Arya stepped forward, shield steady, sword gleaming in the moonlight. Sharvas approached, both swords in hand, his wide frame glowing with heat and fury. The battlefield had fallen silent. Thousands of men stood still, injured, exhausted, bloodied—but every eye was fixed on the two figures standing between the war lines. This was no longer a battle of armies. This was a battle of wills.
They began to circle each other.
Sharvas tilted his head slightly, eyes unblinking, his breathing calm despite the weight of the past two days. Arya's legs were trembling ever so slightly, not from fear—but exhaustion. His mind stayed sharp, heart steady, muscles strained but alert.
With no warning, Sharvas lunged.
Arya barely raised his shield in time. The first strike crashed against it like a hammer on stone, jarring his arm to the shoulder. The second sword slashed from below. Arya jumped back, parrying the strike mid-air, barely saving his leg from being cleaved open.
The force behind Sharvas' attacks was monstrous. Each swing of his twin blades carried the weight of a seasoned warrior and the fury of a wounded lion. Arya was quicker—he had to be. He stepped in and jabbed, aiming at Sharvas' ribs. The older warrior turned his body with fluid grace, letting the blow pass, then swung again with both swords. Arya ducked, twisted, and rolled to the side.
The clash continued, echoing with steel and breath. Sparks flew when their blades met. Sharvas advanced like a storm—methodical, punishing. Arya fought like wind—never in one place for too long, striking fast, never letting himself be pinned down.
But it wasn't enough.
Sharvas landed a heavy kick to Arya's stomach. Arya stumbled back, coughing, the wind knocked out of him. His shield was cracked, his sword arm bleeding. The warriors watching clenched their fists. Dhanudanda shouted under his breath. Ashvapati narrowed his eyes.
Arya didn't fall. He spat blood, raised his shield again, and stepped forward.
"Having fun?" Sharvas growled, swinging again.
Arya didn't answer. He blocked, sidestepped, and slashed back—cutting a shallow wound across Sharvas' forearm.
Sharvas roared. The pain only made him fiercer. He rained down a series of brutal attacks. Left sword, right sword, overhead, undercut. Arya's shield splintered further, his knees buckled under the weight of each blow. But he didn't fall.
He parried a high strike and lunged for Sharvas' thigh. The blade nicked muscle. Sharvas winced but stayed upright. He spun and backhanded Arya across the face with the hilt of his sword.
Arya hit the ground hard.
The entire battlefield gasped. Some of Sharvas' men stepped forward, believing it was over.
Arya lay still for a heartbeat. Two. Three.
Then he pushed himself up.
He stood. Blood dripping from his lip, forehead bruised, arms shaking. He looked at Sharvas and raised his sword again.
Sharvas blinked. Something flickered in his eyes—respect? Confusion?
"You should've stayed down," he said.
Arya didn't respond. He rushed forward again.
This time he didn't wait to counter. He went on the attack. His strikes were not heavier, but faster, sharper, more precise. He aimed for weak points—Sharvas' shoulder, his thigh, under his ribs. He was dancing now, moving around Sharvas like water around stone.
Sharvas swung, Arya ducked.
Sharvas lunged, Arya sidestepped and sliced his side.
Blood flowed.
Sharvas roared again and charged.
Arya planted his feet and caught the charge with his broken shield and sword. It was sheer will now. Bones rattling, muscles aching, but still he pushed back.
Sharvas struck again, a downward arc.
Arya twisted and plunged his sword forward—
Straight into Sharvas' shoulder.
Sharvas dropped one of his blades.
Arya fell to his knees—but didn't let go of the sword buried in Sharvas.
Sharvas, breathing hard, looked at Arya kneeling in front of him. His remaining sword trembled in his hand.
He growled, grabbed the sword embedded in his shoulder, and yanked it out with a roar. Blood sprayed across the ground, but he didn't falter.
He didn't fall. He got angrier.
With a savage yell, Sharvas slammed his knee into Arya's chest, throwing him back. Arya rolled across the dirt, wheezing, his ribs burning. Sharvas picked up his second sword again.
The duel wasn't over.
It had just begun a new phase.
Sharvas rushed forward, fury in every step. His movements were no longer calculated—they were wild, aggressive, almost berserk. Arya tried to regain his footing, barely lifting his shield in time to deflect the furious blows raining down on him.
The air rang with the clang of steel, the grunts of pain, the gasps of men watching their leaders clash like gods.
Arya bled from his arm, his back, his thigh—but his eyes stayed focused.
Sharvas roared and slashed with both blades in a crisscross motion. Arya threw himself back just in time, landing hard but safe. He scrambled for a fallen spear, grabbed it, and spun to deflect another attack.
Now he fought with the spear in hand—quick jabs, defensive thrusts, trying to buy time, trying to find a second wind.
Sharvas roared, the sword wound in his shoulder leaking blood, but the fire in his eyes still burning.
And so they continued—blades striking, sparks flying, blood dripping onto the cracked earth beneath their feet.
Neither man giving up.
Neither man falling.
Not yet.