Bone dust covered his flail, a one-hundred-kilogram whirlwind of death.
Even if the restless graveyard of skeletons, a woods with just a sliver of moonlight, had no end in sight, he'd crush dozens of bone walkers for another hour if need be. It was the curse of living in the Land of the Soulless, a path of pain with only one way out.
Whether a grave, blizzard ridden mountains, murky dung filled swamps, fiery caverns, an old abandoned estate, or a pristine castle, there was something waiting. Someone waiting, a fight to win or lose. Dozens, hundreds, sometimes thousands of times over.
He swung towards a thin ray of moonlight where rusty shield bearing skeletons formed a wall.
One steel spiked swipe shattered the wiry bastards to pieces. Skulls flew. Bones pinged against his full helm.
Light shined within shadows.
A pair of ten meter high, axe wielding skeletons, fire in their eyes, cursed down at him. Shield up, he absorbed what felt like a bull charging him. He stumbled back, keeping his feet square. Shoulders low, he charged, driving his feet, wide stance, pummeling over one giant skeleton with his two-hundred-kilogram black iron square shield.
The giant still up slammed down its axe. He took the brunt of it on his armor, cursing as his breastplate cracked. He hammered his flail's hilt down, breaking the handle of the skeleton's axe before it could recover. Its eyes roared, he shattered its shins, then bashed the both barrel sized skulls to pieces.
All the graves, watching him slam his flail mad, broke formation. Skeletons dropped their weapons, retreating deeper into the shadows.
"Bastards! Get back here and fight!" He shouted.
Despite cloaked in iron armor even a war Taurus would struggle to charge in, he sprinted for the nearest horde.
Sweat on his brow, steam rising from his helm sockets, the burn of his muscles. It was all he cared for one day to the next. He'd been in the graves for a number of weeks, with little but a few scraps of bread and half a leftover chicken from his last night at the inn.
Moonlight shined, clouds parting within the woods, revealing a path to an open grassy field surrounded by bone crosses.
All over the woods, for miles on end, laid bones, tombstones, ransacked graves, and rusty dull weapons. Swords, arrows, axes, and spears, an old battlefield lost to a prior age, though he took little interest in its meaning.
Every path revealed more of the Land of the Soulless' history, but only one thing mattered to him most.
Since he first awakened in the swamp, beside a reeking fire even shit would've been more generous than, he remembered nothing.
Hundreds of fights later, defeating two champions, and a warrior clad in armor similar to his own, he learned three things about his past life; he was a man, he was stronger than most, and he enjoyed drinking.
No name, no family, no love life, nor a hint of what he did for a living.
Upon reaching the edge of the bone crosses round the field, he sipped on a flask. Fire and smoke churned within his throat. His arms swelled, and he felt as if he could've bent steel like twigs.
After crossing into the fields, all the bone crosses, around a field of over a hundred meters, lit ablaze at the tip. His footsteps crunched, bones littered within the grass of every fallen warrior who failed to defeat the Champion of the Graves. He saw no champion yet, wandering the field for a few minutes, then turned back. Fire roared once he was within arm's reach of the entrance, then the ground shook.
A shadow overtook him, and he turned to see a suit of armor, at least twenty meters high, one open socket within a horned helm glowing red. On either side the corpse bearing old steel armor bat-like wings spread, spinning gusts so powerful he almost fell even with his shield raised. Center in the towering champion's breastplate was flame insignia, a sword down the middle with three rings round the hilt.
He approached the champion who wielded a massive pair of scimitars, and within just enough range swung his flail. A few chips grazed off the champion's shin guards. He crouched beneath his shield, though heavy steel blows knocked him to his back. He rolled out of the way. The champion missed him by inches, carving trenches into the earth.
On his feet he charged, but took an upper cut to his shield, knocking it from his arm. He landed on his back, and his shield flew outside the field, landing dozens of paces from the nearest cross bones. While scrambling to his feet, he swung wild. The champion growled upon a scimitar being deflected.
He kept swinging. Overhead a never-ending circle of razor steel, and the Champion paced around him with one sword low, the other high. Their eyes met, his weary with rage, the champion's lone eye ablaze. Not a single hit landed, but his foe's armor was old, and it couldn't have taken more than four, maybe five hits.
Still swinging, he backed into a blazing cross bone. The champion roared, thrusting a scimitar. He knocked it away, parried the other, then lunged forward. One leap backwards, and the champion soared above the clouds.
Close to the arena's edge, flames heating his armor, he kept focused on the clouds. Moonlight peaked for a moment, then went dark. The champion crashed down, spreading flames from one end of the field to the other.
He dashed through fire, skin stinging as he was scorched from head to toe. On a knee, the champion breathed heavy, wrapped within its tattered wings. He slammed his flail into the rear knee, shattering armor, revealing rotted flesh. Both wings then swatted him away.
While he recovered, the champion's scimitars glowed, fire blazed within its eye, and its bullhorns grew several inches. Flames raced across the ground with every swing, thrust, or flap of its wings.
He was already scorched inches death. No sense in running.
Both scimitars closed in on him, either side his waist, slicing him in half.
Eyes rolled into the back of his head, he muttered something with a mouthful of blood, mostly swearing, and promised himself he would return.
"Pathetic warrior," the Champion hissed, wings spread on either side itself, appearing like a foul angel of death. "Not even the strongest have survived these woods, ye who dare seek…"
Darkness.
A familiar place, so much so he wished he could've stayed there. No more screams, stenches, blood, or a rooster reminding him he'd failed yet again.