John and Edwin assumed their stances, their swords glancing ominously in the fading light. With a cry, they lunged at one another, their blades entwined in a deadly ballet.
John raised his sword, a bulwark against Edwin's ferocious assault, the steel clinging to steel in a shriek of defiance. Before Edwin could orchestrate another strike, John catapulted himself into the air, his foot arcing towards Edwin's gut in a lethal dance.
Edwin swung his sword with panther-like swiftness, his upraised palm aglow as a tempest of lightning coalesced, crackling with nascent fury. John's momentum faltered as the bolt hurtled towards him, his body succumbing to a creeping numbness, as if the very essence of life was being drained from his limbs.
Seizing the moment, Edwin closed in, a whirlwind of fury unleashing a tempest of punches that rained down upon John's defenseless form. The sword, once a steadfast sentinel, now lay impotent, as Edwin's rage proved an insurmountable tide.
With a roar, Edwin seized John, hurling him aloft as if he were a rag doll, and conjured another bolt of lightning, its radiance blazing like a portent of doom. As John plummeted, Edwin swooped in, his foot connecting with John's torso, sending him crashing to the earth.
The victor loomed over the vanquished, his sword a hairsbreadth from John's throat, the cold kiss of steel a grim harbinger of mortality.
Edwin brought his head near John's ear and spoke with a calm expression.
"You fought well, young man." I read the movement of Edwin's lips.
After the fight, I saw the red intent from John toward Edwin. John left the arena, and before Edwin could leave the area, someone from the crowd yelled.
"Is there no one who can beat the current Shura?"
Edwin stopped in his tracks and looked toward the gallery. I saw Vale stand up, raise his hand, pat my shoulder, and smile.
"He shall cross swords with you, Edwin Walpole," Vale declared, his finger an unwavering point towards me. Bound by an unseen thread, I complied, striding toward the arena's heart.
"Jangre Nolan, at your service," I said, a nod of respect. Edwin's acknowledgment was a subtle bow, and we assumed our stances. His posture bespoke mastery – a Level 13 echelon warrior. I, having reclaimed my lost powers from the last cycle on the first day of this cycle, harbored a potent edge.
I lunged, a tempest of steel, and he countered with every fiber, his defense an impenetrable wall. Undeterred, I vaulted into the air, hurtling towards him like a falling star. He met my fury, and I shifted, a feint of fluidity, kicking his stance and seizing him, hurling him aside.
I closed in, a whirlwind of fists, and swung my sword in a deadly arc. He parried, a whisper of steel, and recoiled, a calculated retreat. I sensed a hidden threat, my calm shattered as I beheld a dagger lodged in my thigh – his parting gift, unheeded in the heat.
Edwin's palm ascended, a conduit of raw energy, as lightning coalesced in his grasp. Before I could react, the bolt hurtled towards me, a spear of incandescent fury. I cleaved the tempest with my blade, and a shocked visage, fleeting yet profound, contorted Edwin's face.
I invoked Krudha kaal, the earth beneath me fracturing in testament to my wrath. I lunged, a vortex of fury, and swung my blade, a whisper of doom. He sought to parry, but I was unrelenting, shearing his arm, the dagger's source, as crimson cascaded forth.
The gallery gasped, and a healer rushed in, staunching the flow, as I stood, a figure of unyielded intent.
Edwin surged upright, his remaining hand clasping his sword, a feral glaze in his eyes. The healer sought to calm him, but he lunged towards me, unrelenting, his blade a deadly whisper. I dodged the strike and swung my sword; he countered, and from his lips, a dagger hurtled forth. I sidestepped the missile with ease, and closed in, my blade arcing in a deadly sweep. His remaining arm fell, severed, and he crumbled, a broken figure.
I glanced at the healer, who staunched the bleeding. "Can't you heal him? Regrow his arms?" I asked.
"Only healers from Level 10 and above possess such prowess," he replied. "We shall convey him to their care, and his arms shall be restored. Fear not."
I gazed at my hands, crimson-stained, and a realization dawned: this was the first time I had cut through human flesh. Unlike the nimrods, Edwin was not a beast, and a pang of regret pierced me.
The crowd erupted, cheering my name, as Vale approached, a smile radiant on his face. "Jangre Nolan, the new Shura of Khetra," he declared, and I smiled, a mixture of pride and unease.
"What of the purpose that brought us here?" I asked.
"I spotted a prospect," Vale said, his eyes glinting. "A candidate for our team."
"Who?" I pressed.
"Is it Edwin?" I ventured.
Though my question hung in the air, Vale's response was a subtle negation, his head shaking almost imperceptibly. He turned, and we exited the arena's tumult, our footsteps quiet on the sun-drenched streets.
In a secluded cafe, a tableau caught our gaze: John, visage unmarked by his earlier clash, conversed with a familiar figure. A healer's artistry, I surmised, had erased the battle's scars. Vale's stride lengthened, and I followed, our path converging on the pair's table. A smile, warm and calculated, spread across his face.
"Greetings," he said, his voice a gentle intrusion. "I am Vale Williamson, and this is my associate, Jangre Nolan—the current Shura of Khetra."