Date: February 21, 543 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The arena had become a stage for death, but death had not yet chosen its victim.
Datuk stood between the two Heralds, his axe wreathed in crimson-black flame resting heavily on his shoulder. Blood — his own, others', white glowing — had dried on his face, mixed with sweat and dust, and he didn't wipe it away. Each movement came easier than a moment ago, and he felt the Spirit of the Battle Echo pulsing in his veins, accelerating energy, making his heart beat steadily and powerfully.
But the Heralds had adapted, too.
The one with the swords no longer retreated. He stood his ground, his two long, shimmering blades moving in perfect rhythm, parrying the strikes Datuk delivered from different angles. He had grown accustomed to the dwarf's speed. He was no longer surprised.
The one with the spear, having lost his left arm, had found a way to compensate. He no longer tried to fight in close quarters — he retreated to the edge of the arena and used his power differently. Stone spikes erupted from the ground under Datuk's feet, forcing him to divert, dodge, expend energy on defense. The spear, which he had picked up from the ground with his right hand, was no longer his main weapon — it had become a conductor's baton, directing the arena itself.
Datuk took another wound — a stone spike pierced his left leg just above the knee, and he, roaring, tore it out, leaving a deep, bleeding hole in the muscle. Regeneration worked, but slower than he would have liked. The Spirit of the Battle Echo gave power, but not immortality.
He stepped back, regrouping. The Herald with the swords lunged, and Datuk barely managed to raise his axe. The blades crossed, sparks flew, and the dwarf, using the momentum, leaped back.
"I can change too."
He closed his eyes.
Somewhere deep inside, where his Spirit of the Battle Echo lived, he felt something new. Not power — a possibility. An ability that had slept in him since he crossed the Herald's threshold but had not dared to wake.
*"Breaking the Chains,"* he whispered, and the words that left his lips were not a command — they were a key.
The veins on his body bulged. His blood, flowing steadily and calmly until now, suddenly changed color. From scarlet it turned green — bright, glowing, like leaves under summer sun. It pulsed in time with his heart, and with each beat a new wave of power spread through his body.
Datuk opened his eyes.
The world around him became different — not faster, not slower, but simply… clearer. He saw every movement of the Heralds a fraction of a second before they made it. Felt their muscles tense, their center of gravity shift, the air tremble before an attack.
"Now it's my turn," he said.
He didn't run. He simply raised his axe and, standing in place, struck.
It was not a swing. It was not a thrust. It was something else — pure will, given form. From the axe blade, a wave of force erupted — invisible but tangible, it tore through space faster than sound.
The Herald with the spear, standing at the edge of the arena, didn't even have time to understand what happened. The wave entered his chest, passed through, and exited his back, leaving a perfect cut behind. White dust gushed from the wound like a fountain, and the Herald, staggering, fell to his knees.
His spear slipped from his weakening fingers and clattered dully onto the stone. He tried to raise his head, but his body no longer obeyed. The white figure froze for a moment, then crumbled to dust — slowly, with a soft, melodic chime like a distant bell.
Datuk didn't even look in his direction. He turned to the Herald with the swords.
"You'll die just like your buddy, you piece of carrion," he said, and his voice held only pure hatred.
The Herald with the swords stepped back. His blades, two long shimmering edges, crossed before his chest in a defensive gesture.
Datuk stepped forward.
The battle began anew, but now it was not a contest of equals. Datuk dominated.
His axe moved faster than ever. Every strike found its mark, and the Herald, trying to parry, took wound after wound. Shoulder, side, thigh — white dust swirled around him, and his movements grew slower, clumsier.
"Where's your speed?" Datuk roared, striking again and again. "Where's your strength?"
The Herald attempted a counterattack. His swords traced a complex arc, aiming for head and chest simultaneously. Datuk didn't dodge. He simply raised his axe, and the blades, meeting the haft, shattered into white light.
"Weakling," said Datuk and chopped at the legs.
The axe sank into the Herald's left thigh, severing the leg, and the white figure, losing balance, crashed to its knees. Datuk didn't stop. He struck again — at the right leg — and the second leg detached as easily as the first.
The Herald toppled onto his side. His swords fell from his hands and slid across the black stone, leaving glowing trails.
"Don't be in a hurry to die," said Datuk, looming over him.
He cut off his left arm. Then his right. White dust gushed from the stumps, and the Herald, deprived of limbs, lay before him like a helpless doll.
Datuk lowered his axe.
He bent down, grabbed the Herald's head with both hands, and lifted him up. The white, smooth surface was cold, but he paid no attention. He squeezed his fingers, and the head cracked under the pressure.
"This is for Sobra," he said and crushed.
The head burst like overripe fruit. White dust and light gushed from it, covering Datuk's hands, face, chest. He did not step back. He stood over the body of his fallen enemy, his breathing steady, calm.
The Herald crumbled to dust.
Datuk remained standing in the middle of the arena, covered in white dust and foreign blood. His axe lay at his feet. His hands trembled — not from fatigue, but from the tension that had finally released.
He turned to where Ulvia, Rosh, and Sobra remained.
"It's over," he said, and his voice was quiet, alien. "It's over."