The world around Amukelo spun, his vision blurred by pain that coursed through his body. But slowly, through sheer will and desperation, he began to regain his consciousness. The blurriness faded just enough for him to make out the sneering face of Neclord, the man standing over him with the victorious arrogance of someone who believed he had already won.
And then, as Neclord's face came into focus, so did Amukelo's rage. Hatred rose within him, fierce and unyielding, pushing against the pain.
As Neclord drew his leg back for yet another kick, Amukelo's fingers groped along his side, feeling for any remaining weapon, any broken piece of rubble he could use. His hand brushed against the cold steel of his dagger, and grabbed it to defend himself. But his movements were sluggish.
Neclord let out a laugh, his tone dripping with disdain. "Don't think you'll have the chance to use that," he sneered, and with a quick, brutal motion, he kicked the dagger from Amukelo's weakened grasp, sending it skittering across the ground.
Amukelo let out a pained gasp, his hand clutching at the empty space where the dagger had been. Neclord reared back for another kick, but as he aimed his boot toward Amukelo's chest, Amukelo raised his arm, catching Neclord's foot on his forearm.
Neclord hesitated, surprised by the sudden resistance. He took a step back, his expression wavering as he watched Amukelo, disbelief mingling with a trace of fear.
With a slow, almost agonizing effort, Amukelo began to push himself up. His limbs felt like lead, but he forced himself to rise. "I will not die," he rasped, his voice weak but filled with a deadly resolve. "I can't… not until you take your last breath."
Neclord's face twisted with anger and fear, and he let out a guttural yell, charging at Amukelo in a desperate attempt to knock him back down. He aimed another kick, but Amukelo sidestepped, the movement was sluggish but effective enough. Neclord stumbled slightly.
In a brief surge of strength, Amukelo swung his fist, landing a punch squarely on Neclord's jaw. The blow wasn't powerful at all, but it was enough to make Neclord stumble. Neclord staggered back, his feet slipping on the dusty ground as he struggled to maintain his balance.
Amukelo's gaze shifted to the dagger lying several paces away. His steps were slow. Behind him, Neclord struggled to rise awkwardly, without his arms. He scrambled to his knees, glaring at Amukelo with a mixture of hatred and desperation.
Amukelo gripped the dagger, and as he turned Neclord launched at him. But Amukelo was ready.
Neclord closed the distance, aiming a clumsy kick toward Amukelo's hand in an attempt to disarm him. But before Neclord could connect, Amukelo swung his arm, driving the dagger downward. The blade sank into Neclord's leg. Neclord screamed as he fell to the ground.
Amukelo stood over him, barely able to hold himself upright. He watched as Neclord writhed on the ground, struggling to push himself up despite the blood streaming from his wounded leg.
For a moment, he was still. Then, with a guttural, primal roar, Amukelo raised his dagger. The roar was raw, broken. With all the pain that he experienced, Amukelo drove the blade down, piercing Neclord's chest with a sickening finality.
But for Amukelo, it wasn't enough.
The finality of Neclord's death, instead of bringing satisfaction or peace, only magnified the void inside him. He had held onto this rage, this need for vengeance, for so long that he couldn't remember who he was without it. Now, standing over the lifeless body of his enemy, he felt an unshakable emptiness gnawing at him. It was as if everything he had been striving for, every piece of his identity, had disappeared along with Neclord's last breath.
With a desperate, wordless cry, Amukelo raised the dagger again, plunging it into Neclord's chest once more. He tore the dagger free, slashing and stabbing with relentless fury.
He had waited so long for this. And now that the moment was here, there was no joy, no relief, only a dark, empty rage that drove him to continue stabbing.
Peles watched from a distance, his expression impassive as he observed the bloody scene with a detached calm. He let out a small sigh, barely audible, and shook his head. "I guess, after all that, it's him who comes out victorious," he murmured, his tone devoid of surprise or judgment.
Eliss, standing nearby, watched his action, but her expression with something other than horror. She wasn't terrified by his rage or disgusted by the violence; she saw something deeper, a kind of raw suffering she couldn't explain. It felt oddly familiar, as if there was a shared understanding, a similarity between them that resonated in her core.
The quiet was broken by the sound of footsteps approaching from the distance. Jezar finally outmaneuvered Padrin and arrived. Not far behind, Padrin followed. They took in the aftermath, the broken bodies strewn across the ground—the remains of Ovun, split in two; Morth's decapitated corpse lying in a pool of blood.
Finally they saw Amukelo, who was still crouched over Neclord's body, his dagger rising and falling in relentless, mechanical movements. Jezar's face twisted in horror. He turned to Peles, his brow furrowing. "Don't tell me… Did he?"
Peles nodded, his gaze still fixed on Amukelo. Jezar shook his head slowly, disbelief mixing with an odd, grudging respect. "But… how? There were four of you."
Jezar's gaze drifted to Eliss. "Was it because of her?" he asked, his voice edged with suspicion.
Peles shook his head, his voice low and steady. "No. I don't know how he managed it, but I think it's because of that." He gestured toward Amukelo's discarded sword, which lay in the rubble.
Padrin, standing a few paces away, let his gaze fall on Amukelo. He understood that it wasn't the victory Amukelo had hoped for, not the satisfying end to a long-sought vengeance. It was a hollow, triumph that left nothing but emptiness.
"So, he did it," Padrin murmured, his voice carrying a note of regret.
Amukelo's stabs began to slow, his roars dying down to a series of strained gasps. His face was etched with pain.
The vengeance, had been everything to him, the purpose that had filled his every waking thought. And now that it was done, he was left with nothing but an empty void.
He sank back on his knees, his chest heaving as he stared down at the blood-streaked dagger in his hand, his mind struggling to process the emptiness that consumed him. The body beneath him was lifeless, still, but in that stillness, he found no peace, no satisfaction.
Amukelo looked down at Neclord's face, twisted in a final expression of horror, and felt nothing. The hatred, the rage, the need for vengeance—they had left him as suddenly as they had come, leaving only a bitter emptiness in their place.