"Courage, above all things, is the first quality of a warrior."

~Karl von Clausewitz

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The castle and the surrounding village had been recently abandoned, some time in the past month or so at the latest. Dust covered the ground in an almost invisible layer and food lying abandoned on tables and in cupboards was only just beginning to decompose. Clothes still lay scattered on the floor, a child's toy left lying in the street, the cart deserted where it had been caught in a divot in the path. Even the animals - horses, chickens, pigs and ducks - had vacated the village, leaving wooden gates swinging open sadly on their hinges, food lying uneaten in the troughs and water becoming covered in a thin layer of algae.

But the two figures paid no attention to these details except for how to best use them to gain an advantage over his opponent. The two swords flashed back and forth, clashing and clanging with a noise made only more defending in the silence of the village. They leapt from building to building, blood running from their wounds, red and white magic flashing between them in tendrils and fireballs, wrapping around their legs and arms before being slashed away. Their eyes, glowing their respective magic colour, were narrowed and focused solely on the other, noting how they tensed, how they flicked their hand, how they moved their feet when they were about to strike with their sword, how their own eyes were watching you, observing the same things.

One, the man with glowing white eyes, was caught by a tendril of red that wrapped around his chest, pinning his free arm before violently flinging him away towards the castle. The large doors, resting partly open, jerked back as he crashed into them with a grunt of pain. Instantly, he rolled to the side, the sword of the other only just missing him and he lashed out with his legs, connecting with the man's face before rolling up, sword still in hand.

The fight carried into the castle, both injured beyond what a normal human could stand. Their blood mingled with the dust-filled carpets, the drops of liquid staining the white and being lost in the red. It wasn't long before the throne room felt their rage, red and white flashing more vigorously than before as both felt deep within them from some ancient instinct that this fight was nearing its end.

One slashed his hand in a horizontal motion and multiple shards of white spat towards the other, clashing against a red shield that was thrown up just in time that changed into a wall of fire that raced at the first. He ran up the stone wall of the throne room and vaulted over it, casting down bolts of white as he was in the air and leaping off one of the pillars which held up the vaulted roof. The fire burned itself out against the wall and the other dodged the bolts, moving swiftly despite the gaping hole in his side and the blood coursing down his leg.

Swords clashed once more as the two jumped up and off pillars and rolled to avoid slashes, each spinning the bloody blades in their hands with the skill that any swordsman would envy, the blades becoming an extension of themselves, as naturally and instinctively used as if they were an arm or a finger.

A red shield went up as white fire flew against it, but a blade of red caught the other by surprise and sent him sprawling. His enemy was quick to follow up on his advantage, his foot lashing out, barely missing the man before red tendrils caught him again and threw him to the wall behind a small dais where the throne sat, covered in a blanket of dust. The man's back, already injured from the door and multiple other wounds, caused him to cry out in pain as he hit the stone. His cry was cut off as an iron grip wrapped around his throat and lifted him up into the air, pushing him against the wall.

"You've lost Herobrine," the man said, his red eyes seeming to laugh as his hand tightened around the other's throat.

Herobrine tried to suck in breath, his teeth set in a snarl, his feet lashing out, trying to summon some magic to fight back. But the hand of the other cutting off his air supply meant that his focus was lost and he could do nothing but try to force off the hand with brute strength, his sword lost on the floor. "If you think you can kill me," he wheezed, "you're mistaken."

The man grinned, showing off his stained teeth. "I'm never mistaken." His hand pushed harder on Herobrine's throat and to his horror, Herobrine felt himself being pushed through the stone wall as if it was some sort of plasticine. He struggled more than ever, fighting as he felt his back sink further and further into the wall.

"You can never win Entity," he spat as the stone started to close up over his face. "Never!"

Entity's yellowed grin was the last thing he saw as the stone closed over his eyes and his mouth as he tried to suck in one last breath, only just managing to shut his eyes before the stone claimed them. The darkness consumed him and he still felt Entity's hand around his neck, pushing him deeper and deeper. Then the hand was gone and he tried to pull himself free of the rock. But it was now solid and with fear rising in his immobile body, he felt his legs, stuck out as he had tried to hit Entity with his last moments, also being sunk into the wall until there was no trace of him left. The tiny amount of breath he had dragged into his lungs was slowly eaten away by the panic which coursed through him, the weight of the rock pressed down on him and his eyes locked closed before he slipped into unconsciousness.