The spirit of gore charged at Giradin, tearing down the red curtains behind it.

Giradin roared as he thrust Sir Emeric's sword forth and ran the spirit through. A red fountain sprayed Giradin's face, filling his mouth and lungs with the vile odor of death.

Even so, the blessed blade caused the ghost's form to crumble into a pile of ashes on the ground.

A surge of fearless courage arose in Giradin's heart as he saw the spirit fade. With this sword in his hand, he felt as if a part of Sir Emeric was there with him, helping fend off these wicked creatures.

He turned back to the others, in the arena, but there were none to be seen.

Where have they gone?

Giradin gripped the hilt of Sir Emeric's blessed long-sword in both hands. His eyes darted around to the stands surrounding the emperor's box.

A hint of movement by one of the seats caught the corner of his eye, but when he looked nothing was there.

Footsteps approaching from below, up the stairs leading to the emperor's box. Giradin widened his stance, as he'd seen the Templars do before a battle, and he prepared himself to face his foes.

A swarm of ashen-colored spirits, each resembling men with various mortal wounds charged up the stairs toward him, a horrible rattling noise emitting from the backs of their throats. Some had lower jaws missing, with their tongues hanging against their necks. Others' heads hung from a severed neck by only a thread of sinew. Others still had their skin peeled from their bodies. The sight of these horrific wounds struck Giradin's heart with fear, and he staggered back a moment.

Just as the spirits reached the top of the staircase, Giradin chopped wildly with the long-sword, as if it were an axe and he were trying to cut down many trees at once.

The spirits cried out in agony as the blade split them apart.

One covered in teeth and claw marks lunged past the blessed sword and stabbed Giradin in the gut with its gladius. Giradin yelped and spun his body to lop off the spirit's head.

A rattling noise behind Giradin caugh his ear, and he whirled around to stab at the source. His blade pierced the forehead of a spirit climbing up the wall into the box, just as its fingers reached the balcony's edge.

Another rattle from behind him again, and Giradin flailed about to strike down the spirit approaching from the other side.

Too late, another gladius pierced his stomach.

Giradin avenged himself by slaying the spirit who'd attacked him, then stumbled backward growing increasingly dizzy.

More vengeful spirits coming up the stairs.

And more climbing up the wall to slink over the balcony.

He was surrounded. Trapped in the emperor's box with nowhere to go.

Jump.

Giradin wasn't sure if he'd actually heard the voice or if it was merely in his head.

Jump now!

This time he was sure he'd actually heard it, but the command seemed absurd. From this height the fall would surely kill him.

No time! Jump!

The spirits had nearly reached the top, and wounded as he was Giradin knew he couldn't keep up this fight forever. At this point, he would surely die without a miracle. But was the voice from Heaven, encouraging him to take a leap of faith, or from Hell, luring him to his death? A suicide which would secure his place in the Abyss?

A swarm of vengeful spirits reached the top of the stairs, and one peeked its head over the edge of the balcony. Giradin split the climber's head in two and leapt from the box.

Bright, golden light surrounded Giradin, and he felt a rush of warm, soothing wind. The light blinded him, but he felt hands grasp his arms. His fall slowed, and he descended on a gentle breeze until he felt the ground under his feet.

The light dimmed, now only emitting from his own body. He saw the golden rays shining from his hands, as before, and when he looked down at his wounds, the blood had all been wiped away, leaving raised scars in his flesh under his torn robes.

A lion's roar erupted from Sir Emeric's sword, and white flames surrounded the blade. Words appeared on the fuller, and though Giradin could not read, he understood their meaning.

"You will tread upon the lion and the cobra;

you will trample the great lion and the serpent."

From where he stood, in the middle of the arena, his heels digging into the sand, he saw the innumerable spirits on the walls leading up to the box leap from their perches. The moment their feet touched the sand they charged Giradin once more.

Heed my instructions and you will not fall this night.

The voice had not steered him wrong so far. Whether God or the Devil, the voice seemed to have Giradin's survival in mind, so he put his faith in it.

Prepare yourself. They will surround you again. Let me guide your hand.

The spirits, still at a full run, spread out in their charge, forming a circle around Giradin before closing in.

Giradin closed his eyes and tried to feel the voice's guiding hand. When there was a slight twitch of his wrist, he followed the pull, swinging the flaming blade out in a wide arc. When he opened his eyes again, he beheld the incineration of a swath of foul specters.

The force pulled him along to spin the other way and swing low. The heat from the flames turned the sand to glass around him, and even the grains caught aflame and burned away the vile apparitions.

A ghost leapt onto Giradin's back and thrust its blade between his ribs.

Giradin reached up and closed his fingers around its face. The spirit screamed as it burned away and its ashes poured down Giradin's back.

The white flames formed a ring around Giradin, and the remaining vengeful spirits turned and fled, disappearing into the shadows.

Put your trust in me, said the voice, And you shall see greater miracles than this.

I am the Lord your God.