Kharom's body skidded across the hard marble, the liquid mass snapping back into shape as scattered streams rushed together and reformed his frame.
By the time he reached the edge, his flesh had fully reconstituted; steel-hard fingers clawed into the floor and finally halted his slide, saving him from tumbling out of the arena at the last instant.
When he pushed up, there was a fresh sword wound on his chest—another gash to join the first. The earlier cut was already nearly closed; this new one, too, began knitting fast, black blood beading and hissing as it fell before the skin drew tight again.
"Coward—striking from above, without the courage to face me directly." He lifted his head, rage billowing off him as he glared at Adyr.
Kharom didn't doubt he could win. In his mind, he still held the edge in raw strength, and his toughened body and high defense could weather even the strongest sword strikes.
