Charles stumbled backwards as his shield was torn from his grip, the steel kite skidding across the floor like it was no more than a children’s toy. He gritted his teeth, trying to suppress his howls of pain; never had he thought that having the crowds cheer for his opponent would be a good thing. 

His opponent was a mountain of a man they called Nelson. His arms were thicker than tree trunks, not to mention how big his legs were. He was bald, with scars all over his face and a menacing grin dominating his features. The weapon he wielded was less hammer and more cinderblock on a stick; a block of stone that had just crunched into Charles’ shield, the resulting shockwave obliterating the bones in his arm completely. He shuddered to think what would have happened to him if he hadn’t raised his shield in time. 

“This is the champion of Ishtar?” Nelson roared at a woman sitting on a throne high above the crowds, beating his bare chest with his free hand. “The weakest man in Rastre could pummel his body into red paste in a mere five minutes!” 

Charles looked up to see the woman, the Queen of Ishtar. Her expression remained stoic, unchanging, radiating silent confidence despite this early setback. He turned back to Nelson, who had turned his back to him, showboating for the crowd. Charles stood up straight, letting his destroyed arm dangle beside him like an unused jacket sleeve, his one good arm hefting his sword, giving it a twirl. “Five minutes, huh?” 

Nelson turned, that smug, arrogant grin growing even wider. “Aye, that’s right, weakling. Five minutes.” He walked slowly towards him, dragging his hammer and effortlessly carving a groove into the stone floor of the colosseum. 

“What a coincidence,” Charles breathed, crouching low to the floor. “It’ll only take me five seconds to kill you.” 

A small twitch of annoyance crossed Nelson’s face before he raised the hammer, bringing it down as hard as he could towards Charles’ head. He pushed off the ground, strafing out of the way and feeling a quake beneath his feet as the hammer struck, cracks snaking outwards from the centre of the impact. The shifting earth made him lose his footing, and with speed that Charles did not expect from a man his size, Nelson had already launched a second swing, the hammer arcing towards his side. He leapt backward as fast as he could, but his arm lagged behind, and the hammer struck flesh. A flash of horrendous pain burst through his body, and he spun twice in the air, landing on his back, his head slamming into the ground. 

The ringing in his ears was punctuated with the sounds of the roaring crowd and Nelson’s hideous laughter as he walked up to him, looming over him like a hunter admiring his kill. Charles’ vision swam, his senses all dulled, yet he vaguely felt his sword still grasped in his hand, as well as the gob of spit that just landed on his face. 

“Five seconds, aye?” Nelson chuckled, hefting the hammer again and bringing it down before Charles could even think to move. It slammed into the ground, and his eyes widened in shock – but not from pain. He couldn’t feel anything, but when he turned his head to see, the hammer had pulverized his left arm into nothing more than a red stain on the colosseum floor. 

That shocked his senses back into action. 

Adrenaline flooding his body and blood spurting from his shoulder, he jumped up, slamming the hilt of his sword into Nelson’s nose. He stumbled backwards with a shout, almost dropping his hammer. 

One. 

Not letting up, Charles dashed forward, ducking under the wild swing of the hammer Nelson threw in his panic. 

Two. 

He got behind the mountainous man, and with a swing of his blade, sliced through one of his Achilles tendons, his next swing severing the other. 

Three. 

Nelson fell onto his knees, dropping his hammer, and Charles raised the sword, plunging it down through his spine. 

Four. 

He circled around to face Nelson, more than pleased to see that the arrogant smirk had finally vanished. In its place was a visage of sheer hatred, his breathing ragged, blood oozing from his nose and mouth. The tip of Charles’ sword had pierced through Nelson’s sternum, skewering him like a pig for roasting. 

“Five seconds,” he muttered. Nelson’s eyes fluttered closed, his body collapsing to the side in a lifeless heap. Charles let out a long-awaited sigh of relief as the rush began to ebb, giving way to an encroaching blackness at the edges of his vision. He looked up once more to the Queen above, who bestowed a brief nod of gratitude upon him for his service to her kingdom. With his last reserve of strength, he bowed as low and as long as he could, before the darkness finally claimed him.