They clashed.
Jackal was pushed back, a shallow cut opening across his midsection. Not deep, but it would add up.
From the wound, a faint stream of mana leaked out, not blood. He didn't bleed. He never had. His anatomy was a mystery, even to him. And for a Form, that level of change was extreme.
Fearcrow was something else.
Jackal adjusted his grip, then moved in fast. He slashed low, then suddenly leaned forward for a headbutt. Unorthodox. Desperate. But it could have worked.
Only it didn't.
There was a saying my father told me: a prepared fighter doesn't fall for tricks.
And Tolok was prepared.
He nudged Jackal's footing with a pulse of telekinetic force. Just enough to throw him off. Jackal stumbled mid-motion, and for a split second, it looked like he was going to impale himself through the skull.
But the blade didn't hit him.
It hit the hat.
And passed right through it. No resistance. No cut. Just... through.
Jackal landed awkwardly and caught himself, staggering a step.
"Right," he muttered, not even looking at Tolok, "my hat's a little weird, you know. Kind of like it comes with the Form."
He reset his stance.
What a weirdo.
Tolok didn't answer. He just charged.
This time, the blades floated behind him as he led the charge with his body.
He closed the distance quickly, dodging Jackal's first two swings, then blocked the third with one blade suspended midair. The other sword snapped into his hand and sliced a fresh cut across Jackal's side.
He kept going.
Jackal tried to pull away, but Tolok was already slashing again. Faster. Cleaner.
More shallow cuts opened along Jackal's arms and ribs. Mana leaked in pale wisps from each one, flickering like fog in moonlight.
The crowd roared again, a rising chant threading through the chaos. They could smell blood, even if there wasn't any.
Tolok thrust his palm downward. The stone floor cracked and shattered from the force.
Jackal stumbled, dropping to a knee.
Tolok didn't pause.
He launched forward and drove his knee into Jackal's face. The hit lifted him off the ground.
Mid-air, before Jackal could regain control, Tolok struck again. Another knee to the face. Faster. Sharper.
Jackal was thrown across the arena like a broken toy.
His speed was unreal.
Jackal was losing badly. The force Tolok could exert on objects without mana was immense, but when it came to living things that had mana, it took more to control them. The resistance was natural, instinctive. It meant his power had limits.
Maybe Jackal could use that. Eventually.
But right now, his style lacked variation. He was being read, move for move.
The crowd shouted his name. Not in support, but expectation. They wanted the ending.
Jackal spat onto the ground. Mana, not blood, streamed from the corner of his mouth, thin and silver.
His smile didn't vanish. But it wasn't cocky anymore. Just stubborn.
Tolok walked toward him again. One blade spinning behind his back, the other firm in his grip. Jackal raised his sword, but it drooped a little in his hand.
The next clash wasn't a duel.
It was a massacre.
Tolok drove his fist into Jackal's ribs. Hard. His body bent around the blow, and the following slash carved another streak across his chest. More mana poured out, trailing across his skin like drifting smoke.
Jackal stumbled, but Tolok didn't slow.
A knee slammed into his thigh. A palm crashed into his chest. Then one of the floating blades hammered down on his shoulder, forcing him to the ground.
He dropped to one knee again.
The crowd surged with noise. The rhythm in their chant grew sharper, almost feverish.
Tolok swept his hand sideways.
Jackal was thrown like a ragdoll, smashing into the arena wall with a crack of stone.
Before he could even fall, Tolok pulled him down with an invisible grip. Jackal slammed into the floor.
Once.
Twice.
He lay there on his back, limbs spread, breathing shallow.
Mana hissed from a dozen open wounds. His fingers still clutched his sword, but it looked like habit, not intent.
Tolok stood above him. He was extremely calm.
The crowd began to chant again, louder now, hungry for the finish.
Jackal coughed.
Then he laughed.
"...still not enough," he muttered.
Not a taunt.
Just a fact.
Because even now, even broken, Jackal hadn't stopped feeding.
I thought that would be the moment. The turn.
But Tolok didn't give him one.
He stepped in and slashed, clean and fast, a horizontal arc that tore across Jackal's body.
From chest to thigh, the blade carved through him. Jackal managed to bring his sword up, but it was too late. He deflected part of the blow. The rest landed.
Jackal's body slumped, but he didn't fall again.
He pushed himself up from the floor, slow, back still against the wall. Breathing hard. Still gripping his sword.
He stood.
Barely.
Tolok didn't stop.
This wasn't sport. It wasn't ceremony. It was execution.
More slashes. Left, right. Fast, vicious, both blades cutting toward Jackal's torso and legs.
He blocked some. Dodged less. Most landed.
Each cut opened another wound, mana spilling like smoke from every strike.
Jackal tried to strike back. He lunged, tried to grab Tolok's wrist, tried to interrupt the rhythm.
It didn't work.
And then...
One of the blades plunged through his chest.
The blade sank deep, cutting through whatever made up Jackal's body, not flesh, not quite, and still met something hard enough to count as bone. It went clean through, the tip emerging from his back, and only stopped when the hilt slammed into him with a solid, final thud.
Jackal didn't scream.
He didn't even flinch.
His body jolted, slightly, but he stayed upright. Somehow. His grip never left his sword.
Then the second blade came from the side.
A sharp angle. Perfectly timed. It slipped past his half-raised arm and buried itself into the edge of his skull, just above the jawline.
The impact tilted his head. The sound was sharp, steel meeting something not entirely bone, not entirely real.
And still, no scream.
No collapse.
The arena fell silent.
Not in horror.
In awe.