The steel sank halfway into Draven's chest, and blood hissed as it hit torn muscle. Pain tore through him like fire, but his reflexes screamed louder. With a sudden, almost inhuman twist, he spun sideways, grinding the edge of Saren's greatsword against his shoulder to redirect it. Sparks flew, and the blade bit a shallow groove into the mud instead.
Saren didn't pause. Every swing came faster, sharper—each one meant to decapitate. He spun, struck, and lunged with a precision that could shatter bone. Draven ducked under a vertical slash, rolled over a fallen knight, and came up behind Saren, dagger flashing in a brutal horizontal arc that scraped across the armored back.
Saren twisted mid-motion, the greatsword narrowly missing his shoulder. He countered with a spinning backhand, a move that would have cleaved a normal man in half. Draven blocked it with his dagger, the steel bending under the force, and shoved hard, sending Saren staggering into a tree trunk. Wood splintered. Dust rose. Both men's breathing came ragged—harsh, wet with blood and mud.
Draven's chest burned. His lungs screamed. Every movement seared with pain, yet he moved as if fueled by something beyond life. He pressed the attack, feinting left and right, forcing Saren to overcommit again and again. Each swing of Saren's greatsword left a trace of mana in the air, a crackling white-blue streak—but Draven's eyes were faster. He darted between arcs, rolled under low strikes, leapt over sweeping swings, stabbing, slashing, spinning—each motion a blur of desperate precision that barely grazed armor but still drew blood.
Saren swung again. Draven raised his hand, slamming it into the blade. The force shattered bone, but the sword deflected, and he lunged as they clashed again.
Mud flew. Sparks flew. Blood sprayed. The battlefield shrank around them, turning into a storm of motion, pain, and deadly calculation. Every feint, every dodge, every counter was a gamble. One wrong move, one mistimed strike—and either could die.
Draven pressed forward, even as he was driven back. Every attack now was risky—every strike could be his last—but he was counting on Saren's arrogance, on the predator's instinct that craved the kill.
Saren snarled, swinging again and again, cutting through air and mud, driving Draven toward a fallen tree. Draven twisted mid-roll, countering with a vicious uppercut to Saren's knee. Bone cracked. The opening was razor-thin—almost suicidal—but Draven saw it and lunged, dagger spinning like lightning, aiming for Saren's side.
Saren reacted instantly, deflecting the strike—but didn't pause. Every swing was aimed to sever; every arc, a promise of death. He lashed out with a vertical strike, then immediately followed with a horizontal swing meant to split Draven from shoulder to hip.
Draven's head snapped back, barely avoiding the downward arc of the greatsword. Sparks burst as his dagger caught the edge, deflecting it just enough to scrape his scalp instead of severing it. Blood poured. His vision blurred. He twisted again—his right arm nearly severed—then pressed it back into alignment with a wet, snapping hiss.
He slid under, coming up behind Saren, dagger aimed at the ribs. Saren twisted, narrowly deflecting it, and retaliated with a brutal overhead strike—faster this time, aimed straight for Draven's neck. Draven ducked, feeling the wind of the blade shear across his scalp. He dashed forward, stabbing toward Saren's knee as he passed—but Saren's greatsword slammed into the mud where his chest had been, shaking the ground.
Saren lunged again, every strike screaming for decapitation. Draven spun under the arc, dagger slicing along the edge of the blade. Pain lanced through his shoulder. His chest heaved. Blood stung his eyes.
Saren overextended—just a fraction. Draven pivoted, dagger stabbing at the gap, barely grazing armor—but his neck was inches from the counterstroke. One heartbeat. One inch. Death brushed him.
He twisted again, using momentum to slash at Saren's side, forcing him backward—but he barely cleared the follow-up swing aimed straight for his head.
Draven froze. The greatsword was an inch from his throat, screaming through the air like a predator's final strike.
> "NOW."
Draven twisted, sliding under the blade—but the motion carried him forward. For a heartbeat that stretched into eternity, he was exposed—neck dangerously close to the arc of Saren's steel.
Everything slowed. The world narrowed to the razor edge of a single blade. Draven's dagger shot upward, aiming at Saren's side, but the timing was impossibly thin. One misstep, one hesitation, and it would have been his head rolling instead.
Saren's eyes narrowed, sensing the shift—but too late. Draven's motion, a violent twisting dodge combined with a precise counter, blurred into one. He drove the dagger upward, through the gap in Saren's armor, straight into the base of his skull. Saren tried to parry—but Draven's other hand slammed against the back of his head, forcing it down. The dagger bit deep, spinning.
> "AAAAAAAH!"
Saren stumbled, collapsing to his knees as black-red blood erupted from the wound. Draven ripped the blade free—then drove it in again. And again. Each strike was precise, surgical, dismantling the Old Wolf piece by piece. Sparks flew from enchanted steel scraping bone as Saren's limbs thrashed. Draven didn't stop.
Saren's eyes widened, visor cracked, voice ragged.