Will of the Battlefield

Blood ran into Thane’s eye. The giant blinked it away.

The iron taste of blood filled his mouth.

Around him, the arena had become a blur of faces and noise. Thousands watched from the stands, their voices blending into a distant roar.

Some shouted encouragement. Others cursed. Most simply stared.

Thane barely heard any of it. His attention was fixed on one thing.

Donovan Young.

The Drevlorn noble advanced steadily, mace resting in his hands.

Every step was measured.

The mace swung again, and Thane instinctively shifted backward.

The wooden head missed his face by an inch. A moment later, it crashed into his shoulder.

Pain exploded through his arm. The giant grunted, and the crowd winced.

Donovan pressed forward.

Like a wolf scenting blood, his mace spun, its head blurring through the air.

Thane prepared to catch it but failed. He knew that as long as the mace was in Donovan’s hands, he could not catch him.

He should have picked a wooden weapon too. What weapon could he even use other than a hammer for forging?

The weapon struck his forearm instead, making his attempt look miserable.

The impact rattled his bones, his fingers briefly going numb.

Another strike followed, then another.

The giant retreated, not from fear but from confusion, and perhaps pain.

Something wasn’t working. He was trying to react to the mace, trying to follow its path.

Trying to predict where it would go, and he was always too late.

The realization came slowly, and painfully.

The weapon wasn’t the problem. The man holding it was.

Thane narrowed his eyes. The next time Donovan attacked, the giant ignored the mace entirely.

Instead, he watched the shoulders, the elbows, the wrists, the joints. The places where movement began.

The places where intention revealed itself before action.

The mace came toward him, and Thane stepped aside.

For the first time, cleanly, he dodged an attack.

A murmur rippled through the arena.

Donovan noticed. His eyes narrowed.

He swung the mace again, and again Thane moved.

Not perfectly or elegantly, but better than before.

The strike clipped his ribs instead of crushing them.

Pain still flared, yet less than before.

Thane found himself grinning, showing a blood-tainted row of teeth.

Something had clicked. He didn’t know why, he didn’t know how. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝐰𝚎𝕓𝐧𝚘𝘃𝗲𝐥.𝐜𝚘𝕞

He simply understood.

His wild instincts finally kicked in. Every time he was at the verge of losing, he evolved.

When it came to physical things, his body learned quickly.

Always had. Whether lifting stones, swinging axes, throwing punches, or wrestling.

Once he felt something enough times, understanding followed.

Donovan attacked again.

This time Thane saw the movement before the strike.

The shoulder shifted, the elbow rotated, the wrist followed, and the giant reacted.

The mace grazed his arm, nothing more.

The crowd erupted. Even several judges exchanged glances.

Athenok smiled faintly from his seat. The middle-aged principal had faith in Thane.

The giant learned through pain, failure, and repetition.

A frightening trait in a fighter, and Donovan sensed it too. The Drevlorn noble increased his pace.

The mace became a whirlwind. Thane absorbed several more strikes.

One split another spot above his eyebrow, another forced his ribs to bleed.

A third hammered his thigh, yet each attack taught him something.

Each impact revealed another piece of the puzzle.

Then came the opening, a small one.

Barely noticeable.

Donovan committed fully to a powerful horizontal swing.

Thane saw it, and finally got a chance to stop this charge.

His hand shot forward. The mace struck his palm as pain exploded through his fingers.

For a terrifying instant, it felt as though every bone in his hand had shattered.

The giant almost released it, almost, but he didn’t.

His fingers tightened and the weapon stopped.

The crowd exploded. Gasps echoed throughout the arena.

Donovan’s eyes widened for the first time all match. The mace had been caught.

A laugh escaped Thane’s grinning lips, along with a few droplets of blood and saliva. "Got you."

The giant yanked and threw a punch with his free hand.

The fist came like a falling boulder. Most fighters would have panicked.

Most fighters would have frozen, but who Donovan was, he did neither.

Years of training took over. The noble of Drevlorn immediately released the mace.

The punch whistled past his face, close enough to feel the wind.

He ducked, stepped inside Thane’s reach.

And drove forward, hard. His shoulder slammed into the giant’s waist.

A wrestling entry, not a strike, not a kick, but a takedown.

The crowd gasped. Thane’s feet shifted.

Yet he remained standing, like an ancient tree refusing to yield to a storm. He wrestled his siblings all his life.

Most men would have fallen already.

Donovan expected as much, which was why he immediately transitioned.

His hands shot downward, one wrapped around Thane’s right leg.

The other pushed against the giant’s upper body.

A classic wrestling technique. Remove the support and attack the balance.

The result was immediate. Thane felt the world tilt.

His eyes widened. The giant crashed onto his side. "How?" he inwardly asked himself. He felt his pride was hurt.

The arena erupted. The impossible had happened. The giant was down.

Dust exploded from the stone. Donovan wasted no time. He mounted immediately.

His fist descended.

THUD.

Thane’s head bounced against the arena floor.

Another punch followed.

THUD.

Then another, and another.

Hammer fists, straight punches, and short brutal strikes.

The kind designed to overwhelm, to break resistance.

Blood sprayed across the stone. The giant raised his arms.

Blocking some, absorbing others.

The crowd roared, screaming at Thane to stand again and fight back.

The giant looked almost helpless.

Donovan’s face was a mask of determination. Every punch carried frustration, humiliation, and pride.

The desire to erase yesterday’s defeat.

THUD.

PAAA.

BAAM.

The strikes continued. Thane’s vision blurred as his head rang.

The world became noise and pain. Somewhere above him was Donovan.

Relentless, like a blacksmith hammering hot steel.

The giant tried bucking. He also tried rolling, but nothing worked.

Donovan’s position remained solid. Another punch ruptured Thane’s lip.

Blood filled his mouth.

The crowd’s roar grew louder.

For the first time in the tournament, genuine concern appeared among Bentram’s supporters.

The giant was losing.

Then instinct took over. Another evolution.

Thane reached upward, blindly.

A hand closed around fabric, Donovan’s collar.

The giant’s fingers tightened and the noble’s eyes widened.

A second later, he understood why, but it was too late.

Thane roared. The sound echoed through the entire arena.

Then he hurled. The motion was crude, brutal, and overwhelmingly powerful.

Donovan’s body left him.

One moment the noble sat atop the giant, the next he was airborne.

The crowd collectively gasped.

The Drevlorn fighter sailed through the air before crashing onto the stone several yards away.

Rolling once, twice, three times, before finally stopping. Somehow, a wound reopened on his cheek, blood dripped.

Silence fell. Both fighters remained on the ground.

Thane was battered, bleeding, and exhausted.

And for the first time since the match had begun, Thane’s retaliation worked.

The arena watched, waiting for their hero to win.

Because everyone understood the same thing. Donovan’s pride was not shallow.

He was, in essence, another monster just like Etno Kamsi.