Defeat Or Victory, In The Arena

Watching as the bandits crossed the first half of the ring of corpses, Cyrus and Imran waited with bated breath. Both were ready to give the signal of defeat, so they could save their lives, but both did not wish to do so until they were absolutely sure of their gambit failing. Imran wanted to succeed because he had invested so much into this already and wanted to maximize his benefits while Cyrus' innate curiosity showed even in his other half as a slightly maniacal obsession with getting and witnessing results.

The bandit swarm did not care for either of their hopes or desires and instead fervently pushed forward as their god had ordered them. In their insane delusions, all they could see in front of them were malicious and evil demon spawn that was the progeny of the same demons that had tortured them endlessly in so many varied and cruel ways.

As they began to pass the center mark of the trap, the area where if all the bandits crossed both Cyrus and Imran would have admitted defeat, a change occurred. Simultaneously, every single undead broke through the pathetic amount of earth concealing them and leapt out onto the ground. The six undead stood there motionless as they looked towards their prey with their black eyes, an eerie an ominous air shrouding them. Not only were their eyes deformed, in fact, but their veins had turned black and the skin had obvious signs of corrosion and decay. No blood flowed nor did their muscles seem to be functional; it was a mystery as to what was moving them but move they did. With perfect synchronization, they all took a stance and charged towards the surprised bandits with nothing but the sound of their rotted feet hitting the ground.

"They…waited until the bandits were in the perfect position before arising from the ground? Not only that but they retained their knowledge of swordsmanship… while their raw strength and speed has risen drastically. Some level of intelligence and a large increase in their base capabilities, my experiment worked!" thought Cyrus with morbid fascination.

"If only I could control them somehow, then over time I could create stronger and stronger undead… eventually having an army all to myself. What use then would I have for tools that could betray me with their unstable emotions at any time, I would have a perfectly loyal all powerful army at my side…" thought Cyrus, with his imagination running wild.

Soon he was interrupted from his thoughts, as he witnessed an even more unbelievably interesting sight. The undead that he had created were in the process of massacring each and every bandit that their swords could reach. It was not as if the bandits were defenseless either, it was clear that before their descent into insanity they had been an ordered and somewhat professional group. This did them no good against the undead, however, as any single undead was far stronger than any single member of the bandit rabble with only the 'demigods' and 'god' in the back a match for them. The bandits, in their religious fervor, charged the undead that had surrounded them, trading many of their lives to land blow after blow on the undead. The undead had been stabbed, slashed, and even skewered time and time again; alas, the insane bandits did not have the required state of mind to properly aim for their heads or perhaps they simply did not know.

Not only that, but with each life the undead took they would grow visibly stronger. One even had its arm cut off, only for it to reach down and pick it up with uncanny agility and proceed to reattach it while killing a bandit with its leg bone. Meanwhile the other undead had been slicing through so many foes that their original swords had started to chip and break, they simply dropped their weapons and began snapping the necks of their foes instead. With the sight of impossibly strong foes, undead at that, snapping the heads off their allies… the rest of the bandits began to come out of their insane religious fervor and start to flee like beaten dogs. Sadly for them it was far, far too late. Even though the elite bandits and their leader had already sprung into action, bolting towards their allies in order to personally fight the undead and perhaps salvage the situation… once more it was far, far too late. The undead simply reached down and pulled the spines out of nearby corpses. With a shake of the spine it went from a somewhat flexible to a sharp and rigid spear with some mystical means not understood by anyone present, except perhaps the Legionnaire. Then with one more deft motion the 12 spear spines were launched towards the fleeing bandits. 12 spears were launched followed by 12 bodies hitting the earth. 12 spears were launched once more which were once again followed by 12 bodies hitting the floor. Each and every spear hitting their mark each time, not due to any technique, but simply due to the sheer amount of force behind each throw. As evidenced by the messy pulp the skewered bandits had turned into, the bandits that got their heads exploded, or by those pinned to the ground screaming in pain completely unable to move as the spears pierced deep in both them and the ground.

With that done, there was nothing but silence. No more screeching, wailing, or even sounds of terror and the slight plops of feces hitting the floor. Even the running 'demigods' and 'god' were stunned into stopping for a moment, at the sight of the undead slaying 24 people with a mere two volleys.

With those last 24 sounds, the entire surge of non-elite bandits had been annihilated. Cyrus looked upon the ground, now finally able to count the bandits as they were forever motionless. He counted 40 total.

While the entire arena was now silent, it was not without things to look at. In real time the corpses of the bandits were decaying rapidly for no known reason. What could be seen, however, was that the skin of the 6 undead was quickly rotting as well. It soon became obvious that they were not weakening, but instead that they were merely also consuming their own flesh for strength. Their eyes soon hollowed and within a faint glow could be seen, its origin and purpose unknown.

There was one group that did not wish to find out though, the surviving bandits. While they may have been delusional, they had enough sense to figure out that if they allowed the undead to continue their transformation it would surely not be any good for them, no matter what it did. Once more they charged, this time without any insane yelling or the like, but quietly and quickly. Fast they approached the undead who immediately reacted to the new oncoming sources of, presumably, delicious essences to consume. With a speed that matched the elite bandits, some undead even exceeding it, they also charged towards their meals. The undead that were unarmed either bent down and picked up a weapon from the ground, if not they simply removed one of their arms and with the same method as the spine spear they turned it into a strong weapon.

The two sides clashed, with the difference in capabilities apparent from the get go. With little suspense or fanfare, the bandits were almost immediately overwhelmed. From the one clash of the two, it was clear that the undead were superior to the bandits. Regretful the bandits might be with the fact they allowed such monstrosities to become so strong in the first place, it did nothing to help their situation.

What ensued was a life or death struggle on the part of the bandits, of which they had no time to consider anything or think anything as they put forth everything they had… the entire weight of all that they have lived and experienced put forth in this very moment, all for their survival. Within just the first few exchanges, one of the elite bandits had been slain and greedily absorbed by the undead. He died quick, not even realizing his mistake or even having time to reconsider his life decisions up to this point. Nevertheless, the quick death of the first bandit resulted in the start of a hellish cycle, with one undead assisting the other to kill even more of the elite. All was not lost, however, as the same happened on the opposite side of the battle line. The bandits had originally outnumbered the undead after all; with a half-Immunis on their side as well. Although it was only slightly slower than the undead, they too had properly slain one of the undead as well. This resulted in the battle coalescing towards the center of the line in a battle so intense that even the thought of surviving had long fled the minds of the bandit only trying to at least take down their damned enemy down with them.

Quickly, the two sides took the lives…or undeath… of the other and moved to their next target. The end result: was that of the original 8 bandits only 4 remained and of the 6 undead only two remained. The next problem: much to the despair of the bandits, these last two undead were freaks of nature. It was not immediately apparent but the remaining undead were different than before. Visually, it was easy to see that all their flesh had fallen off them leaving naught but their skeleton. Instinctually, however, it was a different story as the bandits could feel a sense of dread and instinctual fear towards whatever it was that was in front of them. Not only that, but upon closer inspection one could see a dim glow emanating from where their eyes used to be. The bandits were left with little time to consider their feelings and ruminations as to the true nature of their foes as the undead moved into action at once. What followed was a dreadful fight for the side of the bandits, as they were easily overpowered. In an act of immense sacrifice, the last two bandit elites sacrificed themselves, so full of spite for their enemy that they did not even hesitate, just so that their leader could behead one of the undead. Now faced with a one on one, the half-Immunis looked towards the last undead with a grim face.

"I am a god…a god… a god... I will not die here…I will win and be free of the demons once and for all" mumbled the bandit leader, again and again and again.

The two sides clashed, one silent except for the sound of bones eerily moving and the other mumbling an insane mantra of self-hypnosis without end. If only by fooling oneself would the world follow suit. Alas, the world was cruel and did not bend to the will of a delusional man.

Once more the same story played out as the bandit leader was horribly outmatched in strength and speed. Nevertheless, he was able to hold on by making expert use of his superior knowledge of sword forms and a few techniques he had picked up as a reward for his long service to his former employer. With this he was able to drag out the fight longer than a few exchanges, using his full physical and mental strength to barely avoid death again and again.

Even so, he was still on the back foot and even just a fraction of a second of lacking focus would end with him dead. If he was a hundredth of a second slower, he was dead. If he gripped his sword with the wrong level of force, he was dead. If he blinked, he was dead. As the one in the midst of combat, he knew how impossible his situation was more than anyone.

Making a last second gamble, he put his entire being into one last parry. He expertly used the edge of his blade to strike the flat of his enemy's sword, giving him the immediate advantage in how sturdy its defense could be…regardless of how impossibly strong it was. The undead responded by letting go of his weapon and grabbing the bandit leader's sword with his own hand, making full use of the fact that he was an undead and it mattered not if his hand was sliced through or not. While one arm was stopping the sword, the other army reached for the bandit's neck like a flash of lightning. What the undead did not expect, however, was that the bandit would already be smashing a mace towards its skull. With a loud crunch, and the very last vestiges of the bandits physical and mental capabilities, the undead's skull was smashed into bits. With the unfathomable and terrifying enemy defeated, the bandit fell to his knees and cried out in delight,

"I AM A GOD, I WILL NOT BE DEFEATED! I AM ETERNAL! PRAISE BE TO ME!!!!!" while crying in pure joy the entire time.

Who knows what torture the bandit went through to become so broken, so depraved and heretical; but, he would certainly not be able to tell the tale to anyone as Cyrus made sure of that with his next move. Using what little strength he had left, he sent two of his prized flying knives right into the throat of the rejoicing bandit. Shocked, terrified, and in quite a lot of pain the bandit held one hand to his throat and another for his weapon. With great effort he stood up once more, walking towards Cyrus with pain and resentment in his eyes. Step by step he walked, as his lips turned blue and his eyes began to fade. He crossed the distance slowly but surely, making it within a foot of Cyrus, who was coldly watching the dying man's struggle. With a swing of his hand he brought the mace down onto his foe, hoping to at least die together. A last desperate blow the bandit struck, one that was doomed to never reach from the start. Imran sliced through the bandit's arm with his glaive, standing protectively by Cyrus looking at the bandit with mixed emotions. The bandit, barely lucid due to his loss of blood and lack of air, looked at his now armless stump before looking back at Cyrus once more with something that perhaps resembled hatred. With one last painful gurgle, perhaps an attempt at a scream, the bandit fell to the ground with a thud where he laid dead.

With that last body hitting the floor, the fight was over. Victory, to Cyrus and Imran.