Adam ignored the burning, wet sensation at the base of his numb fingers, ignored the macuahuitl that sawed its way to the edge of the arena. The cheers of the crowd, Ulgarath's subtle surprise—none mattered. They all faded.
From almost parallel to the ground, he shot up. His muscles roared with life force, qi returning them to the molten masterpieces of destruction he had built.
His fist cleaved toward Ulgarath's face like a spear. He saw the orc clench his free hand, then release it. Instead, his axe already began to whistle back. A blow for a blow. Except Adam knew he'd die at the slightest brush. The crowd, the watching shamans all did too.
His fist slammed onto Ulgarath's chin. Despite all the strength he put into it, it only managed a dull thud—an echo the crowd wrote off as his expected failure. It felt as if he had struck a block of enchanted metal. His knuckles groaned over the orc's smirk as the axe approached, too fast to be seen as more than a silver streak.
