Adol came at him again.
Sand kicked beneath his boots as he charged, axe raised high, mouth curled in a snarl. Azeric tensed. He couldn't take the full weight of that weapon—not again. One clean blow would break him in half.
He moved. Quick steps back, weaving. The axe swung—once, twice, three times—each blow missing by inches, the sheer force of them sending gusts of wind over his skin.
Adol didn't let up.
He was pushing him.
Azeric gritted his teeth as the wall neared. Every step brought him closer to the edge of the pit. The bastard was cornering him, and he knew it. Every swing of that axe wasn't just trying to kill—it was herding.
He shifted the blade in his hands, parrying just enough to keep the edge from biting into him. Not blocking—he couldn't. He let the axe slide across his sword's length, deflecting instead of absorbing.
Still, each strike sent tremors through his arms. His knees locked. The stone wall loomed behind him.
He had seconds.
He leapt.
A burst of motion, legs coiled like springs. He darted wide, breathing ragged, and turned just in time to see Adol charging again, axe over his head.
Azeric didn't dodge.
He jumped straight toward it.
Midair, he twisted his body and brought his blade down—not on Adol, but the axe.
The edge of his sword slammed the shaft, driving the weapon deep into the packed earth.
Adol flinched—shock flickering through his eyes. And that was all he needed.
Azeric landed low, rolled forward, and drove his sword through Adol's already-wounded knee.
Ding.
"[Repetition Stack – 2]"
Adol groaned—a guttural, feral sound—and lashed out. His massive hand gripped the blade, blood slicking his palm as he tore it from his own knee. The metal sliced through his flesh, but he didn't care. With a roar, he hurled the sword across the pit—farther than even the axe.
Azeric threw himself back, boots skidding in the dust.
Now they were both unarmed.
Breathing hard. Staring.
Adol still bled. Still limped. But the danger hadn't lessened. It had shifted. The man was a beast even without steel.
Adol turned toward his axe, reached for it, and gripped the handle with one hand, dragging it free from the dirt. Azeric ran for his sword.
He reached it first.
The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he felt it—Adol charging straight toward him like a falling wall.
Azeric turned just in time.
He raised the sword, flat edge angled outward, using it not to strike but to shield.
CLANG.
The impact rang across the arena like a bell. The axe met steel. The force of it dropped Azeric to one knee, ground cracking beneath him as the blow pressed him down.
Grunting, muscles burning, he pushed. Every tendon screamed. He forced himself upward, resisting the crushing pressure. One final surge—and he shoved Adol back.
The giant stumbled a step.
The crowd exploded—cheers erupting like thunder from the stands, voices shaking the arena. For a moment, Azeric wasn't just surviving. He was winning.
Adol chuckled darkly, the sound thick with blood and something else—something like respect. "I like your fight, pretty boy," he rasped, lifting the axe again. "But this is your last. I'll break you clean."
Azeric grinned, breath steady now, eyes sharp. "You're right," he said, blade raised. "It is the last fight. Just not mine."
Adol smirked at that, rolling his neck with a grunt. The edge in his posture softened just slightly, not in weakness—but in recognition.
The kind that only came when two killers understood each other.
Then Adol moved.
Azeric caught it a fraction too late—the stance. It wasn't his usual brute-force charge.
It was practiced.
Deliberate.
His boots slid across the sand as he lowered the axe, dragging it low, then snapping it upward into a brutal vertical arc.
Azeric stumbled backward with his sudden movement, eyes widened.
He recognized it—Little Rat had shown him the same steps.
A diagonal strike followed—quick, too sharp for a man his size—and then a crouch, the swing angled toward the knee.
Azeric knew and jumped high enough to evade that. He also knew how this sequence ended.
As Adol twisted in for the follow-through, Azeric was already sliding left—off-line, just outside the arc. He dropped low, blade angled, and pivoted into the blind side as Adol committed to the final wide sweep.
Azeric surged up.
His sword kissed the side of Adol's knee.
Ding.
[Repetition Stack – 3]
Impact confirmed: critical zone
Force multiplier: +120% applied
Adol took a step—and collapsed.
THUD.
His leg buckled inward, cleaved clean through the tendon. The weight of him struck the ground like a dropped boulder, dust exploding in all directions. The arena went silent.
The sound cracked across the pit like a drumbeat of finality, deep and jarring. It wasn't just the fall of a man—it was the end of a storm, a monster brought to earth. Every breath held. Every voice stilled.
But Adol didn't rise.
His feet, once planted like stone, were now split—blood rushing out beneath him in thick rivers.
Stillness.
Then the crowd roared. An explosion of sound that shook the walls.
The announcer's voice rose over the chaos, exultant, straining to be heard:
"THE PRINCE OF DEATH!"
Azeric stood, bloodied, sword raised.
Victor.