>>5481384You push forward, ever careful of your opponent’s sweeping blows and probing strikes.
Eventually, you manage to catch him on the backswing and proceed to rattle his cage with a strong cross courtesy of your free hand.
While he’s still sorting out how many teeth he has left, you begin to slash wildly at him your spatha; eschewing accuracy and precision in the name of delivering serious injury and death.
A few swings bounce off his armor, so you readjust and continue hacking away until he abruptly comes to his senses and forces you away.
You cede the ground happily, secure in the knowledge that you managed to deliver some nasty wounds that are sure to sap his strength and ability to fight back.
Sure enough, his next attempt at spearing you is sluggish and weak compared to his previous storm of vigor and movement.
Guess it must be hard to use that spear when you’re leaking blood like it’s coming out of a hose.
He does his best to stem the flow, but you continue to harry and harass him until he can tolerate no more; eventually collapsing to his knees due to blood-loss induced weakness.
You immediately swoop onto him and force him upwards into a picture-perfect Pankration choke hold, before applying your iron grip and twisting his neck until the whole rotten structure snaps.
The entire time, he was trying to drive his elbow into your stomach in an attempt to force you to release him, but his injuries had already driven away the bulk of his strength. Still, he was a fighter to the bitter end.
You can respect that.
Part of you idly considers exchanging your spatha for his war spear, before quickly dismissing such a notion.
Your experience is with swords and knives; spears are another best entirely. Experimentation with new weaponry is suitable when training, not when you’re fighting for your life.
The crowd boos you again; unhappy that you’ve denied them yet another spectacularly painful and bloody finish.
Sadistic bastards.
Back inside the holding cells, things follow the same cycle you’ve grown accustomed to; your weapons are confiscated, you get to snooze for a while, some dickhead rudely wakes you up, and you’re sent out into the arena for another pound of flesh.
Except this time, you’ve been assigned a battle buddy. Fresh-faced rookie, complete with a small tuft of peach fuzz on his upper lip.
Looks like he’s barely out of his teens, and looks terrified at the thought of facing what’s to come. Curiously, he’s armed with a trident and a net; a surprisingly esoteric combo for such a greenhorn.
When the pair of you are escorted into the arena, you get a good long look at your opposition while the announcer goes on another of his long-winded tangents.
You’re up against a pair; both of whom seem like veterans of the arena. Seems like your refusal to play to the crowd is coming back to bite you, what with all the rigged matches they keep throwing you in.
