OLD-WORLD EXTRA

465  True Endurance II

Their bodies bled from many tens of wounds, covered in bruises, cuts, ice fragments, and burns.

They were close to the limit but neither showed any sign of backing down.

Instead, the opposite was happening. Pain seemed to be a foreign concept for them, as they never stopped going all out. "RAAAH!"

Kremlin gritted his teeth and charged forward again, fists raised.

Damien met him head-on, and they slammed into each other with the force of two charging bulls.

""DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE! DIE!""

Their fists were a blur, each strike landing with a sickening thud.

No strategy was on display—just pure, unbridled aggression.

Kremlin's energy waned more than ever before, but he refused to slow. And he wasn't the only one.

Damien, bleeding like a broken fountain, somehow kept up with him, closely matching his every step, his every punch.

It was impressive—almost impossible—considering he was twice as injured as Kremlin. Yet he fought on, relentless.

However, no matter their mentality and drive, their bodies had a breaking point.

Eventually, it was reached.

Their movements had slowed just enough to be noticeable.

That told them what they already knew.

They had to end this soon.

"Communist rat!"

Kremlin punched out, activating Iron Fist. "Goverment slave!"

Damien did the same, and their next clash was like two mountains colliding.

A flash of light momentarily blinded their surroundings as the ground they stood on was destroyed, a large crater forming around them.

BOOM!

Then, when an explosion-like sound resounded, the impact sent both men skidding backward.

Neither fell.

They charged at each other again, their fists meeting in a powerful collision that sent shockwaves through the place.

Their arms were numb from the repeated impacts, but they easily pushed through the pain.

Every nerve in their bodies screamed for rest, but they silenced those cries.

"I'M KILLING YOU TODAY!"

"YOU'LL BE MY BEST TROPHY!"

As they clashed again, their movements became even stronger.

Every punch, every block, was more than a hundred percent effort.

The rhythm of the fight had become almost hypnotic—strike, block, counter, repeat.

Whoosh!

Kremlin ducked under a heavy swing, countering with a quick jab to his opponent's ribs.

The impact forced a grunt from Damien, but that didn't give him pause.

He retaliated with a sharp kick to Kremlin's thigh, nearly knocking him off balance.

Kremlin staggered but caught himself, slamming his shoulder into Damien's chest and forcing him back.

He didn't let up, following with a punch to Damien's liver, causing even more blood to splatter between them from their many, many wounds.

Damien grunted in pain once more, feeling lightheaded, yet he didn't wait for the next attack.

Catching Kremlin's arm, the same one that punched his liver, he pulled him into a knee strike.

Gritting his teeth, Kremlin punched out with his right, almost breaking Damien's jaw.

Hurt, he let go of Kremlin's arm and stepped back, breathing heavily. It wasn't just him; both were out of breath, each huff a visible cloud of steam in the cold air. Kremlin's gauntlets had a lot of blood dripping off them, trailing down his arms, his knuckles bleeding from the constant barrage of attacks.

His opponent was no better off, blood staining what remained of his augmented suit and face, but the fire in his eyes remained undiminished.

They both knew that they were entering the final stretch of their duel.

It was now or never.

Kremlin activated Berserker's Rage once more, his muscles swelling to the extreme.

Damien did the same, and they collided with renewed vigor, their punches landing with the force of giants.

The sound of their gauntlets hitting flesh was like the beat of war drums.

If a single punch had landed on Emir's bare body, even he wouldn't have come out unscathed, yet these two never relented, even as their bodies broke to bits.

Their blood splattered across the frozen and burnt ground as they exchanged blow after blow, their wild movements becoming wilder.

It was a brutal, primal struggle, befitting of their Primal Might Aspect.

They were both truly and utterly exhausted, their bodies battered and bruised beyond recognition, their muscles burning with lactic acid, their fists feeling like lead, but neither of them gave in.

Words were no longer exchanged, only grunts, as if they had become actual cavemen.

"GRRRRAH!"

Kremlin ducked under another wild swing, driving his fist into his opponent's gut with all the strength he could muster.

Damien doubled over but quickly recovered, slamming his forehead into Kremlin's nose in a desperate move.

A trickle of blood poured from his nose, but he barely registered the pain and returned the strike.

Their fists met, and the impact knocked them both back, but they quickly recovered, rushing at each other again.

Kremlin sidestepped Damien's swing and delivered a powerful uppercut that sent him staggering.

His chance to end the fight seemed within reach, but before he could follow up, Damien lashed out with a kick, connecting hard with Kremlin's ribs.

The impact sent Kremlin crashing to the ground, pain shooting through his side.

Yet, without missing a beat, he rolled to his feet, eyes locked on Damien, both of them knowing quite well that any such exchange might be their last.

Again, unlike the earlier duels, this one had no finesse.

It was just a raw, brutal exchange of punches, each fighter trying to overwhelm the other through sheer force of will.

The final moments of the fight displayed that in its entirety. A blur of motion and pain.

What used to be a rusting platform turned into a wasteland of utter destruction. But neither man cared about their surroundings.

All that mattered was the fight.

They charged at each other for what felt like the hundredth time...

Yet they knew this was the last one.

After this attack, only one of them would remain standing.

Their blurred fists met, and for a moment, there was no aftermath—just blue and red light mixing into a bright white. Then, when the world caught up to their speed, a collision never seen before in that arena had occurred—a shockwave that flattened the ground around them.

The impact was so powerful that it shattered everything in their immediate vicinity, sending both men crashing to the ground.

Seconds passed and neither of them moved, cold and hot wind howling around them.

"Urgh..."

But suddenly, one of them twitched.

It was Kremlin.

With a loud pained groan, he forced himself upright and headed toward his opponent, every step forward heavier than the last.

Yet his face betrayed none of the strain, instead stretching into a wide grin.

Victory was close, and he relished the taste of it.

Damien still lay on the ground, barely able to move, his breath barely audible as he struggled to rise.

Kremlin towered over him, staring down without a word.

Slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward, his body tipping into a parallel with the ground, maintaining the pose for a heartbeat longer than expected.

Then he fell.

With all his weight behind it, his elbow descended, aimed directly at Damien's exposed neck—a final, crushing blow meant to end it all.

CRACK!

Just as contact was made, his elbow broke Damien's neck with quite ease, killing him on the spot.

His body spasmed for a second and went limp right after. It was a gruesome death, a satisfactory victory.

But Kremlin wasn't satisfied yet.

Still on his knees, before Damien's now dead body, he summoned what strength he had left and raised his fists high in the air.

Bang!

The sound of Kremlin's fist echoed, and what followed was nothing short of grotesque. A disgusting act that achieved nothing, a purposeless endeavor.

Each blow drove what remained of Damien deeper into the ground, breaking what little was left unbroken.

Before, there was no doubt of his survival, and now, even more so. The fight was over. It ended.

He had won.

Relishing that, Kremlin was satisfied, so he stood back up, his legs wobbling slightly.

He looked down at Damien once more, then at the sound of battle some distance away.

"Let's go." His vision was darkening, his legs barely holding him up, but he forced himself to move.

It was the "Captain's" orders. n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om