Arkorg felt the cost of his final attack almost at once.
The instant the terrifying power he had torn out of his body scattered into the arena, the strength in his limbs collapsed like a broken dam. His knees shook violently, and the arm he had used for that forbidden strike twitched as though the flesh no longer answered to him.
Thin black-red cracks spread across his skin, and blood seeped out of them, staining his armor and dripping onto the ruined ground. His breathing turned ragged and uneven, and every breath sounded as though it were tearing through his chest from the inside.
The damage wasn't only on the surface, either. He could feel it clearly. His bones had been shaken loose, his meridians were a wreck, and the violent power he had borrowed had already started devouring him from within.
Even so, Arkorg refused to fall.
He swayed once, then pushed himself upright again on stubborn will alone. His vision had already blurred, yet he kept his crimson eyes fixed forward.
