Zeck tore through the enemy lines like a rabid beast, his sword an extension of his fury. He slashed without rhythm, without pause, each strike more savage than the last. His movements were wild, unhinged—less like a warrior and more like a beast starved of war. The soldiers barely had time to react. One by one, they fell—some split in half, others thrown across the arena like broken dolls. Screams echoed as metal clashed and armor cracked under his blade's relentless assault.
To the crowd watching, it was almost unbearable.
Sweat formed in their palms, their chests tightened as an unsettling question of what they would do if they were in his shoes.
In mere moments, the once-formidable army—an overwhelming wave of warriors, shields, and spears—was reduced to a scene of chaos and ruin. Broken bodies littered the ground, weapons scattered like twigs snapped by a storm. The formation had crumbled. Strategy was useless now. There was no time to think. This was the true meaning of infront of absolute power all manner of trickery is useless.
He moved again with lightening speed as his eyes locked on his prey.
The Reaper.
The crowd collectively held its breath.
This was it.
Zeck dashed forward, a blur of black and steel, kicking up dust and blood with every step. The distance between them vanished in an instant. And this time, the Reaper had nothing left to shield himself. His elemental arm—his defense—was gone, shattered by the limits of time or power. The runes that once kept him guarded lay dim and lifeless on the ground.
Now, it was just him.
And Zeck.
There was something stark in the moment—something tragic. The Reaper wasn't built for this kind of fight. He was an elemental, a mid-range tactician who wove death from afar, manipulating forces and summoning giants with sweeping gestures. But here, in the brutal intimacy of close combat, stripped of reach and range, he was out of place. Not just uncomfortable—outmatched. His level wasn't suited for this. Not yet. Here, he wasn't the force of nature they feared. Here, he was just a vulnerable mortal man.
He gritted his teeth, heart pounding in his ears, mind scrambling for a solution that wouldn't come.
Zeck's footsteps thundered in his chest.
His sword glinted under the lights.
There was nowhere left to run.
And still, he didn't flinch.
Even as the blade drew near, even as the force of death rushed toward him with terrifying speed, the Reaper held his ground.
Because he wasn't called the Reaper for nothing.
There had to be something left.
Some card yet to be played.
The crowd leaned forward, , silent as the moment reached its peak.
Zeck raised his sword.
The Reaper raised his eyes.
Zeck lunged, sword raised high, eyes wild with bloodlust. The crowd braced, some shielding their faces as if that could protect them from the horror they were about to witness.
And then—something changed.
The Reaper raised his hand.
In an instant, a sword shimmered into existence—blackened steel with golden etchings that pulsed like veins. It was savage in shape, curved and brutal, reminiscent of something ancient, something designed for war.
Gasps rippled through the arena.
It was almost identical to Killmonger.
Zeck's blade descended like judgment itself. A dome of light sprang to life, enveloping the Reaper just before impact.
CRACK!
The sword cleaved through it like paper, slicing it open without slowing.
The crowd jolted.
That was supposed to be the Reaper's absolute defense?
Before the dust could settle, another dome flared into place beneath the first—this one layered with intricate runes that danced like flames. It held for barely a second.
CRACK!
Zeck's blade didn't even pause.
A third dome emerged, sturdier, darker, almost earthen in texture.
CRACK!
Gone.
The fourth dome burst upward like a final gasp—a barrier laced with chaotic energy that sparked against the sword.
But even that broke.
The blade surged through all four layers of protection, unstoppable, destined for flesh.
Closer.
Closer.
And then—
CLANG.
The sound rang out like thunder.
Sparks exploded.
Time froze.
Dreadfang, Zeck's monstrous sword, had finally met something that could stop it.
Barely.
The Reaper's newly-conjured weapon caught the descending blade just inches from his throat. It trembled under the force, groaning as if protesting its own existence.
And then—a sickening sound.
SNAP.
A fracture ran down the length of the Reaper's sword. Halfway through, it split—not completely, but enough to show how close it had come to failing.
The Reaper stood firm, feet planted deep into the ground, arms shaking from the impact.
The arena erupted into screams and gasps, half in disbelief, half in awe.
"He stopped it…"
"He actually stopped Dreadfang!"
"But… how long can he hold it?"
Zeck pulled back slightly, his breathing heavy now, labored.