As the Torke Leader blocked Eamon's strike, his sword drove in deep, almost slicing through the thick hide of the leader's arm. The metal screeched against bone and muscle, lodging just short of puncturing all the way through. Eamon gritted his teeth and pushed harder, every ounce of his strength pressing into the hilt. But the Torke Leader was stronger. With a sudden roar, he kicked Eamon straight in the chest.
Eamon's body flew back and crashed against the cold stone wall of the hallway. His back hit first, then his head. He slumped down for a second, his hand trembling. Blood dripped from his lips as he coughed, staining his chin and neck. He wiped it with the back of his hand, smearing the red across his face, then stood up again.
His eyes burned—not just from the pain, but from sheer rage. He gripped his sword tighter, the veins in his arm pulsing. He took one step, then another, and launched himself forward again.
Steel clashed with claws.
Eamon swung down with a heavy slash. The Torke Leader brought up his clawed arm and blocked it with a sharp clang. Sparks flew as blade met bone. Eamon twisted his wrist and struck again from the side. The leader ducked. Eamon changed direction mid-swing and thrust forward. The leader jumped back, then lunged with his own attack.
He slashed diagonally, his claws singing through the air. Eamon barely raised his sword in time. The impact pushed him back three steps. He grunted and tried to hold his ground. Then he jumped forward and went for the legs, trying to sweep the leader down. But the Torke was too fast. He leapt and came down with both claws aiming for Eamon's head.
Eamon rolled to the side and stabbed upward. The tip of his sword grazed the leader's thigh. The leader hissed, then slashed across. Eamon blocked. They were back to where they started.
Strike. Block. Counter. Duck. Slash. Parry. Dodge.
It was endless. And it was brutal.
Eamon's muscles were failing. His arms grew heavy. His breaths were shallow and quick, like his lungs could no longer hold air. His vision blurred for a split second. Sweat rolled down his forehead and stung his eyes. Every bone in his body screamed in protest, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
The Torke Leader roared and came down with both claws in a powerful overhead slash. Eamon stepped aside, dodging the full brunt of it. He spun around, trying to catch the enemy from behind.
But he was too slow.
The moment Eamon turned, he felt it—a searing pain across his chest. The leader had brought his claw from behind and slashed across Eamon's chest in one clean motion. The force pushed Eamon forward. Blood sprayed from the wound. He stumbled and fell to his knees.
The Torke Leader now stood behind him, towering like a monster from nightmares.
Eamon tried to raise his sword, but a brutal kick landed on his arm. A crack echoed. His sword spun from his grip and clattered away. His arm hung limp.
He was bleeding heavily now. Blood poured from the gash in his chest, soaking his clothes and pooling on the floor. His breath was shallow. His heartbeat echoed in his ears. The warmth of the blood began to fade, replaced by a biting cold.
The leader raised his claw again. He was ready to end it.
But Eamon's instincts screamed.
With one last surge of energy, Eamon threw himself forward. He hit the ground hard, rolled to the side, and stopped a few feet away. The leader's claw slammed into the ground where he'd just been, splitting the stone.
Eamon lay on his side, chest heaving. He looked down.
The wound was bad. Too bad.
Blood soaked through the fabric. The gash ran diagonally from shoulder to abdomen. He could barely breathe. His fingers trembled as he reached up and pulled the torn remains of his shirt. He wrapped it tightly around his chest. The fabric stuck to the blood and clung to his skin.
He sat there for a second, hands shaking. He whispered to himself.
"I can't let it end here, can I?"
He pushed himself up, staggering. His legs were weak. But he had to finish this.
He closed his eyes. He raised both hands to the sky. His lips moved slowly, carefully.
"Arcana... Pyro... Hydra."
The ground trembled beneath him.
Above his head, a red glowing circle appeared. It spun in the air, fiery runes etched in motion. The wind howled. The flames licked the edges of the circle.
From within the circle, a massive two-headed fire beast began to form. Its heads roared with fury. The Hydra descended with a screech, its flaming body shaking the air.
It didn't wait for a command.
The beast charged forward.
One head lunged and bit down on the Torke Leader's shoulder. The other went for his stomach. Its flaming fangs dug deep. The leader screamed. His voice echoed down the halls like thunder. Flesh burned away under the fire. Smoke billowed as his skin blackened and bones began to melt.
He tried to fight back. But his claws passed through the fire harmlessly. The beast gripped tighter, shaking him like a rag doll.
The flames grew brighter.
The leader screamed again—this time weaker. His body twisted in pain. Flames danced along his skin. His limbs went limp.
Then—silence.
The fire Hydra let go and faded. The beast vanished into a spark of ashes. The magic circle dissolved. Smoke still hung in the air. Burnt flesh filled the hallway with a stench that made Eamon want to vomit.
But it was not over. The Torke Leader was still alive. Barely.
He had lost one arm completely. Most of his flesh was gone. His skin hung in patches, raw muscle exposed beneath. His body trembled as he crawled forward. One hand dragged his broken frame toward Eamon. His eyes were full of hate. Hate and madness.
Eamon stepped back, watching the monster inch closer. He looked down at him, then muttered.
"It was the gods of the heavens that cursed me, right..."
He looked at his broken body. At the blood still pouring.
"I will not lose. Not to the likes of you. And not to them as well."
He picked up his sword from the ground. He looked at the blade. It was cracked. It had seen too much. He lifted it and slammed it into the ground with a grunt. The blade went halfway in, standing tall like a marker of judgment.
He walked over to the Torke Leader, grabbed him by the legs, and dragged him across the broken floor. The body left a long trail of blood behind. Dust rose from the ground as he reached the sword.
Eamon screamed.
With one final roar, he lifted the leader into the air. His muscles trembled. His wound burned. But he swung the broken body across the blade.
The sword went straight through the leader's neck.
The head flew off, spinning midair, and landed far away with a dull thud.
Eamon let go of the body. It slumped to the ground, lifeless. Blood still dripping. He stood there, breathing hard. His legs gave way and he fell on one knee.
His head drooped. Pain took over everything. He was barely awake. His body was screaming. His vision turned to static.
But he slapped himself—hard.
"Not now," he whispered.
The sun slowly rose from behind the mountain. The bodies of the Torkes began to shimmer. Slowly, they crumbled into ashes. One by one. The hallway was filled with drifting dust and glowing embers. The night had ended.
Eamon stood again, barely.
He limped, dragging one foot. His hand clutched his chest tightly. He made his way to the river nearby. His knees gave in and he fell to the edge. He scooped water and splashed his face. He needed to stay awake. His head was spinning. He blinked hard, again and again.
After a few deep breaths, he stood. He had to get to Arvin's house. He had to make it. He entered the forest. Every step was pain. Branches scratched his face. Stones pressed into his feet. His breath was short. But he walked. He limped through the woods, leaning on trees when he had to.
Back at the house, Arvin sat near the fireplace. He hadn't slept all night. His hands were folded. His lips whispered soft prayers again and again. He looked at the window. The first rays of the sun shone through the glass. It touched his face.
He froze. His hands began to tremble. He whispered. "Let him come back. Please...". The words repeated over and over.
Then. A sound. THUD. A knock.
Arvin stopped. He stood up slowly. His heart raced. He ran to the door. He pulled it open.
There stood Eamon. Wounded. Broken. And he fell, collapsing straight into Arvin's arms.