A deathly silence had fallen over the arena. The crowd held its breath. Then, Brannok moved. With a sharp gesture, he grabbed the top of his dented copper armor and tore it. The straps gave way with a sharp sound, and he threw the scraps of metal and leather aside with contempt.
"No more need for all that," he growled, his rough voice carrying in the hush. "Your head will be my finest trophy."
He picked up his sword, the steel stained with blood and dust. Across from him, Barrock, still in the grip of the berserker fury, answered with a roar and charged again.
The clash was titanic. Barrock's blows were terrifying in their speed and power, unpredictable and brutal movements. But Brannok was no longer trying to strike. He danced with death, dodging, rolling, retreating. Every breath from the giant was a putrid wind, every missed blow dug deeper into the sand.
Brannok had a plan. He knew. This explosive strength, this inhuman rage, it couldn't last. It was a flash in the pan, a storm that had to burn itself out. He had to wait. Wait for the fire to consume itself from within.
Seconds passed, turning into endless minutes. Barrock's frenzy began to show signs of weakness. His roars became less assured, his charges less precise. And then, Brannok saw it: in the giant's bloodshot eyes, a glimmer of consciousness, of fatigue and confusion, resurfaced. The magic of the whistle was fading, leaving behind an exhausted body and a vulnerable mind.
This was the moment.
As Barrock threw a sweeping punch, Brannok dove not backward, but forward. He slipped under the massive arm and, with the precision of a serpent, struck behind Barrock's left knee with the pommel of his sword.
A sharp, sickening crack echoed. The giant let out a cry of pure, strangled agony and collapsed heavily, one knee on the ground.
Before he could react, Brannok was already on him. He leaped onto his broad back, clinging like a shadow. Barrock thrashed, trying to grab him, but Brannok wrapped his free arm around his neck, holding him fast.
"It's over," Brannok murmured into his ear.
With his other hand, he raised his sword high. The blade flashed one last time in the burning sun.
And he drove it down.
Deeply. Brutally. Into Barrock's right eye.
The giant's body convulsed in a violent spasm, then fell still. A leaden silence fell once more.
In his box, Zarakhim watched, eyes wide with growing horror, as the scene unfolded. Barrock's death... and suddenly, he remembered. The shaman's warning, bought with the skull. 'Barrock is bound to this artifact. He is your protector as long as he lives. If he dies by the blade... the berserker's spirit will turn on you. There will be consequences.'
"NO!" Zarakhim screamed with all his might, leaning dangerously over the balustrade. "BRANNOK, STO—"
Too late.
At the exact moment life left Barrock, the small skull-whistle in Zarakhim's hand exploded into a shower of bone shards and dark energy. A psychic pain, sharp and rending, pierced Zarakhim's skull. He screamed, a cry that was not his own, a cry laden with the fury of the betrayed berserker, then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, unconscious, in his box.
Oblivious to the silent drama in the boxes, Brannok stood up. He placed a foot on the giant's inert back, pulled out his sword with a wet sound, and, with a powerful, circular motion, decapitated his prey.
He straightened up, holding the enormous, gory head of Barrock by its matted hair. He raised it high, facing the sun, facing the stunned crowd.
And then, he let out his own roar. A cry of savage, primal victory that came from the bowels of the earth and his own blood. A cry that was no longer entirely human.
It was the detonation. The crowd exploded. The stands shook with a frenzied ovation. One word, one name, rose from thousands of throats, becoming a deafening thunder:
"BESTIARUS! BESTIARUS! BESTIARUS!"
Standing in the middle of the arena, covered in his enemy's blood, the giant's head held high as a trophy, Brannok was no longer a gladiator. He was a god of the arena. And he had just reminded everyone of the price of the hunt.