General Titus sat across from Sir Palamedes and waited.
The killing intent that had filled the space between them moments ago that great, crushing wave that had pressed against him like a giant's hand had faded. Broken. Ignored.
Titus had simply let it wash over him and then move on. It was not enough. It was never enough.
But now now Palamedes was concentrating. Something new was building. Something different.
Titus leaned forward slightly, his eyes gleaming.
Yes, he thought. Show me. Show me what you have to offer.
Palamedes sat perfectly still.
Inside his mind, a thousand blades formed. Not steel. Not iron. Something sharper. Something that existed only in the space between wills.
A thousand blades. Each one was killing intent made manifest. Each one was aimed at General Titus. Each one was designed to end him.
They stabbed forward.
They pierced the general's defenses.
They broke.
One by one, the thousand blades shattered against Titus's will, crumbling into nothing. The general's smile didn't waver.
"Is this really it?" His voice was almost disappointed.
Palamedes's jaw tightened.
No. Not yet.
He reached deeper. Further. Past the place where killing intent lived, past the place where will lived, into something that had no name.
And he pulled.
The world ended.
For General Titus, there was suddenly nothing. No sight. No sound. No touch. No smell. No taste.
He sat in a void of his own senses, stripped of everything that connected him to the world.
Palamedes's voice came from everywhere and nowhere.
"The human body has specific senses." His voice was calm, measured, victorious. "Without them, we would fall into madness."
He paused, letting the words sink into the void.
"Yes, sometimes one can bear the loss of their eyes. Leading to blindness. The reason is because they will eventually adapt. Using their other senses their sense of smell, their sense of touch, their sense of hearing."
His voice hardened.
"They will adapt. The same thing happens if they lose their sense of hearing, or even their sense of smell or taste."
The void pressed closer.
"Adaptation and survival only happens in the presence of an existing option."
Titus sat in the darkness, without listening. Feeling. Understanding.
"If there is no existing option..." Palamedes's voice dropped to a whisper. "There is no hope. And there is only despair."
The silence stretched.
"You cannot see." Palamedes's voice was soft now, almost gentle. "You cannot hear. You cannot smell. You cannot feel."
He let the words hang.
"It feels strange, doesn't it? Feels worse than drowning in an endless sea."
In the void, Titus sat perfectly still.
And inside his chest, something stirred.
Palamedes felt the joy rising in him like a tide.
He had done it. He had won. The general who had killed Gaheris without effort, who had mocked them all, who had declared himself untouchable was defeated.
He had trapped him in a prison of nothing. Had stripped him of every sense that connected him to the world. Had left him in a void from which there was no escape.
This is what I call true death, he thought, and the words were sweet.
He had won.
He had won.
In the void, Titus sat.
He could not see. Could not hear. Could not feel. Could not smell. Could not taste.
He sat in the absolute absence of everything.
And he smiled.
Interesting. The thought formed in the darkness, clear and sharp. I can't hear. I can't see. I can't feel. I can't smell. Neither can I taste.
He turned the experience over in his mind like a stone in his palm.
I have to say...
His smile widened.
Except in my life when I was living, this is the second time I'm having this kind of experience.
In the real world, Palamedes watched Titus's face. Saw the smile forming. Felt something wrong in his chest.
Titus's lips moved.
"I congratulate you. So much." His voice was quiet, but it carried through the void Palamedes had built. "You have made me feel an emotion that has been dead in me for a long time."
His eyes blind, sightless, nothing somehow found Palamedes.
"I thank you for that."
He rose.
"And yes I'm sorry for this." His voice was almost apologetic. "As it now, I'm acting on a very dangerous impulse. One that was created in me a long time ago."
His hand shot forward.
It found Palamedes's neck not by sight, not by sound, not by any sense that should have been possible. It simply knew.
His fingers closed.
CRUSH.
The pressure was impossible. Palamedes's killing intent the thousand blades, the void of senses, the true death he had crafted shattered around him. It broke apart like glass, like ice, like nothing.
Palamedes gasped, choking, his hands flying to Titus's wrist. But he couldn't break the grip. Couldn't breathe.
"Your killing intent is quite refined," Titus said, his voice calm, conversational, as if he wasn't slowly crushing the life from a man. "But the mistake you made..."
He leaned close.
"...was that brief moment of joy you had. It weakened you. And now your death lies in my hand."
Palamedes's eyes bulged. His mouth opened, desperate for air. Saliva poured from his lips, mixed with blood.
And he spat.
The spittle hit Titus's face a wet, defiant mark that should have meant nothing.
But Palamedes's voice, when it came, was a promise.
"Our king..." His throat worked against the pressure. "...will kill you."
His lips curled into a bloody smile.
"And then "
CRACK.
Titus's hand tightened. Bones gave way. Cartilage shattered. Palamedes's neck bent at an angle no living neck should bend.
His body went limp.
His eyes stared at nothing.
Sir Palamedes of the Knights of the Round Table was dead.
Titus held the body for a moment longer, then let it fall. It dropped to the sand with a soft thud, joining Gaheris's corpse in the growing pile of the dead.
He looked down at the body and sighed.
"And such," he murmured, "another has fallen."
He turned away, already losing interest.
"And yet..." His voice was barely audible. "I know no thrill."
Two knights lay dead. Four remained.
The game was far from over.