered, a breathless gasp escaping his lips, a plea for 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 quickly turning into helplessness. They scratched, bit, and made frantic attempts to claw at Brusk's armor, grasping at survival with each desperate move trembling like the last flicker of a dying flame.

But Brusk was the storm.

His blows were ruthless and precise, his laughter dark and wild, filling the arena with the terrifying joy of destruction. A fist shattered a jaw, a knee crunched ribs, and his axe bit flesh and bone like a predator.

A slash nicked his arm, hot blood dripping, but it felt like 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 and countered with a strike that severed the arm clean at the elbow. The spray of blood formed 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 and twisted the man's wrist until bones snapped. The scream broke free, sharp, broken, and desperate, then was 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 though begging 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 and half-pleas, were swept away by the wind and the crowd's roar.

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, his hands stained with gore and sweat. His fury had emptied onto the ten before him, yet 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 came before the break.

They tried to speak, to plead, but Brusk did not listen.

Dead men whispered, and the beast never faltered.