Azrael stood, his crude spear pointed towards the two better armed men. Despite their obvious advantage he saw them both hesitate. He could understand their hesitation.

To them he was an unknown danger, someone who had managed to sneak up on them, appearing out of the blue; possibly the bait for an ambush. And he was naked. Nobody wanted to fight a naked man.

The tension grew strained, Azrael refusing to leave the safety of the trees and the two men hesitant about approaching the tree line, out of fear of a hidden ambush. It was a stalemate and the tension continued to grow, stretching and pulling – until it snapped.

The youth couldn’t stand it anymore and suddenly leapt forward, thrusting his spear. Azrael could see the fear in his eyes, daunted by the naked man that had suddenly appeared from the shadows. Azrael hurried to parry, expecting to have to defend himself, when he realised something. The youth he was fighting was an absolute amateur, no more than farm boy given a pointy stick.

He had thought after seeing the hunt that both were skilled in their weapon use, but it seemed that this one had been given a spear and told exactly what to do. Good for hunting, but practically useless in any other situation.

Azrael parried the clumsy thrust with a languid movement exuding contempt. He could do this all day. Unfortunately, after the sudden beginning of the fight he’d forgotten to keep an eye on the swordsman. A mistake that came back to bite him, literally.

The sword flashed in a diagonal arc, cutting deeply into his left shoulder. Its momentum forced him down and Azrael collapsed onto one knee from the sudden pain. The sword drew away, its blade now dripping heavy with his blood.

Biting his tongue Azrael forced himself out of the way as the blade came whistling down again. It shaved past his head, cutting his hairs, but missing his neck.

Staggering up to his feet once more he fought against the pain and turned, thrusting his spear through the sudden opening in the swordsman’s stance. The stone edge ripped through the man’s side, just above the hip, drawing out a curse.

Stepping forward to capitalise on the attack, he never saw the butt of the spear come round against the side of his head. It landed with an almighty thwack, sending his stumbling against the tree.

Heaving for breath Azrael tried to shake his head as his vision doubled. The movement caused him to stumble again, and he sprawled face first into the ground, the loamy taste of dirt, grass and leaves filling his senses. Above him the two men began closing in, wary of any surprises. Azrael pushed himself up, blindly barrelling into one of the men.

The youth panicked, raising his spear – too slow. Azrael crashed into him, his weight dragging the boy down with him.

They fell, a tangled mess of limbs and spears. Azrael’s landing was cushioned by the boy’s body, ending up with only a light concussion. The youth was not so lucky. His head hit the ground with a resounding thud and he was knocked out for the count.

Azrael rolled off him, slightly dazed, his breathing heavy. One down, one to go.

Waiting for his body to recover, Azrael looked up at the sky. The ground below him was soft and spongey, a perfect forest mattress, while the sun kissed his weary face. He felt like he could just sink in and let go of the pain. No pain, no fighting, just peace, warm and blissful. A shadow fell over him, blocking the warmth, and with slow effort he turned his head to the side.

He tried to summon mana to his fingertips, but had effort concentrating as his head was still ringing. For a brief moment his mana gathered, before sputtering out as he lost control.

A pair of brown boots blocked his vision and a boot kicked him, breaking his already limited concentration. Giving up on magic, he struggled to get up. Nobody kicked him. Not now, not ever. And he wanted those boots.

Using his spear as a walking stick he righted himself, and stood to face the remaining assailant. The swordsman retreated back a few steps, cautiously. But Azrael truly painted a forlorn visage, half covered in dirt and his own blood. Still seeing double Azrael charged – at the wrong double.

The sword swung down, aiming for his neck, but Azrael managed to move out of the way. He instead received the blade across the length of his back.

The cool iron traced across his skin, carving a line of fire. He screamed. It hurt – worse than the wolf’s claws. A second stroke of fire was then followed by a third. Azrael felt the pain felt a primal fear for his life, which caused him to throw caution to the wind. He launched himself at the man in bloody abandon.

Letting the pain wash over his body he dedicated himself to the fight, letting it take over his mind. He advanced in a flurry of strikes and pressing forward, his attacks forcing the swordsman onto the defensive.

Blue screens began appearing in his vision, notifications blocking his vision and he blinked them away. There was no time for distractions. There was no thinking. There was only him and the fight.

The swordsman held his own however and even in his mindless abandon Azrael briefly felt frustration. Each strike the two fighters traded earned him a another cut on his body, the pain turning his frustration into boiling anger.

Unfortunately, he was up against a superior opponent. His opponent was stronger, faster and better equipped. There was nothing he could do but struggled on, fighting for his life.

Each blow he dealt was more time for his life blood to seep out. Each cut he received was another strike closer to his demise. It was a downward spiral. Even in his pain fuelled madness Azrael realised the inevitable truth. Each subsequent movement was slower, each blow weaker. There was no winning. It was an inevitable outcome. And still he fought on, mindlessly holding on for his dear life.

By now he was a bloody horror, animated by will and fury alone. A nightmare bathed in blood. Each step he took left a red mark on the once green grass, until the battle ground was slick with his blood. But it wasn’t only his blood that was being spilt.

His opponent was limping, a lucky blow to the thigh making it painful to place weight on. Other wounds riddled his body, allowing blood to stain his clothes red. Even against a stronger opponent Azrael was taking his due. As rusty as his skills were, they were still enough to mostly bridge the gap between the two players.

Blow by blow they fought and blow by blow they bled. The sword cut through the spear, its integrity weakened by hundreds of blows, but the destruction of his spear was barely registered. He just kept on fighting, using the broken shaft. A stick against an iron blade.

Both fighters knew this was the end. They circled each other warily. Azrael threw the stick at the swordsman, diving for his unconscious partner’s spear, but before he could reach it he felt cool iron kiss his neck and everything went black.