Date: February 21, 543 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The cry that tore from Datuk's chest was not like a human sound. It was a primal, animal roar, in which rage, pain, and something else were mixed — ancient, deep, something that had slept in his blood since the day he first picked up an axe. The cry echoed across the arena, bounced off the black walls, and it seemed the very stone shuddered.
Then energy erupted from him.
Not the smooth, flowing kind that Skopid gave. Not the hot, untamed kind that fueled the Spirit of the Berserker. It was something else — dense, heavy, it poured from his body like lava from a volcano's mouth. The air around Datuk trembled, hummed, and the black stone slabs under his feet cracked.
Ulvia, standing in the breach, recoiled. Her ice arm, so cold and steady a moment ago, suddenly broke out in a cold sweat. She felt that power — it pressed on her mind, made her Vessel contract, her heart beat faster. This was not the energy of a Pillar. This was something greater.
Rosh, pressed against the wall, raised his head. His mismatched eyes widened, and even through the pain, through the blood covering his face, surprise flickered in them. He saw Datuk changing — not outwardly, but inwardly, on a level beyond ordinary sight.
Datuk didn't notice them. He stood over Sobra's body, gripping his axe, his hands trembling. Not from fatigue — from the rage that had built inside him, slowly, inexorably, and now burst forth, sweeping everything in its path.
"Sobra…" he whispered, and his voice held nothing but emptiness.
Then the emptiness filled.
The energy erupting from him began to change its structure. It was no longer just force — it was taking shape, taking voice. Somewhere deep inside, where his Spirit of the Berserker lived, something was happening for which he had no name. The Spirit was not just awakening — it was evolving, being reborn, becoming something new, more complex, and more dangerous.
Datuk felt it. Instead of the familiar, blind rage that clouded his eyes and demanded blood, calm came. Cold, clear, it was like ice sealing a lake after a long winter.
*"Spirit of the Battle Echo,"* flashed through his mind, and the name came not from outside — it was born within, as a revelation, as knowledge that had always been there but waited for its hour.
He raised his head.
The Herald with the spear stood on his arena, beyond the breach. The Herald with the swords stood motionless in the center of this arena, his two blades lowered. They looked at Datuk — or pretended to look — and in their featureless faces there was neither fear nor surprise. Only expectation.
Datuk slowly turned to Ulvia.
"Take care of Sobra," he said, and his voice was quiet, even, without a trace of emotion. "Or at least his body. And stay out of the way."
Ulvia wanted to object, but the words stuck in her throat. She looked into his eyes — green, bright, but now there was nothing in them but calm, icy resolve. She nodded.
"We understand," she replied.
She retreated to the wall where Sobra lay and knelt beside him. Her ice arm, still white and frosty, rested on the bear's blood-soaked fur.
Rosh, staggering, came to her. He couldn't speak, but his mismatched eyes said everything. He would sit beside her. He would help. In whatever way he could.
Datuk turned to the enemies.
He no longer felt pain or fatigue. The Spirit of the Battle Echo pulsed in his veins, and every movement, every heartbeat, every breath resonated within him as a wave of power. He stepped forward — and the world around him slowed.
The Herald with the swords raised his blades. The Herald with the spear drew back his weapon to strike. They were going to attack simultaneously — from both sides, leaving him no chance to dodge.
But Datuk was already moving.
He didn't run — he was simply there. Beside the Herald with the spear. Skopid, enhanced by the new spirit, worked at its limit, and his body moved faster than ever. The axe traced an arc, and the blade sheared off the Herald's left arm.
The Herald with the spear didn't even have time to cry out. His left arm, severed at the elbow, fell onto the black stone, and from the stump gushed white dust — thick, glowing, it flooded the floor, hissed, evaporated. The spear, clutched in his fingers a moment ago, fell after it, and the clang of metal on stone rang like a funeral bell.
The Herald retreated. His featureless face seemed to contort — not from pain, but from incomprehension. He hadn't expected to be struck so quickly. Hadn't expected to lose an arm.
Datuk didn't finish him. He turned to the second enemy.
The Herald with the swords stood a few paces away. His blades were raised, and he, unlike his comrade, had managed to react. He had seen how Datuk moved, and understood — this dwarf was no longer the same as a moment ago.
"Neither of you leaves here alive," said Datuk, and there was no threat in his voice. Only a promise.
He stepped forward, and the Herald with the swords stepped back. For the first time, the white figure took a step not to regroup — but to flee.
Datuk gave him no time. The axe traced another arc, and the blade met two swords. The clang was so loud that Ulvia's ears rang, and Rosh, pressed against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut.
The Herald with the swords held his ground. But his hands trembled.
Datuk stepped back, assessing the situation. Two Heralds — one wounded, armless, spearless; the other whole. He could finish them now, in one rush. But he didn't hurry.
"You killed my friend," he said, and for the first time in this fight, steel entered his voice. "For that, you will pay."
He raised his axe, and crimson-black flame flared around the blade.
The Herald with the spear, staggering, tried to raise his remaining hand to summon a new weapon. But Datuk didn't allow it. He was there again, and his axe, tracing a short arc, sank into the white figure's chest. Not deep — just a few inches. But enough to make the Herald lose his balance and collapse to his knees.
"You're next," said Datuk, turning to the Herald with the swords.
The white figure stepped back again. His swords were raised, but their movement lacked its former confidence.
Datuk grinned. There was no mirth in his grin — only the cold, predatory joy of a hunter who has cornered his prey.
"The fight's only beginning," he said and stepped forward.