The Arena of Unarmed Brawling settled with a subdued clamor. The tiered ranks of ninety-seven Undead Warlords hushed into expectant silence under the relentless glare of spectral lights that turned the ring into an unforgiving stage.

  The stale residue of the prior contest, all the dust and ichor, along with the promise of blood yet to spill, hung like a deadly pall.

  Angar stood poised at one edge, its ruined face and battle-worn body almost quivering with rage.

  Beneath its smashed face, the Swarm could see exhaustion, but also glorious resolve, its mechanical feet scraping against the cold stone of the ring as it shifted its stance.

  Across from it towered Ongora, the War King, a colossus forged of unholy power and muscle, his broad shoulders and tree-trunk limbs possessing an unusual density, his expression that of greedy anticipation and joy, his slightest movements carrying the weight of a siege engine.

  The Swarm assumed the War King would taunt his opponent, letting it know how badly it'd be crushed in vengeance for his brother, Marauder Chief Otha.

  But, without preamble, as soon as the bell tolled, instead of the expected words promising pain and annihilation, he immediately charged forward, his massive bulk propelling him across the space in explosive strides that shook the floor.

  Ongora's straight jabs hammered forward like pistons, followed by sweeping hooks that cleaved through the air with loud whooshes, mixing in sharp, chopping strikes drawn from disciplined forms, his fists, elbows, and forearms slicing downward in specific arcs aimed to shatter bones.

  The mortal, to its credit, had charged forward too, determined to meet this hulking opponent with righteous fury, going blow-for-blow.

  But it must’ve realized the extreme folly of that strategy, that a solid hit could spell its doom, and went completely on the defensive, evaded with precision, forced to weave aside from the onslaught.

  Its one good arm trembled from the absorbed shock, the sheer mass behind each blow turning even peripheral strikes into punishing ordeals.

  Ongora was relentless, forcing the mortal back, but Angar began weaving some offense into its defense.

  It twisted to let a crushing right fist graze past its head while reaching out in a deflection, its hand brushing the other incoming arm to guide its trajectory wide, then struck the War King's side.

  But its far more massive opponent ignored the strike. His inexorable momentum bore down like a tidal wave, driving Angar backward step by grudging step until its spine pressed against the cold, unyielding barrier of the arena wall.

  The warlord released a brutal assault, landing a hook that skimmed Angar's strange, upraised forearm with crushing impact, sending vibrations rattling through its frame, followed by a swift, upward knee that was dodged, barely clipping the mortal’s thigh, the force still enough to buckle its stance momentarily, and then a chopping strike that grazed along its bicep, still drawing a welt of red and a grunt of pain.

  Pinned against the wall, Angar fought on defiantly, meeting the warlord’s advance with all the grace it could muster, slipping aside from an incoming straight punch that thundered past its ear, its forearm extending in an arc to brush and divert the force of a following hook wide into empty space, then retaliating with a compact, rigid strike that drove a fist deep into the War King's midsection, the impact sinking through layers of dense undead muscle with a muffled thud, eliciting no response from its opponent.

  It continued its rally, weaving low to evade a descending chop from an elbow, redirecting another piston-like jab with an open palm that guided it upward while snapping its own elbow into Ongora's ribs, the blow landing with a loud thud.

  The Swarm was impressed.

  But Angar’s movements, though sharp, betrayed the toll of the prior match, as well as its opponent’s unholy and overwhelming might.

  It faltered in its vigilance, a shadow of doubt creeping into its stance, knowing with cold certainty that each block would exact a toll of agony, grinding down its weary guard, eroding its resolve as wounds stacked.

  Such frailty laid bare the chinks in its armor.

  A momentary flinch from committing its forearm to the full fury of blocking a blow, the merest stutter in a pivot that betrayed exhaustion's insidious grip, along with other subtle fissures, all ripe for exploitation.

  And the War King exploited these vulnerabilities with a killer’s instinct, his hulking frame twisting into a devastating overhand right that crashed through Angar's raised forearm, the knuckles connecting flush against its cheekbone with a crack like splitting timber, sending the mortal staggering sideways.

  An instant later, a brutal upward knee hammered into its gut, expelling air in a ragged wheeze, hurling the mortal across the ring in a tumble of limbs and soot, its body bouncing once before rolling to arrest the momentum.

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  From the encircling masses erupted a wave of howls and foot-stomps, while Angar rose slowly and unsteadily, its lone working arm locked in a tense brace as Ongora continued his assault.

  Each parry and block ground away at its reserves like sand against stone, defeat’s inevitability etched clearly into its blood-streaked and ruined face.

  It took another blow, and in the short moment of respite as it lay sprawled prone, while the dust settled around the fallen form, the Swarm's ancient gaze pierced into its torment, plumbing the depths of its soul, the storm brewing within its shattered shell, attempting to divine the mortal's mind and what strategy it'd choose.

  Angar, of course, sought that elusive spark amid the encroaching darkness, some slim and unseen path toward victory.

  But what path was there?

  As its chest labored with ragged, blood-flecked gasps, its body a mesh of battle wounds and blooming bruises, it grasped the bitter truth, that avoidance and measured finesse alone would shatter against this impenetrable wall of undead flesh.

  No, the Swarm would wager anything its clouded mind had seized upon nothing worthy, no true path.

  It'd next re-summon the unbridled tempest of wrath, embracing that folly as salvation's only creed, its only key to victory.

  A terrible strategy to employ, one that failed immediately when it had first attempted such at this bout's onset.

  Angar's eye filled with feral intensity as it got up, launching forward in a furious rush, closing the gap to its opponent with a furious bellow, unleashing a whirlwind of punches and kicks, its fist hammering into the warlord’s torso and jaw with cracking impacts, one strike even splitting the skin, drawing a dark rivulet of ichor from a cracked lip.

  It went better than the Swarm expected.

  The assault was interwoven with kicks and grasping clinches that wrenched at limbs and shoulders, twisting the warlord’s balance and forcing him to stagger backward for the first time, his greedy smile fracturing into a grimace.

  But the War King had enough.

  Ongora coiled every fiber of his musculature into a tight knot of power before unleashing it in an explosive thrust.

  The punch erupted outward like an artillery barrage, the air compressing audibly as his fist rocketed forward with cataclysmic power.

  Angar dove, avoiding the blow, or most of it. Glancing contact alone hurled it airborne across the scarred arena, its body twisting in flight before slamming into the wall then floor with tremendous force, eliciting a cough of crimson.

  But it had no time to recover, immediately rolling to its feet to evade a kick, then the next punch’s eruption with a desperate pivot, the strike blazing past its head like a meteor to embed in the wall with a deafening crack.

  Angar evaded yet another assault ripping the empty air asunder with a booming whoosh, then another, slowly turning the brawl so its back faced the open expanse and not the barrier.

  Until the inevitable.

  Though somewhat dodged, the next strike landed upon its injured shoulder. Barely more than a graze, but still a hammerfall of doom that pounded through its frame.

  Flying and sprawling once more, it saw the fantasy of its new strategy completely shattered.

  It rolled aside, eluding the warlord's stomp, forced again into a harried dance of total evasion and pure defense.

  Ongora dominated with his unassailable, inexhaustible, and overwhelming supremacy.

  There was no hope.

  There could be no victory here.

  Both paths trodden had failed terribly.

  Both paths lay in ruins.

  But, without much of a choice in the matter, it clung to the fraying threads of absolute defense, knowing it was a losing strategy, a doomed ritual only delaying the inevitable, each fleeting second a toll paid in blood and wound, drawing death ever closer.

  The duel devolved into a grim game of attrition, of dodging finesse and calculated avoidance, conserving what scant reserves remained to stave off the end, warding off annihilation like a condemned soul bargaining for one more chance at redemption.

  The Swarm continued to perceive the churn of cognition behind that ruined face and swollen eye as the mortal scurried around like a cornered rat, one arm dangling limp and useless.

  A single misstep, and death would claim its due.

  The end loomed.

  After the mortal was sent sprawling again, the warlord charged forward to finally finish it off, to avenge his brother, releasing a new barrage.

  But Angar didn't prepare.

  It didn't take a stance or raise its forearm in a guard.

  It didn't even move.

  It stood still, its swollen eye closing shut, taking in a peaceful, steadying breath, as if resigning itself to fate.

  Only to explode into motion once more, its agonizing defense, its slow march toward oblivion, as anguish speared through its ravaged husk, clinging to survival by the thinnest margin.

  But something changed.

  A revelation must've struck, an epiphany igniting, like a key turning in a long-seized lock, unleashing a cascade that flooded its mind in torrents, merging training and instincts, granting a profound insight on the intricate arts of battle.

  Sharpening its resolve amid the suffering.

  Tempering its faltering spirit in the forge of adversity.

  The desperate scramble of thought coalescing into crystal clarity.

  The frantic thunder of its pulse subsiding into a measured cadence.

  Its trembling body, teetering on the edge of collapse, steadied, finding an unnatural poise.

  With seamless elegance, it wove together movements that flowed like water, evading Ongora's brutal assaults with the slightest parries, brushing aside titanic force at the last instant, channeling the warlord’s own terrible momentum back against him in precise deflections.

  Then it accelerated into bursts of blinding speed to close gaps, delivering strikes with its one good arm that were hardened like Hell-forged steel, thudding home with cracking impacts.

  This!

  This is what the Swarm lived for! To witness such magic, such mettle!

  He needed this, if he were to ever advance again, the energies of battle-wrought epiphanies.

  He consumed as much of the residual substance as possible.

  His bandaged limbs trembled with profane anticipation, his old essence stirring as he drank deep of the insight's radiant spill.

  Later, in the silent depths of meditation, cultivating these epiphanic energies, he would savor every last detail of this impossible match, every exquisite detail leading to this revelation.

  Ongora growled in mounting frustration as his massive, artillery-like swings were turned harmlessly aside.

  He seethed with rage, the tide of the battle shifting into unrestrained chaos.

  And the Swarm's heart swelled with unspeakable glory, hoping beyond hope the mortal could maintain this flow.