Once the Champion took the first step in, he could picture it all. In great, vivid detail. He could see it as a masterpiece encased in gold strung across the wall of a great palace. Whoever would enter or leave could not miss it. On the bottom, it would read: Good's Conquest against Evil. Then, the picture would capture everything he was about to do. The killing, oh the brutal, merciless killing. Not a soul inside would live to see another speck of daylight. Of course, besides himself.

"Let the wrath of my fist turn this place into mere rubble coated in roaring flames and decay," the Champion muttered, as he proceeded further and further into the room. Not a soul had detected him, at least, from what he could tell. He did see a few bandits look his way, with some even rushing up the staircase. His gaze remained transfixed upon the cowards, but then shot straight ahead.

In a bout of thrill, an act of righteous justice and strength, the Champion reeled his sword back and plunged it right into the back of the nearest bandit's head. He let the body slide down with his sword slicing to his side, blood pursuing it in a single stroke. He waited for the reaction, a sign that he was going to kill all of them. And they couldn't do anything about it.

Slowly, news of the death spread through the room. It was really sluggish at first, like tiny ripples in the water, but it soon became fast waves roaring onto the shore. In a matter of seconds after shock had settled in, the bandits were all alerted. The Champion did a swift scan around him to see a whole mob forming in a tight circle. The thickness was immense. There were a few hundred at least. All just to die as useless pawns.

And what could display the mindless Evil more than pawns running forward one by one? Bandit after bandit, they ran forth. Then they died. The Champion would kill them by whatever means necessary, yet he reserved his gauntlet for only the most annoying pests: those that dared to flank him in a stealthy manner. The rest? Slash to the torso, across the neck, full decapitation, perhaps dismemberment, but they all died by sword.

The circle closed in as each bandit died, a replacement there without any hesitation. Fear was present in the ranks, though they all embraced their role. At least most, for there were still some running up the stairs. Their death would come later. It was just a temporary delay to their fate.

Die, die, die! the Champion thought madly, as he couldn't stop repeating the hateful word. His thoughts delved into utter madness with a serpent-like tone taking over. His vision became engulfed in red, something he never wished to wipe off. It was only a part of the performance. Blood was a sign of tasteful revenge and he wished to keep it around for as long as possible, for a reminder of his deeds.

A jolt surged through the Champion's left arm that forced him to reel his sword back and spin it around him. Heads flew off, but his enemies were smart. They backed away until his sword flew out of his grasp to penetrate a wall. Panting, he brought his right gauntlet into view and clenched it. A faint, misty black smoke rose off it, from where his fingers were hiding his palm.

Suddenly, a sensation emerged from the back of his head. He snapped his left gauntlet back and pulled out what was back there: a dagger. Its blade was already coated in black particles, and in a matter of moments, there was nothing left of it. It was as if it the blade had been eaten by termites at its very core.

"He just won't die!"

The Champion spun around toward the owner and leapt forward, his right gauntlet homing in onto his target. It clawed onto the bandit's face, the palm exerting so much heat that even his gauntlet began to sizzle. But when he withdrew it with a satisfying explosion rupturing inside of him, the bandit fell down with no face to show fear, no mouth to scream agony. It was faceless. It was purposeless. And it was dead.

"Step aside, fools!" a demanding voice exclaimed, which made the circle expand outward. The Champion glanced over his bloody shoulder at the owner, only seeing a red outline in the midst of retreating others. It was a bold coward, a brave idiot, a dead man.

"Take up your weapon and face me honorably, as all fiends shall die rightfully by my hand!" the man ordered, swinging his great sword in front of him.

The Champion impatiently swept his left gauntlet across his visor, so he could see who he was about to kill: a knight with surprisingly thick, padded, crimson and black armor. The spaulders were unnecessarily large, the kneepads, the boots, but he could see an opening: the helmet. That one little slit was where he could triumph. Then again, he could dismantle any foe no matter where. He just needed his gauntlet.

"There is no honor for dead men," the Champion decided, and slowly lifted his right gauntlet up. "But let justice make its presence known to all around me. Let you learn what sins you have committed, and let them be atoned through death."

His sword wobbled in its impaled place until flying right into his palm. When he first picked it up, he staggered back. He even fell over. He remained on the ground for many hours, incapable of understanding what power he was wielding. But when he stood, when the sun had risen to the top of the sky, he could hold it high above him. He could see true might in the form of a blade, which was something he was not accustomed to using.

"Darkness grasps this land by the very corners, but it has yet to push in," the knight remarked. He pointed his great sword forward and clenched his hip. "You are one of its creations. What business have you here? You have a duty, so fulfill it. We all do."

"My duty is your death," the Champion declared, unamused and quiet.

"No, it is allowing the darkness to spread in, for it to conquer what is truly within its rights."

The two stared at each other in awkward silence, besides the ripple of chattering in the audience.

"But it's your death," the Champion interjected confusedly. His foe grasped his helmet with his free gauntlet, sighing.

"No, it—"

"Speak no more, for this shall be the last fight you'll ever have the thrill to participate in, to die in!"

The Champion charged forward and bulldozed his surprised enemy's guard, swiftly bringing his sword up for a vertical swing; however, when he brought it down with force wielded by a whole army, it was blocked midair. A loud clunk sounded through the room as his foe shoved him back and stood.

"For a behemoth, you strike like a mere mouse," the knight commented. "But what does it matter? It may land a tickling hit, but it can endure over thousands of blows." He smashed his gauntlet into his sword—which was extended horizontally in front of his chest—for the clunk to erupt once more. "At least against other mice of its class."

With a chuckle, the knight pinned his heel into the floor and leapt forward. The two swords interlocked until the Champion removed his right gauntlet to reel it back. Though, it only turned out to be an opportunity. The knight broke through his weaker guard with immense strength to slash the Champion's chest from shoulder to hip.

"Hah!" the knight shouted in a bout of triumph, soon thrusting his sword to impale the Champion's side. "What bitter immortality have you now?"

The Champion looked down at the sword and his chest, then clenched the blade with his right gauntlet. Black blood poured down from his wound until the armor patched itself up. His gaze shot upward toward his foe as he shoved the blade outward with a gush of blood in close pursuit.

"I will forever be immortal to such a weapon as yours," the Champion murmured. Eyeing the sword that was just inside of him, he two-handed his own and swung from the right; however, it was precisely blocked and got him a kick in the gut. He barely felt an impact at all, not even staggering a single inch.

"Then I shall stab you a thousand times as I may!" the knight furiously exclaimed, as he swung his sword diagonally from left and right, over and over again. The Champion sustained the blows as he did nothing but watch them come. Swing after swing, he wished to feel something, but he only felt numbness instead. 

Immortality... I am a god among men... something that will remain until the end of time...

The Champion jabbed his foe with his right gauntlet, only to be dodged and have a blade slice through it. In quick succession, the knight danced around to his arm and swung out of view. A loud thump pierced the air as the Champion remained still in his position.

"Look at you now! You're finished!"

Dizzy with exhaustion, almost nauseous at everything that had happened around him, the Champion looked at his right side. There was no arm. No gauntlet. When his gaze lingered to the floor, he saw it there. The palm was glued onto the floor with whatever black light now fading away. A cold blizzard surged from within, taking his heart's reins by force. He huffed icy breaths as his sword clattered out of his grasp.

"Hahah!" the knight laughed victoriously, with the audience barely joining in. They were probably still weary of him standing. 

"What immortality did you once speak of? Did you truly believe you were?" The knight plunged his sword straight into the Champion's open stump to make him fall onto a knee. He continued to push it further and further, with an added hand to increase his force. "No man, warrior, knight, even champion is immortal! That's the beauty of this world... anybody can die! And it can be the most heroic, strongest souls dying in the most cowardly, pathetic ways!"

The Champion wearily cast his gaze onto the knight standing above him, shadowed in a deathly robe. He soon lowered it in front of him where black blood pooled up on the floor. His left gauntlet weakly placed itself over his chest where a heart refused to beat. Where it simply couldn't. There was nothing for it to keep going. Nothing to tell it to continue. 

Nothing at all. It was just empty like the void. As it was meant to be.

When silence overtook the room once full of laughter and cheering, the Champion looked to his left. His blurry vision once taken by red and useless figures became clear. It sharpened on one single figure standing amongst dull, heartless killers. His eyes widened as his left gauntlet furthered its frantic claw on his chest.

This will not be your end, so stand, Shimmer's voice informed him, yet her lips didn't move. Her eyes were locked onto him in a glare, almost. Stand and live to see your dream come true before your eyes. If it be in your final moments, let it be so. But you must endure.

The Champion's gaze lingered until Shimmer turned around and left. His left gauntlet was clenched so hard on his chest that it was bleeding. He returned his stare up ahead of him where darkness settled in all corners. All he could see was the blood—his blood on the floor. Spreading, expanding, consuming. It was fear. Fear of death, uselessness; fear that a dream would remain a dream. Fear that he had done nothing for anybody. Fear that he would be forgotten.

But he wouldn't be.

He would suffer defeats. He would be broken and left to die. He would fall into dark abysses and yearn peace from it all; however, he would never stop going forward. The end goal was there. He would stumble, even trip down the long staircase with no exit in sigh, but he had hope. He only had to endure and believe that there was truly an exit. The reward would be well worth it.

"Let there be justice upon this broken world taken by shadows and souls living for the sake of killing," the Champion muttered, his gaze falling victim to the darkness. His left gauntlet loosely fell off his chest as nothing else moved inside of him.

"Justice?" The knight cackled, not even holding his sword any longer that was still plunged into the Champion's stump of an arm. "What's that? There's no such thing! You do your duty and that's that! Justice is but an instrumental weapon of fear to keep us away from performing such duties! Pathetic!"

The Champion cracked a smile under his helmet as the repetitive beating stormed his mind. He could sense it as if it were still only inches away from him. He could grasp and take it as his own. For it would always be his own.

"Just like you," he whispered, pounding his left gauntlet into the floor and howling. As his body shook, a spear shot through his left arm that had the knight stumble backward and fall over. Black particles madly fell into shape as armor patterned itself appropriately. The sword once penetrating it had been disintegrated. Rather, devoured.

"Laugh as you may, but the fear will always remain close by," the Champion announced, standing up like he had been sleeping for eternities.

"How could you just grow an arm back!" the knight demanded, desperately trying to hide fear. When he swung with his right fist, the Champion's newly-formed right gauntlet grabbed onto it. Screaming filled the air with smoke rising in great quantity. The audience spoke not a word, turned not a head, for fear rooted their hearts and souls alike to the very floors of inescapable terror.

"Death will always be a solution for those not as bright as they could possibly be," the Champion muttered. As his right gauntlet hungrily ate into its victim's arm, past the agonized screaming, he kept his gaze forward.

I'm immortal... I'm unstoppable... I'm... I'm...

The Champion's right gauntlet attached itself to the knight's face after devouring a whole arm. The screaming suddenly stopped. And with a thump, he knew it was all over. His right gauntlet reeled itself back to his side with frantic heartbeats.

I'm God... or am I Death?

Amazed at the titles, he glanced around him. A wicked smile came to his face as his right gauntlet quivered and expanded in sheer bloodthirst.

It was up to his audience to decide, it seemed.