The creature struck first. One moment it was frozen, a black shape against the smoke and flames, and the next it was upon him—its form bending and unfolding like a twisted origami of flesh and bone. The scythe-limbs came swooping down, hacking the air with cries that cut harder than stone.
Varon's halberd deflected the blow, sparks flying like stars as metal screamed against carapace. His arms shook from the blow, muscles aflame. He changed his stance, thrusting the beast back a half-step, and for one beat he believed he could have discovered its rhythm.
Then the monster grinned.
Its mouth unhinged too far, wet teeth glinting in the firelight. A gruesome laugh erupted, not man, not beast, but derisive nonetheless.
"Fight, small soldier," it sang with a voice like shattered glass scraping over rock. "Try and see how long your body holds up."
It attacked again.
Varon spun, his halberd slicing an arc of steel. The blade bit into one of the scythe-limbs, cutting half through before tendon and bone wedged against him. Another limb came down. He wrenched free, just—losing the hold of his left gauntlet as a price. Fingers snapped with a wet crunching sound, agony bursting up his arm. He did not scream. He clamped down on it, eyes blazing red.
The monster's chuckle deepened. "A finger for a parry. A rib for a breath. I'll dismantle you, piece by piece."
It was true. Every transaction came at a price.
Varon attacked again—ramming the tip of the halberd into the beast's torso. It slipped through black ichor, reeking, scalding his nostrils. The creature lurched, but its form contorted, opening up around the wound as if to sneer at the very idea of harm. Its scythe-arms lashed once more, tearing into his side.
Pain. Bone shattered. A rib snapped in, cutting into flesh. Blood ran down his side, drenching his armor.
And yet he clung. And yet he attacked.
His team was not far. Defying his command, they stood at the border of the devastated street, observing from behind broken stone walls.
The elf bow hunter trembled in her grasp, tears obscuring vision.
The dwarf clenched jaws, shield quivering as he gritted to stay where he was and not try to rush back in.
The human healer whispered prayers, lips quivering, unable to do anything at this distance.
The assassin beastman held her daggers, her wolf ears pressed flat to her head as hoarse sobs tore through her chest.
They saw it all. How their captain defended herself like a tempest and was uncreated like meat.
Varon bellowed, charging forward. His halberd swept down, cutting one of the scythe-limbs clean through. Black ichor spattered, sizzling on stone.
The monster shrieked—but its eyes blazed brighter. Amusement. It sprang to one side, faster than his eyes could follow, and its clawed hand smashed through Varon's shoulder. Flesh tore, bone shattered, nerves shrieked fire. His halberd almost slipped, but he clutched it tighter with his other hand, swinging wildly.
Steel struck the monster's face. Half of its jaw split apart, hanging obscenely. It only laughed louder, slamming him into a wall.
Stone crumbled. Ribs snapped. He hacked up blood, spat it into the monster's open mouth, and growled, "Not… yet."
Time had no meaning. The battle became a never-ending cycle of blows, ripostes, shouts, and gore.
Varon's body disassembled, piece by piece.
Three fingers had been cut off, left dangling by fibers.
Two ribs shattered inward, piercing lung.
A knee twisted, cartilage ripping.
Skin torn across his back by scythe-limbs.
His left eye puffed shut, blood streaming in a slow trickle.
Each blow ought to have knocked him down. Each strike should have finished him. But he continued rising, crawling forward, halberd held like an extension of his very being.
The monster cocked its head, regarding him. "Intriguing. How do you move, when your bones are dust?"
"I'm… Draegus…" Varon snarled through shattered teeth, spitting blood, "… and we don't… kneel."
His team couldn't stand by anymore.
The elf archer averted her face, putting her hands over her ears.
The healer dropped to his knees, vomiting.
The dwarf crashed his shield into the wall, forehead against the metal, muttering apologies.
The beastman assassin dug her claws into her arms, red stripes forming as she shook her head, denial of the truth her eyes imposed upon her.
But still, they listened. They heard each blow, each crunch of bone, each bellow of rage that weakened, roughened, and yet would not subside.
The beast became more vicious. It slackened its blows, relishing the game. It hacked superficial wounds on Varon's arms and chest, allowing blood to stream. It struck at his legs to render his footing useless. It swatted his halberd out of his hands, only to allow him to retrieve it again.
"You amuse me, little soldier," it hissed. "I'll carry your head on my back. A trophy of resistance."
Varon's vision blurred. His breath came ragged, lungs wheezing with fluid. His left arm hung limp, his right shaking from exhaustion. And yet—he laughed. A hollow, broken laugh, but laughter nonetheless.
"You… talk too much."
With the dregs of his energy, he feigned low, then thrust the point of the halberd upward, going through straight into the monster's throat. Black ichor spat out, burning across his face. The monster choked—but then its skin closed over the wound, pinning the weapon there.
It bent down, its face inches from his. "Clever. Useless. Die."
Its fist punched into his belly. Ribs caved, spine snapped. His body bent double, folding in around the blow. Blood spewed from his lips, coating the creature's chest.
The squad screamed.
"CAPTAIN!"
Their screams rang out through the burning streets as the beast threw Varon's crushed body aside. He smashed into debris, halberd still stuck in the beast's throat.
And yet, amazingly—he rose.
Staggering, splintered, blood flowing from all the wounds, he stood once more. He grasped the dagger from his side belt with his broken hand, the blade shaking. His legs struggled to move, his eyesight blurring, but he stood.
The beast tilted its head, nearly… respectful. "You should have been dead a dozen times over."
Varon spat blood, spreading it across his lips in a twisted grin. "That's… the issue with your kind. You believe… death's the end. For me? It's just… the evidence I lived."
He attacked once more.
Each bone in his frame howled. Every nerve cried out for mercy. But he stabbed on—dagger slicing across the monster's chest, cutting deep enough to reveal muscle. It struck back, its scythe-limb stabbing through his ribcage, bursting out the other side. He bellowed and pushed forward, driving the blade deeper, even as his body was sundered.
The monster's voice soared in ecstatic rage. "Break! Shatter! End!"
But Varon's voice boomed over it, hoarse, twisted, but unyielding:
"Not… yet!"
The fight went on in this damn hellish cadence—Varon exchanging bits of himself for bits of ground, not stopping, not falling.
When finally his body fell, little more than a twisted mass of flesh and blood, he still crawled upright against a shattered wall, spitting defiance through smashed lips.
The monster loomed over him, shadow blotting out the firelight. "You've given me sport, little soldier. Now give me silence."
Varon coughed blood, smiled with shattered teeth, and whispered, "You'll… never forget me."
Then the power began to gather—the forbidden technique boiling inside his ruined frame.