Zhengjia Hell

Normally, the events that went on at an outlet mall were droll, dull, and predictable. Old ladies bought Vitamin C and gifts for their bratty grandchildren, jocks looked for their girlfriends to harass, and the general public moved around without purpose. But, it was a gathering of people and the Zhengjia Plaza, more than 400,000 square meters in area, was the perfect place to start the special brand of mayhem a certain hell spawn had trademarked.

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Many people believe that everything happens for a reason-a plotted out plan that will eventually come out in the best way possible for the greatest good. Some would argue that what occured in China that day was for a reason. If that was true, it was a very poor reason.

Acheron, cyborg, killer, fighter, and warrior, had been moving non stop for the past several days on a mission of his own. It was complete, sheer coincidence that he had been in the vicinity of the slaughter when it had happened. While the one named Warsman had easily evaded the police, Acheron was a much more competent tracker, and followed the villain to a area close to boiler room 6E9. Not many witnesses around-good, it would be easier to keep track of what was going on. In his suit and cloak, it would be brutally, unbearably warm, but he was comprised of machinery. He barely felt it.

With a flip, he jumped down from his perch on the second floor to land almost fifteen feet away from Warsman. He held out his gloved hand, and in a gathering of light, two Eskrima sticks generated in his hand from the Eternal Sphere. He tossed one sideways to his open hand, and caught it.

With two quick movements, he moved into a fighting stance, and held the pose for a few seconds, one arm behind his head, frozen high. Faster than a normal human eye could see, he threw the stick forward at a incredible speed, it going for Warsman's head. He immediately followed after it, charging-once he was close enough to the target, he would swing his Eskrima twice, one strike going for the head and the other going for the stomach, the first a swing and the second a jab.

He would test the man, and see just how good a fighter he was, before adapting to the situation. He had no idea who Warsman was, and that was not to be taken lightly.

"I thought I heard something that wasn't the wind."

In the heat of the inlet hallway, Warsman felt no other presence besides his own and the eyes of a hunter. This was no ordinary hunter; he evaded Warsman's knowledge once before, when all other things were quiet. There was a flash of light and the battle began. There was to be no dialogue, just bloodshed. He was to account for the murder of the innocents even if it took until Judgment Day. This hour was theirs, to fight and to die.

"Are you here to kill me or something?" Warsman asked nonchalantly, tilting his head with a relaxing pop. "Sitting on a bench like this is really bad for a person's spine. What are these Chinese thinking?"

The latter question was aimed at the floor, which gleamed back a relfection to Warsman; the hunter had thrown something.

An Eskrima battle stick, roughly a yard in length, soared into his hearing range. A quick motion and it was in his hand, which was tugging at an already-aproaching object. Warsman rose from the bench: he had to apply El Cisne Asesino before this foe had a chance to strike openly and without mercy. Warsman balanced on his toes, blocking another Eskrima stick with his knee while outstretching his palm to guide the jabbing motion elsewhere. He thought this foe was elusive, and he had been, and his fighting skills were above average. He braced his body by slamming his foot into the linoleum floor and returned fire with a cannonball-force knee-strike aimed for the hunter's torso. This, if it connected, would plow the hunter directly into the tile wall, smashing a hole in it and possibly denting the cement underneath somewhat. Warsman would mellow if his opponent was struck, crack his neck, and assume the inverted Muay Thai stance he invented and mastered.

If his opponent proved as agile as he estimated and evaded, Warsman would watch from his stance, ready to lash out or block as the attacks came to him. This had an 80% chance of success, however, as El Cisne Asesino was more vulnerable to a sweeping technique. There was always a chance that this hunter would distract Warsman long enough for him to lose balance or slip while trying to regain footing. Either way, Warsman relished in the challenge.

The man was fast-he caught the Eskrima stick and blocked Acheron's strikes. A good gauge, at the very least, to figure out where he stood in skill. He retaliated by doing a jump-knee strike towards the cyborg's stomach, moving like he was a bullet.

Quickly, Acheron wrenched his remaining Eskrima in front of the knee. The weapon took the blunt of the blow, but snapped from the force-the attack continued forward and collided with his chest. He was knocked back, but no serious damage was done, due to the stick's block. As he approached the wall, he flipped into the air backwards, pushed off with his hands, rebounding towards the wall. From there, he pushed off the wall with his feet, the tile cracking, and soared forward towards Warsman.

He was moving fast, and in mid-dive he reached out in a full punch towards his opponent's face. His cape and cloak billowed behind him. He actually made a humming noise as the air moved around him.

The whole time during the fight, Acheron had been analysing his opponent. The man had clear super-strength, as well as reflexes. As far as a preferred fighting style went, the man seemed to use a unusual variation on the popular and deadly Muay Thai. Not someone to be taken lightly. Before coming with range of Warsman, he realized that his legs were his vulnerable spot-he was off balance and a fast and strong sweep would probably knock him to the floor. Acheron took note of this for future reference.

Warsman had been watching this man; he moved like a ghost and the cape and hood only amplified the mere whisper of his passing into a minute whistle. He raised a leg to block his hunter's incoming fist; a kick backed with serious power. He attempted to throw the hunter to the floor, but would pursue him no further. He wanted him to last as long as possible.

He noticed his inverted stance was becoming more obvious and he closed the gap between his left leg and the floor. He put his arms into a boxing guard and started to hop around slightly. He lashed out several times, randomly, sporratically, and with immense force. His knuckles began to whistle and glow with an eerie blue light. This was his energy manipulation coming into play. Plasma-based energy, the stuff lightning's made out of, would literally start leaping from his hands. There was no stopping this transaction; he was having too much fun to ignore it.

If his foe proved far too evasive or defensive for him to break, Warsman would allow him a rut in the routine of attack. His hands still glowing, he started bending his neck to fit the new battle stance. With his palms, he grasped his chin and pushed in either direction. Then he ducked back behind the wall of flesh his forearms gave the impression of and he resumed the light-footed dance.

"Tell me your name." He said before unleashing another fast and furious strike, this time with even less of a warning.

Warsman blocked Acheron's punch with a knee, and retaliated quickly. He grabbed a hold of the cyborg and knocked him to the floor. Almost as soon as he landed, the machine performed a backflip and landed on his feet, no worse for wear. He watched as the fighter changed his stance, eliminating his main technical weakness. Then, he began striking.

Acheron, utilizing his reflexes, began to duck, dodge, weave, and block the strikes. A punch for the head. He moved over a half-inch. A jab to the stomach. He caught it with two hands. A elbow to the face. Stopped with his forearm. All the while, he launched retaliatory strikes which were blocked and dodged in the same way. The two were locked in serious combat. After two seconds of strikes, the man's hands began to emit energy-and this hurt. It arced over his suit and effected his systems-pain lanced through his limbs.

A full punch went straight to his face, and, with no other option, the cyborg cleared space. He jumped back, giving himself some time. He analysed the fighting style further and further, gaining more and more information until, eventually, he would find a weak point and exploit it. It was a matter of time, but time was something that he may not have.

His foe halted for a moment, changing his stance once more. He asked a question.

"Tell me your name"

Acheron did not reply immediately. He waited, as long as possible.

"I have no name. But some like to call me Acheron", he responded in his distorted voice.

Suddenly, Warsman lashed out again, with little warning. The blow was just a bit too fast to dodge or block-it connected with Acheron's shoulder, knocking him off the ground. A portion of his upper arm was destroyed, and pain shot up his body. He would heal after a few minutes, but the battle might not last that much longer.

Using the element of surprise, and adapting to the fact that half of his arsenal of punching attacks were now useless, he twisted in the air. The blow that struck him had knocked him off the ground, but while in the air, Acheron changed his momentum, and, still spinning, launched a flying roundhouse at Warsman's head-to the side of his arms, around the brunt of his block stance.

Warsman had little visionary contact with the man called Acheron due to his overly-obsessive frontal defense. This seemed to work, but only for a while. The adaptive compulsiveness of his foe was wearing thinner each time Warsman switched his stance. He began to realize this when his hunter was almost put down with his last attack, the smell of burning blood almost acrid in the air.

"What's wrong, Acheron? The fight had just begun and you're bleeding. Not only that, but the wound stinks. How does it feel?" This was a bluff; although he wanted to cause as much pain as he could, Warsman felt this wasn't even a hiccup in the hunter's strategy.

He didn't want to utilize the Sangre Fríe just yet; he needed to use his body as much as possible. Suddenly, the hunter appeared in the corner of Warsman's left eye, releasing a torrent of muscle and skin. Warsman almost twisted his body to block it; almost. The kick struck him in the corner of his left forearm, and the pain was horrible. But it was much more tolerable than taking a sharpened boot to the temple. He grunted and opened his guard to strike Acheron in the face with a punch backed with the grotesquely hot plasma-based energy that was now swirling around his hands.

If it connected, there would be time to switch his stance again: this time to a sort of Neo-Mantis stance, with one hand near his right cheek and the other outstretched like he was going to violently grab something. His left knee would be raised and his right foot balanced on his toes. Otherwise, he would continue striking using the boxing guard as a fallback defense.

The man gave some fighting trash talk as a sort of distraction-had Acheron some higher sense of emotion, it would have been more effective. However, he still felt a certain satisfaction from seeing that his roundhouse connected, partially at the very least.

Once again, Warsman countered. He momentarily opened his guard and sent a punch sizzling with energy to Acheron's face. The cyborg analyzed this, and realized that he would no longer be able to guard against the man's blows with his hands-the most simple and efficient solution to this would be to use a weapon.

Immediately, Acheron took a pair of Nunchunks, with a reinforced chain inbetween them, from the Eternal Sphere. As he fell back to the ground from his roundhouse, he swung the weapon-held in his good hand-down on the limb that was punching. The movement made another shot of pain go through his body, but his wound was healing now. It would still be a few minutes untl it would be back to normal. Meanwhile, the Nunchuks, guided, it wrapped around the Warsman's arm, and Acheron pulled it with all his might. He spoke, quickly.

"There are six moves that can be performed from this position. Three of them kill. Two cripple. One...."

He pulled the arm towards him as hard as he could, and simultaneously lashed out with a straight on kick to Warsman's stomach. He leaned into the kick, using all of his momentum to give it more devastating power, and hopefully damage the man.

"...hurts!"

"You know nothing of pain, boy!"

As Warsman's head pierced the tile and his shoulders slumped, these were the words he spoke. As his skull broke the cement underneath it, these were the words he cried out, accented with blood and laughter. His hands gripped the edges of the immense hole produced in the industrial-quality floor and pulled him out. He shook his head and blood splattered everywhere. The inside of his skull bounced around madly and he had trouble standing for an instant, but that wore off. His helmet was intact. His right hand lifted the veil over his mouth and he spoke.

"That tickled." He said, spitting blood and a few teeth out of his mouth.

He reestablished the cloth over his mouth and assumed the fearsome Cisne Asesino, his left foot dangling a few inches above the floor. His head wasn't in the right place as his eyes lacked focus and his nose continued to seep blood into his mouth. But, consciousness was consciousness, no matter how much it hurt; it felt like he could go on for days with the adrenaline from his wounds now. Warsman knew he couldn't, but he refused to pass up a chance to keep going.

He leaped with amazing speed, came down on Acheron with a stomp, and followed with an attempt to crush his torso into a patch of fleshy snot with a barrage of knee-strikes packed with enormous speed and power: the Hyo-Jin Roh.

Acheron sized up his opponent after the hit connected. He had a high pain threshold, clearly. Blood now stained the tiled floor, and it wasn't his own. Yet.

As Warsman moved back into his common stance, Acheron took his own. He leaned back, crouching slightly, one arm held high and the other held low, a defensive posture. He had a feeling that his last strike had angered his target, and that he would press the attack. His analysis was correct yet again, but the result was not desired.

Warsman struck in a flying attack, striking Acheron's shoulder, and knocked him off balance. Following that, a knee strike to his torso devastated him-his breathing went ragged. Another knee hit him, breaking something deep down in his chest. Finally, the third came, and with no other option, Acheron attacked as fast and as hard as he could. He slipped by the next knee strike by less than an inch-with one incredibly fast and fluid motion, he launched one fist at Warsman's stomach, and the other at his throat in a point with his fingers.

His shoulder sparked, not fully healed-pain, nearly unbearable, emanated through his entire body. It was necessary, however-necessary to live. He had a backup plan in case things didn't go his way, and that was where his core strategy lied.

But would it work?

Warsman had no other way to understand what just happened: he wasn't in control; his cards were played; he lost too much blood; this isn't happening; this man isn't real; 'I am not losing!' He shook his head slightly. 'Calm down, don't use that yet. You still have a chance to kill this guy without resorting to that level of barbarity. You are not going to lose.' Warsman looked at his foe. He seemed so confident, and yet, why shouldn't he have confidence, a reason for arrogance and vanity?

He was the only one to survive the Hyo-Jin Roh for more than thirty seconds; all others succumbed to major internal organ failure and blood loss. No, there stood a man who had survived two strikes and countered the third. He wasn't even bleeding. Warsman scoffed it as luck and massaged the bloody patch of skin on his throat. The Adam's apple was gone, retreated to another part of the throat because of a foreign threat. He spat on the ground; he was still bleeding from his nose, and badly. Warsman assumed his battle stance and began to weave back and forth. His arms were constricted like in the boxing guard stance and he charged.

Ducking once, he tried to get under Acheron's radar range and go for an uppercut. However, his eyes started to radiate and even if Acheron managed to dodge, Warsman would follow his movements and open fire with lightning bolt-force heat.

'Don't lose control.'

He had bought himself some time-caused some pain. Spilt some blood. Warsman had backed off, and that was what he needed.

He faltered a bit, almost falling to one knee before he regained composure. That last sequence of attacks had done series damage to his ribs and organs. He didn't know just how bad, but he knew that it would take much longer than he had left in this fight to heal it all. The two fighters had halted, the battle clearly taking it's toll.

Warsman charged, in his other, less common stance. Acheron was prepared, and got ready to block a knee strike, but his target's short duck ruined whatever preplanned defense that the cyborg had. His uppercut almost fully connected-two of the knuckles barely missed. The machine was thrown off his feet, soaring back, to crash through a mall bench. His nunchunks were hurled from his hands. The wooden seat shattered under his weight, he hit the ground, and he slid back, his coat and suit tearing.

For a moment, he didn't stir, but rather stayed still. Finally, he pushed himself up. His coat was in tatters and his suit was shredded in certain areas-blood spilled over his clothes. His knuckles were stained crimson, and blood covered half of his mask. He stood, ragged, for a few seconds.

He held up his clenched fists. Light once more gathered around his hands, and spiked knuckles attached themselves to his fists. He held this position for a few moments, the blood dripping to the floor.

Then, he charged.

As he came near, he threw a hard punch to Warsman's face-following that, he sent a knee at the man's stomach, and after all of that, he would just throw caution to the wind and attempt a tackle. His opponent's style almost seem to hang on his balance-when he couldn't throw kicks, how well would he fare?

Acheron wanted to find out.

Warsman managed to hold onto his core for a moment, but his opponent was becoming unorthodox. Within the span of a few attacks, he had tackled the larger figure into the main hall and managed to dent a nearby fountain with Warsman's spine as a wrecking ball. Warsman found a loose brick and decided to shove it at his foe's face. If that worked, maybe he could keep him at a distance using the jostled-loose architecture behind him.

Warsman was bitter; his back ached, his eyes were getting blurry, and his nose kept bleeding. At last, he shouted, "Screw it," and ripped his helmet off. His face was beaten, scarred, and every time he would look in the mirror he stared. It seemed unreal how much damage it had accumulated. Warsman took a thumb and finally snapped his nose back into place. Almost instantly, it swelled and refused to bleed anymore. He rolled his neck and threw his helmet to the floor. It smashed through the tile; Warsman was using weighted clothing. He smirked and rubbed his eyebrow before spitting on the ground.

"I'm not taking the rest off. I want this to be fun for as long as possible." He almost laughed.

Reaching into the fountain at his left, he spread the water apart and reached around. A few seconds later, a loud crack occurred and the fountain became just a pile of organized rock; the water was shut off and it was overflowing; in his hand, Warsman held a steel pipe. He whistled Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen during his methodical advance upon Acheron; if the guy moved just an inch in any direction, Warsman would instantly rush at him with the pipe, unleashing it as part of a barrage of attacks. If he was starting to use street tactics, it only seemed fair to fight fire with fire.

The tackle worked, but as soon as it did, Warsman found a way around it. Just as Acheron was cocking his fist back to smash it into his opponent's face, a brick crashed into his. He was knocked back several steps, one of his eyes now bleeding profusely. His white and gray mask now had a growing red stain on it. He tried to look about, but his vision, in all modes, was distorted, blurry.

Warsman had been saying something, but Acheron didn't hear it. He heard the noise of something cracking and breaking, but his vision was still covered in red. He stumbled a step back. He saw the form of something coming closer, and instinctively blocked.

This action saved him from having his head caved in, as he guarded against the pipe. But several more strikes came, each knocking him further and further back across the hallway. Finally, his vision began to focus, just in time to watch the pipe hit his face. He was knocked off his feet again, and flew back, through the glass entrance of an electronics store. The display shattered, and he crashed through a aile of TVs and Laptops, the sound of breaking glass and sparking electricity ringing out.

He pushed himself up with one hand, aching all over, his face half covered in blood. Instantly, he grabbed a few of the shards of glass, three to be exact, and hurled them at his target. His suit was stained red in several splotches. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a wooden chair for employees to sit on.

"You want to fight dirty? Fine", he mumbled, gripping the chair by it's leg. He heaved it up easily, and held it with both hands, rushing at Warsman and swinging, hoping that the glass was an adequate distraction for the main attack. As he neared, he swing it down with both hands as hard as he could.

Their fight carried on into an electronics department, and from the speed Acheron was falling, even that wouldn't last too long. Acheron was still conscious, however, and Warsman limped to finish him off; his left leg was overused and the muscles began to contract. Basically, it was throwing a tantrum. Warsman grunted at the surmounting pain and bolted into a half-assed run further into the store. Suddenly, though, Acheron proved more underhanded than ever and tossed a few bloodstained shards of glass at his pursuer.

One caught him in the left thigh and a second across the face. He knocked the third one into pieces using the pipe as a brutish baseball bat. He yelled and tore the first shard of glass out of his leg, dashing it into the ground; a gout of blood followed. He didn't have to wait long, though; Acheron was waiting with a chair in tow with his fists. Warsman's bare head clashed with industrial lumber and leather; and although his rock-hard skull won the battle, he bled profusely and stumbled. In a blind strike, he threw the pipe at Acheron; his head was spinning and his feet were rubber.

"Focus...focus...you're okay...focus..."

Cleaning the blood out of his eyes, his blurry vision restored to about a fourth of its previous quality, he made out a moving blur and ferociously charged to tackle it through the reception desk.

The chair's splinters went flying everywhere in a wave. In slow-motion, they spun and twirled around for seconds in the air before hitting the ground. Blood sprayed from the impact, adding even more red to the surroundings and the combatants.

Acheron backed off for a moment, healing from the strain of his last attack. Because of this, he saw the pipe coming, and sidestepped it, letting it slip by. However, as he was looking back at Warsman, the man had already begun his charge. He slammed into the cyborg's midsection and knocked him off his feet, carrying him further than his intended target-he didn't just go through the reception desk. They went through the whole damn wall.

They emerged on the other side, covered in wood chips and plaster, smashing into a liquor store. More and more glass. The sound of it hitting and colliding with other objects and shattering was defeaning. Acheron was pinned down by Warsman, and the two had slid a bit.

Reacting as fast as he could, knowing that he wouldn't last long in this position, he took a page from his opponent's book. He reached and gripped a largem and very expensive, bottle of wine, and swung it overtop at Warsman's head. Assuming that hit, he would slash the broken remains across the man's eyes, going for a blinding effect. Anything to win the fight-both men were fighting dirty now.

Acheron's strike worked, clearly dealing some serious pain and damage to Warsman. However, there was a fault in his last attack-and for some reason unbeknowst to him, his opponent lit the alcohol on fire. It spread easily, and soon the whole liquor store was up in a blaze.

Acheron was not worried so much about the fire and the heat as he was the explosions that would be tearing the entire department into pieces. He began to stumble away, Warsman now his secondary priority-as he did so, a aisle exploded to his side, knocking him hard into the wall. The wall caved in, a crater left, pieces of brick and wood crumbling down. Acheron slumped down to the floor, dazed, his ears ringing.

He gazed around, stunned-he saw his opponent exit the fire. Both men were bleeding profusely in many different areas, and their clothes were torn. Acheron was stained red in so many places his costume might as well have been the colour. He pushed himself up-behind him, another explosion knocked debris past him, a wave of burning air floating by his head. He limped forward, following his enemy. In his hand, there was a glow, and his katana appeared. His most trusted weapon, the blade was covered in a thin layer of energy to prevent it from breaking and to make it extra sharp.

He limped out of the fire, the blaze spreading across the mall to other departments. Overhead, the sprinklers turned on, raining down water. It splashed off of him and his sword. This lessened his field of vision-all he saw was the muzzle flash. The bullet slammed into his leg, above the knee. He fell to one knee, a spray of blood flying out and mixing with the water on the ground, fading away. The pain was excrutiating, now, all of it coming together-his chest, his face, his shoulder, the burns, his knee. So much blood.

The next bullet fired. He swung his sword up, using his reflexes to the best of his ability-he blocked the bullet. A spray of sparks shot off from the collision, and the bullet richocheted into the air. It hit one of the sprinklers, smashing it off-the water's spray was uneven and erratic directly above him. He could see better.

So, he had a better bead on his enemy now. He brought his arm back, readying it-then, he swung it forward, and after the swing in the air, a thin wave of red energy shot out from it. It sliced through the next bullet, cutting it directly in half. It carved through the water, drops flying everywhere. Finally, it came upon Warsman.

Acheron couldn't muster up much more strength to do anything further.

The smell of intermingling blood and fire and water was intoxicating; sickeningly so, and Warsman chocked back a gagging sensation. Through the water and his own delirium, Warsman beheld his Grim Reaper, come to harvest the soul it desired for so long. 'Blood loss is getting to you...it's just Acheron...' Warsman still panicked: Acheron had a sword coming down at the larger man's cranium. 'Move you idiot!' Warsman couldn't; his legs were stones and the chair felt so comfortable to the numb body it supported.

Somehow, he mustered enough nervous commandments that he slumped off to the right; the sword pierced his armor and dug into his shoulder. Blood seeped and shot outward; the momentum wasn't enough to severe anything important, but the pain made Warsman become almost wooden for a moment, like he didn't feel anything at all. His eyes stared into the abysmal face of his opponent and he forced his lips to curl into a crude smile.

"It's...funny...isn't it?" Warsman said as the blade was pushed deeper into his flesh. His body contorted on that flank and made a grotesque noise that made Warsman's spine quiver; he never heard that sound before.

He smirked wider; his chest was glowing and his armor began to melt into a pool on the floor, causing the melting pot of gore to hiss and sizzle.

"Setting the world on fire is easier than you think..."

At this range, a plasma-based energy attack to the lower midsection was fatal...but at this point, Warsman began to wonder if his foe was mortal at all. He pondered this even as the swell of heat and light erupted from his chest with the fury of a volcano and a thunderbolt.

Warsman was clearly in serious pain. Blood was practically spraying from his new wound like a fountain. Back behind Acheron, the fire raged, and another explosion rocked the mall. By now, the whole main hallway was burning, and the sprinklers were on in all sections of the complex. Warsman said something that the cyborg didn't hear.

The man's chest started to glow, and the water pouring from the roof sizzled and evaporated when it landed on his armor and clothes. His opponent's armor melted away to the floor. He said something.

"Setting the world on fire is easier than you think..."

Acheron responded, in his strained, ruined voice.

"You'll burn down before the world does. I'll make sure of it", and he was started to rush the man for the last time when a blast erupted from Warsman's body. Instinctively, Acheron raised his katana to block-his weapon hummed, glowing a dull red, easily visible in the water. The blast slammed into his sword, which obsorbed most of the impact-however, he was lifted off the ground, and sent flying backwards into the liqour store.

Then, with almost the sound of shattering glass, his sword's energy field broke-the weapon cracked just as the blast faded away. Acheron flew through the store, and hit the outermost wall, which had been weakened from the blaze. Immediately after he passed through the burning store, explosions tore it apart. He flew out of the mall, landing amongst a cluster of  trees, his body steaming. His sword shattered on impact.

He looked up as the mall started collapsing entirely. Massive sections of it came down at a time, spraying smoke and fire out. The battle had lasted longer than he thought it had-it was darker in the day. Clouds overhead blocked out the sun, the world turning gray as the massive blaze picked up on the rubble, more of the mall shuttering and falling to pieces. Crumbling.

The cyborg painfully picked himself up. His suit was a mess-torn, bloodied, burned, and soaked. Acheron himself was battered and wounded, bleeding all over and had light burns. He had definitely suffered some internal damage as well, both from the explosions and Warsman's own brutal attacks.

And what of Warsman? Had he survived those explosions, had he already got out? Acheron doubted that the man was dead. He was far too resilient and resourceful for that to happen. And what he was changing into at the end, the very end of the battle....was not entirely human.

He limped, and picked up the two separate, broken pieces of his sword, and pieces them together. He would reforge it, stronger than ever, for the day that another battle like this would happen. He would make himself stronger, through harsher training, through more battles, more combat. The day would come when he would face Warsman again. And that day would be the real battle. Only one would walk out alive that day.

Acheron was sure of it.

He departed, moving slowly, as the police scrambled away from the fire, themselves sure that no one had survived.....