B3 Chapter 350: Perseverance, Finale

Kaius screamed as the axe bit into the back of his right hand. It’s honed half-moon edge cleaved through flesh and bone with equal ease. Blood spurted from the open wound as he jerked back — his blade slipping from his grasp.

It glinted in the light as it clattered to the blood-red arena floor — joined by three fingers and most of his palm.

Biting off his howl, he clenched the remnants of his fist, pain and exhaustion leaving him reeling.

It was a moment of distraction he couldn’t afford. Steel blurred towards him — a challenger burying their sword a stride into his belly only moments before a leaf-shaped spear ripped through his thigh. Pain bloomed, joining the well of agony that radiated from his maimed hand as his flesh writhed with healing potency.

Not that it would do anything for his missing fingers!

Slamming back into the moment, Kaius’s stomach lurched as he registered a warhammer racing straight for his temple. He threw himself backwards, a desperate dive caused his still healing wounds to scream in protest.

His off-hand scrapped through sodden sand, wrapping around the hilt of A Father’s Gift. Ignoring the agony as sand rubbed at the raw bisection, Kaius slammed his right hand into the ground — leveraging all of his enhanced strength to shoot himself backwards.

A greatsword rammed pointfirst into the ground, right where his heart had been a moment before.

He hauled himself up, sliding into a reversed fencer’s stance — his off-hand bicep aching as he kept his blade-point up and steady. He spun, watching the challengers that encircled him.

Thank the gods that Father had insisted he practice fighting with both of his hands.

There — the one with the shortsword. The weak link.

Shoving his exhaustion deep, he kicked off the ground — rocketing forward into a deep thrusting lunge. He might have been drained and clumsy, but he was still strong. When his target tried to parry, he threw himself forwards — bodily slamming it back with his shoulder.

A stumbling run brought him away from the mob. His legs were wooden — fighting against him. Soft sand gave way under food — he tripped, spraying more of his blood against the arena.

Grunting, Kaius sucked in a great heaving breath as he found his footing and faced the approaching challengers once more.

Everything had long since become a blur — the fight devolving into animalistic aggression. A contest of instinct and reaction as mettled response and reasoning was abandoned. He only lived because his instinct had been hammered deep — refined, into a thing of flowing grace and conserved movement.

His fatigue was total — a physical weight that resolved itself into a droning whine in his ears, broken only by the pounding feet of hundreds of faceless spectators.

Still he fought on; tunnelled vision focused only on his next target.

He wasn’t even sure why — what drove him onwards, why he must cut and kill and be cut. There was only the goal, and the burning song in his heart — he must fight, it was all that mattered: all that remained in the grey sea that swallowed his sight from all angles.

He would win. Urging his flagging legs, Kaius pushed himself to run — the crystal point of his blade still levelled at his enemies.

The challengers had long since faded into a sea of heaving bodies, his focus only on his blade and those close enough to kill.

Death and fire, that was it. And oh, how it burned.

Corporus shone like the sun within him, a thrumming pillar that dominated all — directed him with instinct and half-heard almost-remembered whispers. He’d found it deep within the sweet tang of exhaustion— a waiting call of madness: of perfection and unyielding perseverance.

A gleaming smile split his face as he stumbled into another crescendo of clashing steel and rising song. He thrust, twisting at the last moment to cut — his shimmering blade cleaved through the haft of a halberd, screaming unhindered to split the neck of its wielder.

**Ding! You have defeated Human – Challenger: Level 200 – Experience Denied, Tier Limit reached!**

Pain bloomed in his ribs from weapons unseen. He swung, remembering to look down a moment later when the stinging tension in his gut failed to abate and hot blood filled his mouth.

He found a blade buried in his flesh, half an arm still gripping desperately to its hilt. Lunging out of the fray, he ripped the shortshort free with two fingered grip — hurling the weapon at the approaching black smear.

The world wavered.

He blinked.

Only to find himself halfway across the arena, fire shining bright and true upon a pillar of iron — staring at a trail of corpses.

He felt so heavy. He felt so real.

Shades approached, moving to the beat of the ritual drum. He spilled blood — fueling the fire with his own and others with equal disregard. Black flooded in, only to retreat with the cyclic certainty of the tide — every forgotten gap leaving more black and red to be consumed by sand and fire.

The ache of his wounds, the weakness of his flesh — it all fell away. There was only the fire of his aspect: the pressing need to move and cut; to struggle and strive.

It was a will of adamant, unbreakable and true. It drove every stumbling step — every head splitting thrust. A need to improve, and insistence to push on. It was all that kept him going, allowed him to keep fighting and living.

It was so palpable — a pyre of immolation and strength.

There was a Truth there, hidden in that madness. One he had long ushered in — nurtured with acceptance and love.

Heat flooded his mouth. Kaius blinked, tasting a gush of iron as meat gave way beneath his fangs. Cartilage crunched as he ripped his head back — tearing out the throat of a shadow-faced shade. Blood baptised him. A sweet wine, full of revitalising life. He cut and was cut, shearing through the knee of another.

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They came unending, and he welcomed them — fuel and sacrifice both. A procession that fanned his flame.

Heat roiled on his back — an itch that lasted longer than he was used to. His brow scrunched as he tried to fight through the cloying fog. He saw only flickers: moments of death and battle.

His blade quavered, dragging down towards the sound.

A spear thrust.

He cut, and another fell.

He would win.

…

There was definitely something strange happening with Corporus — he could admit that. Even if his mind moved like treacle, and he drowned in a sea of bodies, he could still tell.

No fire should have such weight.

Kaius spun on the ground and launched himself back, digging the long healed stumps that had once been ankles into the sand. He still had his blade: he didn’t need to walk to kill. He’d drilled the groundwork, the training of Warforged was engraved deep.