“What is the lamb’s duty? I want to know, but Mummy and Daddy won’t tell me.” A young girl asked, sitting within a curtained box.

“You’ve heard the stories, right? Of the Pontiff’s revelations.” A gentle voice replied, muffled from a curtain.

“Yes! Tutor Siarad says he was there… But he lies, I don’t trust him!” The girl said, scrunching her cheeks up.

“Why not?” The voice asked.

“Because…” She toyed with the silence. “He said there’d be no homework yesterday, and there was.”

“Ah, you were tricked. What a grave sin he inflicted onto you!” The voice replied. “Sinners like Siarad could be punished, you know.”

“Really?” The girl said. “That’d mean no more studying etiquette!”

“Well, I suppose…” The voice responded uncertainly. “The lamb’s duty is to seek the return of God. To summon God back to Chaos. Once he descends upon Orbis, the world will be right once more. No more injustices, no more sins. We will be tried by God, and the sinners will be purged into nothingness.”

“What will happen?” The girl asked, confusion in her tone.

“We will be in a paradise.”

“No, I mean to Siarad.” The girl corrected.

“All sinners will be punished accordingly.” The voice replied.

“Oh no, I don’t want Siarad to die!” The girl cried out in response.

“Well, I am sure he hasn’t done enough to be punished that severely…” The voice responded, disbelieving that it had been taken completely seriously. - A transcript of a conversation spoken within a confession box. Heledd, a member of the Scholars of Theurgy, was tasked with propagating their beliefs to the wider public, January 1263.

———

“Steel Skinned.” Cythraul grunted. He flexed his legs slightly and pushed off the ground. The dried mud, which was heated by the flames, cracked underneath his foot from the force of his leap. He charged, bounding immense strides forwards, with his sabre thrust towards the Berserker’s neck.

The crescent blade of the battle axe rose into the sky, then fell, arcing into a pendulum block. Cythraul gripped his hilt with both hands and resisted his weapon from being knocked away. A vicious metallic shriek resonated, and sparks glowed like fireflies from metal scraping metal.

Cythraul shivered with pleasure, he felt a burst of Malevolent energy flow through his body. He could feel the minute changes in the weapon’s positions enhanced by his senses. He bided his time, then forced his sabre into a dominant position when he felt a minuscule, but significant, moment of slack in the battle axe.

“Miasma.” Cythraul barked out. A cloud of amaranthine smog poured out of the end of his sabre. It puffed out like snakes, its tongue maliciously forking the chieftain’s arm. The chieftain reacted as he heard Cythraul’s chant, responding with one of his own in Tereum.

“Fire.” The flames that coated his axe ignited his arms. It went up like a bonfire, hissing and crackling as it fought with the miasma. A flurry of dancing flames tried to burn the gas. As time passed, their dance became lethargic, their malice beaten back by the purple clouds. The fire conceded with a pitiful hiss, marking its extinguishment.

With the flame’s death, the Berserker pulled his arms away, avoiding further damage than what he’d already been afflicted with. They had created valuable seconds of protection from the acidity, enough so that he kept his arm. Its damaged was horrific enough to justify his defense.

A large portion of his skin on his arm had rotted away exposing a gaping flesh wound. The tissue had turned gangrenous, marking the spread of rot before he ignited it with his fire spell.

The Berserker’s eyes were wary, and he had decided to keep his distance from Cythraul. Cythraul ignored his apprehension, charging fiercely towards the man, creating a combo of strikes. A horizontal cut that aimed for the neck; a diagonal cut that lusted to create a sash wound diagonally on the Berserker’s chest; a thrust towards the heart.

On the back foot, the Berserker dodged the onslaught of Cythraul’s enhanced swordsmanship, but not as masterfully as Cythraul had done to his.

“Fire!” He yelled out, dodging a thrust by rotating his torso. The blade swished past, cutting the empty air. He jumped backwards, creating necessary space. Flames coated his battle axe, and he cleaved down into the air. A curved blade of fire formed that surged across the open space, its heat made the air haze and crackle.

Cythraul’s body was already augmented, his agility boosted to a supernatural degree. He took a diagonal step to the left, which drew him closer to the chieftain, while rotating his body. The blade of fire cut past his chest and charred the grass. They crumbled to soot, forming a black powder on the dried earth.

He severed out once more, horizontally, his blade leering viciously at the Berserker’s open chest and arm. It made contact, lacerating through the lamellar armour. The cut oozed blood instantly, but it wasn’t enough to kill him. It would impede his movement, though.

“Cauterize!” The Berserker shouted in Teruem, hopping backwards repeatedly. An incorporeal flame descended quickly above the wound and melted the flesh back into place. It was a temporary solution, but it was enough. He would be able to fight once more without dying of blood loss.

Cythraul chased after him, violently slashing his sabre out. Because he was healing himself, his movements were sluggish, and Cythraul was able to nick his undefended body parts with his blade.

The chieftain was covered in gashes, small and large. His pinkie finger was close to being severed off, hanging on by a fractured bone and some skin. Horrific gouges were drawn all over his gauntlets and they had torn through, splitting the metal apart.

“Fire!” The Berserker screamed once more, though this time out of panic. He whipped his battle axe across his body, then performed a follow up cut. A blade of fire surged over the open space, trailed by a second forming an x-shape attack. He slid backwards, recovering a proper fighting stance. He had been on the back foot for too long, it was time to begin his offence.

Cythraul dodged to the side, letting the blades of fire flicker off into the distance. He continued to strafe around the chieftain, silently watching, waiting for a crack in his defence. It didn’t come, so he created one himself.

“Plague.” Cythraul channelled his Malevolent energy through Sabre’s Rigour. The insects formed within, and they shot out of its tip, flying towards the chieftain. He continued to channel; a tangible black haze formed from the sheer amount he produced. Though, he stopped before its expenditure became exponential.

The cloud of death, made of Cythraul’s fabricated locusts, hovered high in the air. They then descended upon the Berserker. They swooped down, but successive blades of fire impeded their path towards the chieftain. The black fog was thinned immediately, its locust population burnt asunder by the fire.

The remaining locusts made their way through, but there were too few to eat him alive. He would need to be sealed within a coffin made of fabricated insects for it to kill him. Instead, they gnawed on his open flesh, and blood trailed tears down his body. The Berserker responded by swatting them, crushing them against his skin.

With each insect that was crushed, black blood oozed out of them, staining his neck, arms, and his open wounds with a vicious acid. He grunted in pain, shouting out a furious chant in Tereum.

“Heat.” The chieftain channelled, and fire erupted around his skin like a suit of armour. The flames licked the acid, vaporizing it instantaneously. As he was about to dispel the flames, a sabre flew out towards his neck. His body reacted before his brain, and he forced more Malevolent energy through his battle axe.

The flames surged out in all directions like a wave of fire. Cythraul jumped back, ending his attack short to not be burned. However, he wouldn’t miss a chance given to him. He prepared his next spell. As the flames were about to extinguish into smoke, Cythraul chanted.

“Poison.” He channelled, forming a purple glow around his sabre that shot out like darts just as the flames dissipated. The Berserker stepped to dodge, managing to turn his body so that most of the onslaught passed by him, grazing his armour.

However, the follow up stabbed into his body. He was caught mid-step, his weight shifted onto one leg. He was without the ability to dodge the successive attack. Some poisonous darts exploded after making contact with his lamellar armour, defending him the majority of attack. However, the rest spiked his neck and open wounds, injecting its contents into his blood.

“Magma!” He shouted, trying to break Cythraul’s offensive. Molten fire formed a layer around his battle axe, which he cleaved down at Cythraul. It pummelled into the earth, rupturing the ground, and cracks wrecked through towards Cythraul.

Underground, the magma flowed through the seismic fractures. As it surged towards Cythraul, it detonated like minuscule volcanoes, lava spewing into the air at repeated intervals forming geyser streams. On the surface, it formed a river that flowed towards him, impeding his path for attack.

Cythraul sprinted, strafing clockwise to avoid being blown up by the spell. Each time he took a step, the earth exploded beneath him like mines, their power unbridled. He couldn’t stop without risking death. Dried mud and rocks barraged the earth, buffeting Cythraul as they fell upon him.

Focused, his eyes were trained upon the Berserker, who was immobilised by his spell. With his axe stuck in the earth, spewing lava through the subterranean cracks, and his body genuflecting, he was vulnerable.

However, something caught his attention. He watched as the chieftain separated a part of his spell to flow up his arms, coating them with glowing, molten igneous rocks. Cythraul grinned.

He turned, cutting right towards the pool of lava, breaking his strafe. He increased the strength of his movements, each step crushing the earth beneath him. It powered his leaps, so he covered a boundless distance with each stride.

Behind him, shock waves pummelled into his back from the explosions. Each detonation was slowing, but their power was increasing. He channelled a spell through his blade, glowing cadmium red before it turned into an amaranthine hue.

“Poison.” He chanted again. Once a smog, it had now turned into a viscous, toxic liquid that dripped small purple raindrops from the sabre's blade. As it touched the earth, it dissolved all life instantaneously. It was a formless spell; he could manipulate it as he willed. The air blurred like heated space from its poisonous qualities.

With eyes trained on Cythraul, the Berserker knew this was their final stand. He forced his magma to coalesce underground, forming the shape of a spear. It was made of molten fire. He exploded the ground, a barrage of debris scattered into the air before makings its descent. In its place was a spear that radiated heat. It was made from a mixture of lava and magma.

Without turning his head, Cythraul stepped diagonally towards the left. He circled behind the chieftain’s undefended back. However, in this situation, offence was the best defence. The spear of lava shot towards Cythraul’s heart like a bolt fired from a ballista.

His arm outstretched, his sabre extended, Cythraul’s blade severed down upon the back of the chieftain’s neck. Like the blade of a guillotine, it sought to execute the offender.

Behind, the spear of lava burnt a blistering heat, even the air was smouldering. Tense expressions darkened both their faces. Only one would survive.

They both could feel death’s sickle. The cruel blade descending shifted their air, blowing cool chills down the Berserker’s neck. The lava’s heat burnt Cythraul’s already charred back, his skin was scorched. Parts of his tender flesh was bubbling.

The Berserker grunted, then spluttered out a glob of blackened blood. He jerked uncontrollably, falling forwards. The spear behind exploded into a mess of molten fire, splattering the earth and sky with lava. The force that held it together had dissipated. Cythraul hissed in pain as part of his back was coated in excess drips, but he did not stumble.

His blade passed cleanly through the neck of the Berserker, ending their duel. His head fell, and rolled on the ground, wetting the dried earth with his blood. Cythraul collapsed next to the body, writhing in agony despite his defensive spells. The heat of the spell’s lava was absurd, and he experienced only a few drops of it.

“Ice!” He screamed out between distorted breaths. While lying on his front, he raised his blade above his back. From the sky descended a bombardment of ice. It entombed him, cooling his wounds temporarily. For now, he would stay under it. He required medical attention, but he was too exhausted. However, his Malevolency would keep him alive long enough to seek it.

The fight had been disadvantageous to Cythraul, the challenger, per rules of Perdita coliseum. But he was victorious despite such conditions, sacrificing his condition in order to minimise his Malevolency usage. Once he claimed his spoils, it would be a grand haul.