The Baphomet's breath came in ragged bursts, each exhale smoking through the gashes Eliakim's corrosion had left in its hide.
And then—
It laughed.
A sound like iron chains snapping underwater.
Its cracked flesh began to seal, but not with new skin—its wounds filled with burning embers. The rot Beelzebub's power had sown was pushed out in wisps of black vapor, falling away as harmless ash. The beast's fur burned away, revealing skin of molten bronze laced with cracks of searing crimson.
The scythe, half-eaten by decay, was thrown aside with contempt.
The Baphomet raised its clawed hands. The bronze surface split open and from its forearms sprouted jagged obsidian blades, each glowing at the edges as if fresh from a forge. Its horns curved higher, sharpening into wicked spears that dripped molten metal.
"Adaptation," Eliakim muttered, narrowing his eyes. "Of course you'd have a trick for this."
The monster roared—not in anger this time, but challenge.
It came at him in a blur.
Without the scythe's long reach, the fight was closer, hotter, more savage. The air shimmered from the heat pouring off its body. Every strike it threw was a hammer blow, its molten blades leaving trails of scorched air that seared the edges of Eliakim's coat.
The Corrosion Blade hissed, but its venom couldn't cling to the superheated armor; the poison burned away before it could sink in. Every successful slash was met with the same frustrating hiss—acid evaporating into nothing.
He ducked beneath a sweeping strike and kicked off a pillar, flipping behind it just as the obsidian blades carved it in half.
Too hot. Too fast.
The shadows still answered his call, but now the heat bled into them. The veil was thinner, the concealment less complete. Even hidden, the beast could feel him. Smell him. Hunt him.
Chains rattled against his wrist. The other treasures—silent until now—shifted like restless animals. Power coiled at the edge of his reach, whispering in voices only he could hear.
The Baphomet lunged again, and this time Eliakim didn't dodge.
He stepped into the attack.
The molten blade screeched against the Corrosion Blade's edge, sparks spilling like meteor trails. He twisted the lock, driving his knee into the beast's plated ribs. The impact cracked the bronze, exposing raw ember-flesh beneath. The heat licked at his skin, blistering it instantly, but he didn't pull back.
Instead, he let the shadows spill from him—not to hide, but to smother.
The null-light of the Sigil surged over the crack, quenching the glow for a heartbeat. The Baphomet froze, startled by the sudden cold in its burning core.
That heartbeat was all he needed.
The Corrosion Blade plunged in, its venom finally taking root where the heat could not burn it away. The beast screamed—a sound like a mountain splitting—and lashed out wildly, claws carving trenches in the arena floor.
But the decay was slower now. This wouldn't end with a single lucky strike.
Eliakim backed away, breathing hard, skin steaming from the heat, and raised the blade again.
"Second round," he said through gritted teeth. "Let's finish this."
The Baphomet's horns lowered, obsidian blades rising in a guard stance unlike its previous brute force charges. Now it was fighting like a duelist. Like a hunter.
And the dusk-lit arena became a crucible.