The clearing had become a graveyard of steel and blood—a blood-soaked stage. The dirt was churned into mud, splintered wood and shattered branches littering the ground. The remaining Black Wing knights formed a ring, swords and spears ready, the air still pulsing with lingering mana. The soil was no longer earth—it was pulp, a slurry of red mud churned by boots and bodies.
At the center stood Saren, his massive sword glowing blue-white with mana, humming like a living thing.
Draven's crimson eyes scanned the perimeter. His body was torn and bloodied from previous clashes; ribs cracked, his shoulder hanging slightly loose, yet every inch of him pulsed with predatory energy.
Saren's greatsword shimmered white-blue with mana, a storm caged in steel. His armor was cracked in a dozen places, each fissure leaking light.
Draven, glove-armed and slick with his own blood, looked less like a boy and more like a weapon barely held together by fury. His body twitched with the rhythm of his heartbeat; beneath torn flesh, it was a map of previous wounds: broken ribs, shredded muscles, torn tendons. Yet every inch of him throbbed with predatory energy. His blood, red-black and viscous, dripped from jagged cuts, pooling across the churned ground.
His crimson eyes closed briefly as he calculated, his body alive with the tension of a beast ready to feast.
Then the silence broke.
Saren roared—a sound that shook the clearing—and swung the greatsword in a broad, horizontal arc. The air itself split. The force sheared through a tree behind Draven before the blade even met flesh.
Draven moved—but the edge still clipped his shoulder.
Bone shattered. Tendons snapped with a sound like tearing rope. His arm flew from its socket, spinning through the air in a mist of blood. The world seemed to slow; droplets hung like tiny red stars.
Draven didn't scream. He caught the arm mid-spin. His remaining hand gripped it by the wrist and, with a harsh breath, pressed it to the ruin of his shoulder.
The sound was obscene: a grinding, snapping, living noise. Bone ends found one another; veins writhed like serpents, threading together; muscles twitched as they fused, each fiber stitching to its twin. The joint locked with a violent jerk. A hiss escaped his teeth—half pain, half pleasure—and the arm flexed, reborn and ready.
Before the healing even finished, Saren was already there. His sword came down again, an avalanche of steel and light. Draven ducked too late; the blade raked across his ribs. His body twisted as half his torso opened in a geyser of blood.
He staggered—but his own hand shot to the wound.
> "CRAP."
He pressed the halves of himself together, fingers digging into flesh. Bone slid back into place; ribs reshaped with wet cracks; organs pulsed and sealed. A bloody scar ran down his side, then faded to nothing.
He exhaled through gritted teeth, the air whistling between his fangs.
> "Damn bastard almost sliced me in half."
Saren advanced, relentless.
> "Stay down, monster!"
Draven grinned through blood-smeared lips.
> "You first."
He lunged. The dagger in his hand flashed silver-red, carving arcs through steam and dust. Sparks erupted as it met enchanted steel. Draven weaved between strikes, too close to be safe, too fast to read.
Saren's counter hit like a landslide—his gauntleted fist smashed into Draven's chest. The impact folded him in half. His ribs bent, then broke. He was hurled backward, smashing through a dead trunk. Bark and blood exploded in unison.
Draven hit the ground on his side, bones grinding out of alignment. For a heartbeat, he didn't move.
Then the twitching began. His spine arched; ribs popped back into place one by one, like a row of cracking knuckles. His chest expanded, air rushing back into crushed lungs. He rolled to his knees, spitting black blood.
> "God damnit."
He pushed to his feet—smiling. He flexed his newly set arm.
> "Better."
One of the knights charged with a broadsword. Draven pivoted, elbow snapping backward. CRUNCH. The knight's helmet shattered, blood spattering the ground. Draven kicked him in the chest; ribs cracked audibly. The body flew in a bloody arc, landing with a sickening splat.
Saren swung next, full power behind the blade. Draven's left arm caught the strike—but felt it shatter instantly. Bone splintered, tendon ripped. Black blood spurted like a geyser. Draven hissed in pain, staggering—but his other hand pressed against the wound, pressing the arm back into place. Muscle tore and reknit with wet, squelching pops and snaps. By the time Saren swung again, Draven was ready.
Draven lunged, dagger twisting like a viper. He pierced Saren's side; black-red blood sprayed, hissing as it hit the dirt. Saren roared, swinging horizontally, catching Draven's torso. His ribs snapped like dry twigs, puncturing…