Smoke billows. Caliclès and Artanne are locked in a one-sided recital. The dark governor, on the defensive physically, is overwhelmed by the sergeant who leaves him no respite.

Whenever the Walker slips to one side, the hammer comes down on the other.

A tremendous crash.

When the sergeant covers one half [of the arena],

The madman's scythes wreak havoc on the other.

An opening is created, let's use it.

Artanne spins before planting his blades against the broken armor.

But Caliclès' reflexes surpass him.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He anchors his hammer to block the fleeting scythes.

The trap closes.

"You're finished, Artanne! I'm going to make your face even uglier!"

A small smile appears on the Amok's face,

Yes, he's mocking.

"Honey, do you know the French Kiss?"

In one motion,

He lifts Caliclès' helmet.

He places his fangs on the flesh around his lips,

On his smooth skin.

He bites it all and removes it with ease.

His blood spurts.

A look of terror.

But his time has not yet come.

Here, in the middle of a closed stone arena,

In the heart of a tumultuous night,

Artanne sweeps the sergeant away with a furious movement,

Caliclès has fallen.

Bubbles of blood have flown.

The mucous membranes are open.

His gaze fixes on the ceiling.

Artanne's foot repeatedly crushes his enemy's exposed face.

Red, liquid strands stick to it and mark his brown sole.

"If he doesn't move, he's going to end up eating his teeth, the idiot!"

The back door opens quickly.

Laetitia and Habib had just arrived.

The fight was already over.

"Well... Was the capture a success?" one of them said softly.