Horus studied Edith, whose entire demeanor had transformed. Gone was his friend's casual, jubilant nature—replaced by an intense focus that burned in his dark eyes like smoldering coals.
Edith had settled into his stance, every muscle coiled and ready, waiting for the first strike.
But Horus had no intention of rushing headlong into battle. He knew all too well the dangerous intensity that consumed Edith during fights, the way his friend became something altogether more primal when combat began.
Instead, Horus mirrored his opponent's patience. He planted his feet firmly on the lush grass, feeling the cool blades brush against his skin. The sensation grounded him, washing a deeper sense of clarity over his already composed mind. The crowd's roar faded to a distant hum as his world narrowed to the boy before him.
They began their deadly dance—slow, measured steps bringing them closer with each heartbeat. The air between them crackled with tension, both fighters reading every micro-expression, every shift in weight. Soon they stood within striking distance, close enough to see their own reflection in each other's eyes.
Edith made the first move, relaxing his stance as he reached forward to grab Horus's collar. But Horus had been waiting for exactly this. His hand snapped up, batting away Edith's right arm while simultaneously driving his left palm forward in a vicious hook.
Crack!
The blow caught Edith right in the temple, sending him reeling. But even as his vision blurred and his legs buckled, Edith's combat instincts took over. His falling hands shot out, seizing Horus by the collar, and he used his own momentum to drag his friend down with him.
They crashed to the earth together—Horus's breath exploding from his lungs as Edith's weight drove him into the unforgiving ground.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Edith's training reasserted itself, and he scrambled to get on top, pinning Horus beneath him.
Desperation flared in Horus's grey eyes as he felt Edith's hands clamp around his wrists. With no other option, he did something that made the crowd gasp in shock—he lunged forward and sank his teeth deep into Edith's forearm.
"Ah!" Edith's grip loosened involuntarily at the unexpected pain.
Horus immediately capitalized, his left hand shooting up to grab Edith's head and pull it down while his right elbow drove upward. But Edith managed to get his arm up just in time—the elbow struck his forearm instead of his face, though the force still sent shockwaves through his bones and made him sway precariously.
That momentary instability was all Horus needed. He shoved Edith sideways, rolled out from under him, and sprang to his feet with fluid grace. Without pause, he lunged forward, fist cocked for a devastating blow to Edith's still-wavering form.
But Edith's immersion in the fight had sharpened his reflexes to a razor's edge. He rolled aside at the last possible second, his leg whipping out to tangle Horus's ankles while his other foot drove into his friend's calf. Horus pitched forward, hands shooting out to break his fall, but Edith was already moving—twisting his body to launch a brutal kick at Horus's exposed head.
Time seemed to slow. Horus jerked his head back while simultaneously pushing off with his hands, the kick whistling past close enough to ruffle his grey hair. In one continuous motion, he executed a perfect backroll, coming up in a defensive crouch just as Edith used his arm as a pivot point to spring back to his feet with an acrobatic flair.
They faced each other again, both breathing hard, both grinning at the other. Blood trickled from bite marks on Edith's arm while grass stains and dirt streaked both their tunics.
"That wild side of yours, Horus," Edith panted, wiping sweat from his brow. "You really can't hide it, can you?"
Horus said nothing. He simply exploded forward, left fist driving upward in a vicious uppercut aimed at Edith's chin. Edith got his arm up to block, using the punch's force to hop backward, then immediately countered with a right hook that should have ended the fight.
Instead, Horus ducked under the swing and drove his forehead forward in a savage headbutt. The sickening crunch echoed across the hilltop as cartilage gave way. Edith staggered backward, crimson streaming from his nose, his eyes watering from the impact.
***
Meanwhile, on another section of the battleground, Astus and Fortis circled each other like wounded animals. Both were covered in mud and sweat, their arms scraped raw from tumbling through thorny bushes, their tunics torn and stained. But their eyes—their eyes burned with the primal intensity of predators who had tasted blood.
Astus could barely contain his rage. Every fiber of his being screamed for violence, for the satisfaction of watching Fortis crumble beneath his fists. He had never despised anyone with such consuming fury.
Unable to restrain himself any longer, Astus charged with a wordless roar, leaping to tackle Fortis around the waist. But his opponent had evolved during their brutal dance. Fortis sidestepped with elegant precision, caught Astus's tunic as he flew past, and used both their momentum to drive him face-first into the earth with bone-jarring force.
Suddenly, an eerie silence fell over the crowd—broken only by the wet sounds of flesh striking flesh from the other fights. Then, like a dam bursting, the spectators erupted in thunderous appreciation. The village elders rose from their seats, eyes wide with understanding.
They could all see it. Fortis moved differently now—his movements flowing with newfound grace and power. He was advancing, pushing through to the next stage right before their eyes!
Fortis stood over his fallen opponent, chest rising and falling steadily as he gazed up at the cloudless sky. When he finally looked down at the sprawled Astus, his voice carried quiet authority.
"You talked big, but you're the only one who's been getting beaten since this started."
The words hit Astus like physical blows. Rage consumed every rational thought, replacing strategy with raw bloodlust. He wanted to break Fortis—to shatter his bones, tear his flesh, gouge out those calm eyes and smash that serene face into unrecognizable pulp.
Scrambling to his feet, Astus swung wildly at Fortis's head. His opponent began to dodge with that same infuriating elegance—but then Astus opened his clenched fist. Dirt and grit exploded across Fortis's eyes, blinding him instantly.
"Dirty bastard!" someone shouted from the crowd, but Astus didn't care.
He pounced like a rabid beast, shoulder driving into Fortis's stomach and sending them both crashing to the ground. Then the real brutality began. Astus straddled his blinded opponent and let his fury run free.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
His fists rained down like hammers on an anvil.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Open-handed slaps that split lips and bloodied noses.
Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!
Elbows that promised broken ribs and internal bleeding.
The sickening symphony of violence echoed across Old Pal's summit, each impact punctuated by Astus's animalistic grunts and Fortis's pained gasps. The crowd had gone completely feral, their bloodthirsty roars shaking the very earth beneath their feet as they bore witness to the savage spectacle unfolding before them.