Grugrim twisted his body at the last second, turning the strike into a graze instead of a kill.
But the graze was still brutal.
A sharp, burning line of pain cut down his face—from his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and down to his jaw.
Blood streaked across his beard, and he staggered, vision blurring for half a second.
Malik stood there, not pressing the attack. He smiled and gave his sword a slow twirl, fire licking off the edge in lazy arcs.
Then, with a voice like venom, he said:
"Now we're even."
*
Alex, in the VIP combatant zone, watched with arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
The crowd below gasped and cheered, drunk on spectacle, but he didn't share their excitement.
Instead, he scoffed.
"Seriously?" he muttered, glaring at the battlefield below. "How petty can you get?"
He was elated that Malik had finally decided to take the fight seriously—but...
His display was stupidly vindictive.
Alex shook his head.
