Ozymandias continued to beat down on him relentlessly, smacking on the steel of his sword, sending intense reverberations down it, slowly wearing him down, satisfied with such minimal progress.
"HMPH!" Ozymandias put all of his power into an upper-cut, sensing that Mane was weakened. With the battering that Mane had taken, he was slower than he had ever been, he barely caught sight of the strike as it came his way and with a weak lack of authority, he managed to put his sword between him and the fist.
But there was no strength to support his blade. His arms had gone numb and his muscles refused to respond. The revived king sent him flying a good distance. It was only the hard face of the rocky walls that brought him to a halt. They cracked beneath him as he smashed into them, as did his ribs. Fragments of bone pierced his organs and a river of dark blood left his mouth.
"Heh…" he breathed weakly, his hands shaking. Again, he was brought so low. In less than a week, he had been delivered two crushing defeats by two different men after he had not lost a single fight in nearly twenty years. He was hailed as an undefeated hero, a slayer of monsters, but that he had merely faced the right opponents. When compared against true warriors, he was nothing, just a man with a big sword as the whole world had mocked him to be.
The children shouted their encouragement behind him, but he had not the heart to make out the words that they said, he focused his attention entirely on the man that slowly approached him. A man that did not even wear armour, or even shoes, only a red loincloth covered his waist.
"Respect for the sword you wield," Ozymandias said, "a great warrior must wield a weapon that no one else can… Alas, it would seem, in this modern world, you have gone soft. The chevalar that met me centuries ago were far your superior! Not to mock you, for you had talent, but you were satisfied with a meagre strength. Repent for the sin of mediocrity in your next life."
He raised up his right hand, clasping his chakram tight. He took the time to line up the strike perfectly with Mane's neck, intending to decapitate him in one blow.
The strike came for him and Mane closed his eyes to receive it. A shudder of shock passed over his body, as metal met metal.
…And yet, Mane was still alive. He peeked open his eyes in confusion, wondering who had saved him from a certain death.
And there, he found, not Ermos, nor any great warrior… He only found his own sword, wielded by his own hand, defiantly holding onto life for all he had.
Ozymandias wore a baffled look on his face, marred by irritation as he failed to appreciate Mane's stubborn resistance. It was a feeling that Mane shared. He thought he had been ready for death. He'd lost the fight, that much was clear. He couldn't even move. It was a wonder he was still alive with the number of broken bones and internal bleeding he had, yet, his body moved on without him, struggling to hold onto life. He could not understand it.
"…Futile," Ozymandias spat in disgust, "you dishonour yourself," he aimed another blow at Mane and again Mane's arm moved by its own accord, saving him from an instant death, but hardly managing to deal with the blow at all. It was still a weak hand that held his sword and each blow rattled him more than the last. Even as his body tried, he was pushed closer and closer towards the inevitable death.
"Why…" Mane asked himself, not understanding his own actions. What was it that he clinged to? Why was it so important that he stayed alive?
A vision flashed through his head, a vision of the past. A man with a single arm, fighting bitterly against the six ruddy men that surrounded him. The fear, the anger, it was all brought back at once. He hid under the table as he watched his father fight to the death. On that day, he learned a lesson, the most important lesson his father could ever teach him.
Berserk, that's what his father went. He showed him the strength of anger. He'd lost his sword arm to war and decades of bitter anger had built up inside of him. When those bandits came looking for his life and his possessions, he met them with rage and fought till there was nothing left inside of him. Every single one of them died at his hand, before he too slowly bled out and left the world. The history of the Rockwind men. A family of berserkers.
"Strength…" Mane said, gritting his teeth, feeling the rage build up inside him, "I need to get stronger!" He roared at the top of his lungs, surprising even himself.
"DIE!" Ozymandias roared in irritation, swinging his death-blow at his head with a ruthless hammer fist.
With bloodshot eyes, Mane met the blow. He gritted his teeth and growled like an animal, steaming the air with his breath. He did not falter under the blow, but he got his feet beneath him and grappled against that long-dead king.
"GRRRR!" An animalistic rage fuelled his muscles and slowly, impossibly… he began to push Ozymandias back.
The king was made to give him space and Mane rose to his feet, not a man anymore, but a monster, a beast, just like his enemies. He did not stand tall, but hunched over, his massive sword held in but a single hand.
"You…" Ozymandias said, recognizing something within him. "Leonidas Rockwind's blood… Fate plays a game with me…" he twisted his face. "So be it," he spat, "I'll finish our five-hundred year old battle here and now."