Date: April 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
Rosh paused for a moment, listening. The sound was distant, but distinct — footsteps on white sand. Someone was approaching. Someone unafraid of this place. Someone who, perhaps, was like them.
"You have friends?" Rosh asked without turning.
"I do," Datuk spat blood and grinned. "Do you?"
Rosh didn't answer the quip. He turned to Datuk, his mismatched eyes flashing. Enough distraction. First this one. Then the others.
He attacked, but Datuk, despite his fatigue, dodged. His heavy, massive axe arced, and Rosh, redirecting the strike with his Vector Spirit, wasn't fast enough — the blade slid along his thigh, leaving a deep gash.
"You're getting faster," Rosh said, stepping back. His Spirit worked at its limit, but he felt the energy within him beginning to deplete. Each change of trajectory required concentration, each redirection — expenditure of power. Datuk, on the contrary, seemed only to be gaining momentum.
"I'm just starting," the dwarf replied.
He felt it. Somewhere deep inside, where his Berserker Spirit dwelt, a fire began to awaken. That power which made him invulnerable to pain, insensitive to fatigue, fast and dangerous.
Datuk closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, the world around was different. Sharper. Brighter. Every detail — the movement of Rosh's fingers, the tension in his muscles, even the beat of his heart — all of it became accessible to his perception. The Berserker Spirit quickened his blood, made his heart beat faster, his muscles work at their limit.
"My turn," Datuk said.
He lunged forward faster than Rosh expected. The axe arced, and the half-blood, changing its trajectory, barely dodged. But Datuk didn't stop. He struck again and again, each strike faster than the last. His axe sang in the air, and Rosh, dodging, felt his Vector Spirit begin to falter. His fingers tired, his reactions slowed.
"You're... getting... faster," he said, dodging another strike.
"I told you," Datuk grinned, something animal in his smile. "I'm just starting."
He struck again. The axe arced, and Rosh, changing its direction, wasn't fast enough — the blade slid along his arm, leaving a deep wound. Blood sprayed on the white sand, and Rosh, stepping back, touched the wound. The pain was sharp, but not frightening. More frightening was something else — he was getting tired. His Spirit demanded more and more energy, and his reserves were not infinite.
"Good," he said, clenching his fist. "You made me sweat. But that's not enough."
He raised his hands, and his fingers moved faster, tracing complex, almost indistinguishable patterns in the air. The Vector Spirit, which had been working in passive mode, now entered its active phase. Rosh stopped just deflecting attacks — he began to attack himself, using his power offensively.
The air around Datuk grew dense, heavy. Invisible forces pressed him from all sides, and he, not understanding what was happening, felt his movements slow. It was like trying to run knee-deep in water — each step was an effort, each swing of the axe required inhuman strength.
"What are you doing?" he asked, trying to push through the invisible wall.
"I'm changing directions," Rosh answered. "Not just your attacks. Everything. Air, light, power. You yourself. My Vector Spirit allows me to redirect any flow. And now I'm redirecting your own strength against you."
Datuk felt his own strike, aimed at Rosh's chest, suddenly change trajectory and plunge into the sand. He tried to kick — his leg swung aside. Tried to close the distance — he was thrown back, as if someone invisible had pushed him in the chest.
"This is... infuriating," Datuk said, rising.
"This is my power," Rosh smiled. "And you can't fight it."
Datuk gritted his teeth. He felt the Berserker Spirit inside him awaken stronger, the fire burning away fatigue and pain. He couldn't fight Rosh's power directly. But he could become faster. Stronger. More invulnerable.
He lunged forward, ignoring the blows Rosh threw at him. A fist to the chest — Datuk didn't stop. An open palm to the face — Datuk didn't stop. Another blow, another, another — he walked like a tank through a hail of strikes, and his axe finally found its mark.
The blade slashed Rosh's shoulder, and the half-blood, not expecting such ferocity, stepped back, clutching the wound. Blood ran down his arm, dripping onto the white sand. He tried to activate his Spirit again, but his fingers obeyed poorly — fatigue was taking its toll.
"You're... insane," he said, looking at Datuk.
"Maybe," the dwarf answered, raising his axe. "But I'm still standing."
The fight continued. Datuk, fueled by his Berserker Spirit, grew faster, more dangerous. His strikes rained down like hail, and Rosh, redirecting them, couldn't keep up. He took blow after blow — scratches, cuts, bruises. Nothing serious, but his stamina, his energy reserves he spent maintaining the Vector Spirit, began to deplete at a catastrophic rate.
Datuk, on the contrary, felt no fatigue. The Berserker Spirit burned him from within, turning pain into fuel, wounds into rage. He was covered in blood — his own and others' — but stood straight, and his axe sang in the air. Each new strike was faster than the last, and Rosh, whose fingers barely obeyed, struggled to change their trajectories.
"You... can't... keep this up forever," Rosh said, dodging another strike. His voice was hoarse, his breathing ragged.
"I can," Datuk answered. "I can."
He struck again, and Rosh, redirecting the blow, wasn't fast enough. The axe cut his thigh, and the half-blood, grunting, stepped back, limping. The bone didn't crack, but the blow was strong — his leg went numb, and Rosh knew a little more, and he wouldn't be able to move properly.
Rosh straightened. His leg hurt, but he could stand. Could fight. But his stamina, his energy reserves spent on every gesture, every turn of his wrist, every change of vector, were nearly gone. The Vector Spirit demanded fuel, and there was almost none left.
Datuk was also at his limit. His body was covered in wounds — deep cuts on his arms and chest, a split brow, bleeding scrapes on his sides. His shirt was in shreds, and through the tears showed bruises and fresh scars his regeneration hadn't yet healed. One rib, it seemed, was broken — each breath stabbed his side, and Datuk felt bone grate against bone. But he stood straight. His axe was raised, and in his eyes, green, bright, burned a fire that neither pain nor fatigue could quench.
"You're strong," Rosh said, looking at Datuk. "Strong as a rock. But rocks crumble too."
"Try to crumble me," the dwarf grinned.
They stood facing each other, two Pillars, two warriors, two wills. Datuk was covered in wounds, but stood straight, his axe raised. Rosh, on the contrary, was almost unharmed — a few scratches, a broken leg already beginning to heal, and fatigue. Terrible, deep fatigue that told him a little more, and he would fall.
They stepped towards each other.
But at that moment, the white silence of the valley shuddered. Footsteps — distinct, steady — sounded behind Rosh. He turned.
At the edge of the valley, on the white sand, stood a figure. A girl. With short chestnut hair and one arm — the second, her left, was hidden beneath a long sleeve, but Rosh noticed the fabric moving. Her face was calm, but her eyes held tense concentration.
She looked at them. At Datuk, wounded but unyielding. At Rosh, tired but dangerous. At Sobra, frozen behind his friend, ready to help at any moment.
"Who is that?" Datuk asked, not lowering his axe.
"I don't know," Rosh answered. "But it seems we have a spectator."
Ulviya stood at the edge of the valley, watching the two warriors, and in her eyes was something that made Rosh tense. Not fear. Understanding.
The battle paused. Only the white light, only the silence, only the three of them — and the bear — in the center of the endless emptiness. And no one knew what would happen next.