There were Twenty Apostles in a large auditorium, few of them could be considered the brightest, strongest, or even just at the correct age to take the exam; and Martin was among them. They were all in the prime of their life, fit, cunning, and ready to chew leather. They were on the path to Sentinel-hood, now, a three part examination that would try and break their wits, strength, and spirit awaited them.

There were no horns, no celebration or cheering, it was cut and dry. They sat in simple chairs, dressed in the same leather training uniforms they have been in for years. It almost felt like another day, almost. An elaborately decorated robbed man stepped out on stage, it was silent except for his footsteps that echoed throughout the expansive hall. When he reached the center of the stage he cusped his hood with both hands and quickly took it off. It was none other than the holy leader, the slayer of Dragons, the mightiest next to god, the founder of the Kingdom of Saad, the exalted Pontiff himself, Årthorian. Each Apostle stood at attention at the site of him, but the older man waved his hand gesturing them to sit. He barely looked a day over fifty, a strong jaw, broad chest, and black hair streaked with white on both sides. It was said that in elder days, in a time of Dragons and giants, the Pontiff slew so many Dragons he impressed God who in return granted him an unnatural long life. with this gift he built a mighty kingdom in High honor to God.

“These are dark times… the heathen armies to the south are encroaching our borders. Beasts in the wilderness are reclaiming the forests, and abominations from hell haunt our people. We are worn thin, for there has not been a sworn sentinel in over six years, and I think it's time for a change. But do not misunderstand me my children, I did not say it would be easy. Your chances are next to impossible. But, If you have the gull, guile, and wit to persevere than you may one day find yourself among brothers and call yourself a Sentinel of God. So, Let your brothers blood lift the weight, and the sun warm your hearts, Amen.” He raised his hand and blessed them. For an instant he gazed on the young men who were sitting in a row, then he hooded himself and without a second word he left the same way he had come. The Apostles stood up out of respect till the man had exited the room. Like clockwork, once the Pontiff stepped off stage the proctor, a Sentinel, of the examination stepped on.

“Under your seats there will be a number that will be your number for the remainder of the test. Understood?” He was quick to the point.

“Yes sir!” The young men responded in unison.

“Very well. Number 5, come with me.” He said waiting for the men to reach under there seats and pull out the scrap of paper with their Numbers on it. Martin reached under his seat, His number was Thirteen, a customarily unlucky number by the common folk. But he wasn’t bothered by it, instead he embraced it, encouraged it. From next to him a rival of his, Jöruc, the boy who tackled him from when he first stepped foot into the Sanctum and the one who beat him in the most recent push-up competition. He had been a thorn in Martin’s side since his first day, but either way he wished him all the best. One by one the boys got up, none came back. In his head Martin wondered what the first test was, could it be hand to hand combat against a Draugr, or maybe a test of spiritual will power against a soul sucking banshee, perhaps something more nuanced and frightening, like writing the history of demonic artifacts and their meanings?! He felt the vein in his neck pulse from the anticipation.

“Thirteen.” The Proctor spoken. Martin practically jumped into the air from the broken suspense. He walked on stage and the Proctor led him down a dark corridor to a door.

“When you enter the room and the door shuts you will have Three Minutes, and only Three minutes to answer the question on the wall. If you fail you will be disqualified and shuffled back into the courses. Do you consent to these conditions?” The Proctors voice was hollow and without tone.

“Yes.” Martin was ready to risk it all.

“You may enter when ready…” The Hollow Sentinel stood by the door with a small sand timer in his hand. Martin entered and behind him the door was shut with a loud thud. In front of him was a chair, a small desk, and on that small desk was; a quill pen, a piece of parchment paper, and a candle that illuminated the tight space. Martin looked on the wall in front of him, it read, ‘What will carry the weight?’ Martin laughed, it was so easy. It had been said more times than he could have count, they really did want more sentinels if they were making such easy tests. He pulled the chair out and sat down, picked up the quill from the well and began to write. But to his surprise there was no ink, no ink anywhere, none in the well, none in the cramped room, none. Doubt seeped into his head, he saw more grueling days in the gymnasium, savage beatings by the Cadre and their ape-like bodies. He wouldn't be able to take another Five years let alone another month.Oh, But how clever he felt when it came to him, when the answer he was seeking seeped into his mind like any good idea should. It almost seemed criminal how easy it was.

He took the head of the pen and viciously jabbed the palm of his hand twice, sending sharp spikes of pain through his forearm.The red ink dripped down the heel of his left hand. He gingerly dabbed the tip in the fresh hole and with it he wrote, My Brothers Blood… he sat there staring proudly at his masterpiece. He knew he had beaten the first challenge and called for the Proctor. The man walked in and asked Martin to step out, for there was only enough room for one person inside. Martin stepped out of the room and the proctor stepped in. He waited a moment, but nothing happened. After another moment, He heard a light chuckle, then a sudden unhinged laughter from the once dry and solemn Sentinel.

“Oh, Number Thirteen, you pass! Continue down the hall!” The Man couldn't contain himself, he was hysterical. Martin couldn't care less about the sentinel’s manic episode, all that was on his mind was the next two tests. If this was the test of Wit, then there was the test of Strength, and then of spirit. He knew he had it in him, he easily passed the test he dreaded the most, and with time to spare. Just one step at a time he thought.

At the end of the hall He entered a room where only a few other finalists were. He felt disappointed, he couldn't imagine how the others didn't figure it out.

“I was starting to think you weren't going to make it Martin. But once… Martin, Your bleeding.” Spoke Jöruc.

“Well, aren't you?” Martin was fantastically confused by the simple fact that they were not bleeding, so he held out his hand to show them.

“Martin, did you stab yourself and use your ink as blood?!” The boys started to snicker.

“Well yeah, didn't you? How else were you supposed to write the answer, I mean... there was a hint in the answer itself, Your Brothers Blood. Right?” He was beginning to feel embarrassed and slightly confrontational.

“Look at your writing hand Martin, you Oaf! What do you see?” Jöruc Laughed. Martin looked down on his right hand and saw slight black smudges on his thumb and pointer finger, but he still didn't understand.

“Stop laughing! What's going on? What aren't I getting?” He was becoming more agitated, not necessarily because of the teasing, but because he didn't understand. And he couldn't stand when Jöruc rubbed his superiority in Martins’ face.

“The damn stem of the pen was a waxy substance, you're supposed to melt it with the candle and use that as the ink, by the great sun, your so dense Martin!” Jöruc began to laugh even harder, his cackling sent pings of fire up Martins' spine. The young Martin Leaped onto Jöruc who was clutching his stomach from the laughter. With a thunderous slap, he shoved his bloody hand into the young Apostles face and smeared the crimson fluid till there was no skin visible. But Jöruc was no whipping boy, he lashed out with a heavy punch to the temple, the force alone sent Martin flying backward. Martin retaliated with a straight kick as Jöruc began to get up. Like two battling lions they pounced into the other's arms and grappled each other, they fell to the ground with a flurry of punches, head-butts, and bites. They scuffled on the ground until the other Apostles pulled them apart. Their faces were black and blue and their eyes were beginning to swell. The door flew open and a bald Sentinel with many scars on his face stepped through.

“What is going on in here!? What is happening?! You, what happened?” The Sentinel pointed at Martin.

“Nothing Sir, Nothing happened.” He blatantly lied. His breathing was heavy and his head wobbly, blood dripped down his eye from where Jöruc struck him.

“You, what happened?!” The scarred man pointed to Jöruc, clearly becoming frustrated.

“Nothing sir. I swear it.” He also lied. They may have felt a certain dislike for each other, but they were no doubt brothers, and they respected none of the other Apostles half as much as the other. The Scarred sentinel stared at the two bloody and bruised boys knowing they were deceiving him, but he respected that two enemies could come to an understanding and so he let it be.

“Very well. If I have to come back in here again, whether something did or didn't happen, I’m going to fail all of you. Understood?” The Sentinel huffed and left the room before the Apostles had time to respond. The boys sat down and were silent for a moment. Jöruc Began to wipe the blood from his face and cursed under his breath. There was an electric tension between the two rivals that could be felt between the other boys in the room. Martin stared at Jöruc with discontent and wanted nothing more than to brutalize him, and Jöruc stared back wishing the same. Twenty more Minutes passed and only Nine Apostles were left in the waiting room. They sat in silence yet the Glares among some of the boys were defining. In an attempt to break the silence one older Apostle spoke up.

“I can't believe I finally passed the first exam. If I didn't make it this time I was sure they were going to send me to the temple to become a monk… Who knew that I would figure it out by accident, I was merely fiddling with the pen over the candle. I had already given up hope, So I just sat there in my pity, but then I saw it began to melt… I didn't even fight.” He sat there his head in his hands, lamenting his woes. Martin didn't know the Older Apostle well, only by name, Käröl The longshot. He had taken the First exam three times, and it is said after the fourth they send you to the monasteries to become a Monk. Martin had seen him come and go until he was finally filtered into his group. He wasn't impressive or unimpressive, he just was. Karol never came in first nor last in Push Ups, but, he failed most if not all of his exams, he was worse off than Martin, for he was born with no drive.

“Perhaps… Maybe now my Master, Demås of Mörn Uther, will recognize me again, Maybe…” he sunk his head low, it felt tragic to Martin, so tragic he forgot about his disdain for Jöruc. His Master Sovereign of Mörn Äwolan may have been away for long stretches of time but he never disowned Martin, even when Martin was weak and could be considered a pathetic slime he still kept faith in the boy. What a tragic thing it would be to live without your Master’s love.

“Well, my Master Aröön of Gwenavara, Is better than yours and would be able to defeat him in combat. He wields an agile whip and saber, not the sluggish sword and shield most Sentinels use.” The Apostle Cob boasted.

“No, my Master Cäifes of Mörn Äwolan is truly the best!” Proclaimed Jöruc. “He is the strongest and most ruthless Sentinel in the face of evil! I've seen him in action. He wields a mighty morning star that he swings around his head smiting all who stand in his way. I’ve tried to give it a swing before, but the mighty thing weighs too much for me to wield!” He acted out the scene of him trying to swing it, a few of the Apostles chuckled. Every boy bragged about there respected Sentinel, though slightly embellished, of course. Eventually, all eyes were on Martin. He didn't rush himself and thought carefully before speaking.

“My master may not be the strongest, the fastest, the wisest, or the most handsome, but, he is the truest under the eyes of God. His piety borders Sainthood, His word speaks only truth, his shield protects the helpless, his vow upholds the weak, and his wrath smites the wicked. He is a Sentinel of god, and I, one day, will follow his example.” Martins’ eyes were filled with a blaze comparable to the sun. Every boy in that room, including Jöruc, felt lesser in comparison.

The door creaked opened and a new Proctor stepped through.

“Alright lads, here is the point of no return. If you choose to continue your life is forfeit, there will be no turning back. Ahead of you are two life or death trials that should both be considered as, well, difficult. So, whos out?” Every boy sat there for a moment and thought about it. But not one of them moved, even Käröl The longshot held his resolve.

“Good, let's go, follow me!” His words were rushed. The Apostles hoped to there their feet and followed. He led them outside into the courtyard of the sanctum where two horse-drawn carts, large and covered, waited for them.

“Alright, get in.” The Proctor commanded.

They stepped into their wagons, Four in one cart and five in the other. The doors were slammed shut and latched. It was dark and stuffy inside the cart, there was no light, not a sliver. Käröl began to panic and tried to open the door, but it was locked. He just slumped down and was silent. The Wagons pulled the boys over rocky terrain that shook and bounced them, tossed them, and josseled them about. They rode for what felt like hours, unsure what challenges lie ahead. They silently stayed in their heads, creating nightmarish scenarios. When the carts stopped it was the morning of the next day, and the sun just began to peek over the plump green treeline. There was a ruckus at the back doors and then they swung open.

“Alright, get out.” The Proctor commanded.

The Apostles groggily shuffled out of the carts, the light of the early morning stung their eyes. Some of them stumbled slightly and were disorientated from the jarring all night wagon ride. They stepped foot into the middle of a foreign woodland area that wasn't familiar to any of them. In a clearing of trees was a large stone structure. The building was tall and wide with sharp corners. The proctor waved them on and they followed. The Apostles walked under a grand arch into the building, upon the stone entryway, in deep bold carvings read, With my Brothers Blood… Martin must have read it and heard it muttered over a thousand times, but yet, never fully grasped the true meaning of the Sentinels slogan, its gravity perplexed him. Perhaps, because, he had never had someone trade their blood for his?

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

The proctor led them into a spacious rectangular room where each of their Masters awaited. All of them dressed in full Armor and as stern as ever. Their expressions advised the young men to keep silent. Martin was filled with excitement when he saw Sovereign standing among them. The grey-haired Sentinel simply nodded at him in silence, impling it was a momentous occasion. The Apostles lined up in a row across from their Masters. The Pontiff stepped forward from the line of Sentinels. He was dressed in his armor, crafted from dragon scale, he looked as if he were ready for combat.

“You nine have come far, you have trained for years under the stern hand of our Homunculi and chosen Proctors. Your minds have been bent and twisted with all forms of education and meticulous studies. You have passed your first test, and now, you have chosen to proceed even further, even with the promise of death. I believe you are ready for your next test, a test of combat. What say you?” The Pontiff turned and said to the sentinels.

“Aye.” Is all that came out of the nine Sentinels mouths, in low hushed tones, their eyes were dour and there faces resembled tight sneers of discontent.

“Very well.” The Pontiff , Årthorian, began placing pairs of two’s together. He grabbed them by the shoulder and led each of them to who he felt was a good fit. He walked toward Martin.

“Your holiest, with all, due respect, I want Sovereigns boy placed with that smart ass Jöruc.” Spoke up the bald Proctor with the many scars on his face. The Pontiff couldn't be bothered with details so he simply shrugged his shoulders and placed them together. Both, Sovereign and Cäifes Shot a questioning glance at the Scarred Sentinel, unsure of his motives, but figured it couldn't have been without reason. The last Apostle, the remainder, the odd man out, was none other than Käröl The longshot.

“Hm, where should I place you? Ah, here. With Sovereigns boy and the smart ass. Perfect, now we have a Puppy, a Smartass, and an idiot in one group. ” The Pontiff spoke venomously as he placed Käröl between Martin and Jöruc.

“Wait a minute sir, The rules state, that there can only be pairs and the odd man gets a separate challenge!” Demås contested.

“I make the rules, Demås, Or have you forgotten! Do not let your relationship with the boy cloud your position. So, does anyone else want to challenge my position, my rule, my rightful place as one under god? I thought not.” Årthorian snapped brusquely. Like a dog whos been beaten Demås just lowered his head in silence.

“Proctors, prepare the teams.” The Pontiff spoke and so it was, and so it would be. Each pair of Apostles were secured by the waist with cold iron shackles that were connected by a three-foot chain. Every first Apostle hands were bound behind there back, and every second Apostles eye’s were blindfolded and a sword placed in their hand.

“Your Holiest, What about the odd man out?” A proctor spoke.

“Bind... Both, his eyes and hands...” a slight gasp could be heard from a few of the Sentinels. Årthorian stared at Demås with absolute dominance over him. The Sentinel, Demås, was not even able to make eye contact with the far superior Slayer of Dragons.

“Your Holiest, That puts our Apostles at a fatal disadvantage!” Sovereign exclaimed.

“They will survive... if the only god wills it…” And with absolution the Pontiff walked up a flight of stairs, his bodyguards close behind. The air was sticky in the underground room. The severity of this disadvantage showed through the Sentinels and it made Martin’s nerves burn hot like ether. The Proctor came behind Martin and bound his hands tightly behind him with thick rope, then he went behind Jöruc who he blindfolded with a thick Red cloth, lastly; and unfortunately, to the party, Käröl was both blindfolded and his hands were subdued. The proctors used the same thick rope around Käröls waist and tied it onto the chain that connected the group together. Before Martin knew it, all of the Sentinels had filled up the opposite stairwell from the Pontiff .

The Apostle teams were led to individual small gates by a Proctor who then gave them a short briefing of the events to come.

“Ahead of you, you will have to face another team of Apostles. There is a total of four teams, you’ll have to slay the other in combat to progress in the trial, there is no other way. Thus it has been since our inception.” The proctor softly spoke to Martin, Käröl, and Jöruc.

“Sir, this seems unfair.” Jöruc blindly spoke.

“It's not supposed to be, Godspeed, and let your brothers' blood carry the weight...” The sentinel gently spoke and walked out of the room, locking the gate behind him.

“Fuck…” swore Jöruc. Martin could see Jöruc was flustered, but still ready for a fight. like usual, but poor Käröl was shaking like a leaf in the wind.

“Käröl I can feel you rattling the chain, if you don't calm the fuck down, I’m going to stab you. And that isn't a threat, it’s a promise.” Jöruc threatened.

“Leave him alone Jöruc, he’s afraid, ” Martin whispered defending Käröl. Martin was trying to see through the wooden plank door, into what appeared to be a Colosseum.

“Shit, I’m afraid, you're afraid, you don't see us quaking in our boots. Wait, Listen, I think something's happening.” Jöruc was right on two accounts, Martin was afraid, and something was happening. A shrill horn trumpeted and two of the gates opened.

“What is it? What's happening?” Jöruc blurted.

“The two groups are approaching each other…” Martin said as he struggled to get a glance through the gap in the planks.

“And?” Jöruc asked itching for more. Commands were screamed and tings of steel clashing against each other. The labored sounds of battle rang out through the Colosseum.

“There fighting… it looks like Törstön and Cob fighting Blän and…”A scream came from the arena interrupting Martin who looked away as an Apostle was stabbed in the upper shoulder. The crimson blood was sprayed across the training field coating the fighter across from him.

“Who was it? Was it Blän?” Jöruc asked clutching onto Martins' shoulder, the suspense eating at his wits.

“No, it was Törstön, He was stabbed in the left shoulder by Thröwen. Törstön was blindfolded, and Cob didn't give the order to block in time... I don't think he’ll make it.” Martin was still looking away. Another scream came from the field.

“Martin, communicate!” Jöruc jostled Martin in the need to know more.

“ Törstön… They stabbed him in the guts.” Martin lamented.

“Oh, poor Törstön…” Jörucs lips curled down as he shook his head, feeling sorrow for a fallen Brother. Then he began to sniff around, Lifting his nose in the air like a dog.

“Hey… do you guys... smell that?” Jöruc said in between sniffs.

“Yeah, yeah I do.” Martin began sniffing. He sniffed until he realized what it was. Martins face twisted with utter perturbation and just looked away in embarrassment, not saying a word to Jöruc. Käröl, in his fright, had defecated himself.

Käröl stood there, hands bound, eyes blindfolded, sure he was to meet his maker. The Screams of demise that irradiated from the arena were a sure sign to him of deaths approach. Deep within his despondency, he had released himself from this world, figuratively and literally.

A gurgled plea for mercy came from the stadium, but none was to be given. The dying cry of Cob the Apostle was felt with every human in the vicinity. The triumphant group hobbled, unskillfully, toward Cob and with a swift strike they cut him down.

“Cobs dead… were up.” Martin said beginning to bounce slightly on the balls of his feet. Jöruc gripped his sword and lightly ran his hand over it. He was feeling the dimensions and gaining a clearer mental picture, learning the blade better than, perhaps, his opponents knew there's.

“Here's the plan, Jöruc, You're behind me, and Käröls behind you. Jöruc with your free hand I want you to hold onto my right shoulder. I won't tell you directly to attack or defend, only to make wide arching swipe in that direction. Käröl, your only job is to stay alive and follow where Jöruc is moving. Ok?” Martin said, taking control of the team.

“Come on guys respond...” Martin pleaded.

“Ok. I’m ready.” Jöruc said getting behind him and placing his left hand on Martins right shoulder. For all the grief and trouble Jöruc has caused Martin, he never once would insult his battle skill, nor, his innate combat sense. Though he would never admit it out loud, Jöruc was glad to have Martin as an ally in a life or death fight.

Another shrill horn blew and their gate swung open. The teams began to hobble out slowly.

“Körgoth is the blindfolded one.” Exclaimed Martin.

“Good, that means Tem is the watcher,” Jöruc said with a sigh of relief. If Käröl wasn't the most pathetic out of the Apostles next in line would be Tem. He was decent academically but not sharp enough when it came to matters of combat and on the fly strategy, timidity and hesitancy were his biggest weakness. On the other hand, there was no one as big or as ferocious as Körgoth. The twenty-year-old was a brute, a pure savage, an animal who lived to punish those less superior than him. Though he was a powerful man, he was sensitive to insults and would start fights over the most innocent of teases. Körgoth would no doubt swing hard, harder then perhaps Jöruc would be able to block without his sight.

“Were close…” Martin whispered. He felt Jöruc tightly squeeze his shoulder.

“NOW!” Screamed Tem. With a great step and a mighty horizontal swing, Körgoth cocked back and whipped both hands that were gripping onto his sword through the air, cutting it and making a terrifying whistle. Martin saw it, almost as if it were frozen in time. It was so slow, so peaceful, that he could have counted the times a bee fluttered its wings within the second. If he didn't do something all three of them would surely be a head shorter. And so, he did the only thing he could think of, he jumped in the way.

Jöruc heard Tems command, he was panicked and he didn't know which side to block, then felt the jerk of the chain, and then the thundering clang of steel on steel. Martin had jumped and caught the blade against the thick iron binding that was wrapped around his waist that was connecting Jöruc and himself. With a painful thud, Martin fell to the ground, his midsection throbbing. Martin might have taken the brunt of the blow but Körgoths blade still was able to slash his torso as it rolled off the iron binding.

“Martin?!” Hollard Jöruc, concerned for his teammate.

“Stab, two o’clock!” Commanded the wounded Martin from the ground.

Jöruc dashed and thrust his sword, he felt it sink into something, something soft and stringy.

“Ugh!” Tem screamed as Jöruc’s blade punctured through his skin.

“Got him!” Exclaimed Jöruc.

“Help me Körgoth, I’m wounded!” Whined Tem. Körgoth wildly Swung toward the group. Martin once again saw the strike inbound toward his team and launched himself toward Jöruc. With his shoulder, he toppled Jöruc over barely missing the blade. The two plummeted to the ground, but poor Käröl was as unlucky as ever, his supple throat met the tip of Körgoths sword. The blood fountained out from him and within seconds he bled out and died. Only a few short gasps were heard for his last words. From the Stands, Demås of Mörn Uther screamed out in wretched despair, he gripped the rail, fell to his knees, and pleaded to the heavens for the safety of Käröls soul. At the moment Martin was saddened, not by the death of Käröl, but by the fact he never truly understood his master's love for him. But, there was no time to mourn, no time to rest or cry. Körgoth slung his blade about like an untrained savage nearly cutting into Tem multiple times.

“Jöruc, cut the rope from Käröl!” Martin commanded. With haste Jöruc fished it out and slashed the rope, freeing them from there fallen comrade.

“Let's go. Follow my lead!” He got to his feet and helped Jöruc stand up. The duo ran toward Tem.

“Körgoth, your mom was a five copper whore and your father a smelly boar!” Martin antagonized.

“You're a gutless ogre with a small penis Körgoth!” Jöruc said following Martins example. Körgoth screeched and ripped his body around. With inhuman force, he violently began swinging toward them, indeed like an ogre. He felt his sword slice cleanly through meat and heard the all too familiar gurgle then splash of blood on the sand. Körgoth felt the sharp tug of the chain around his waist pulling him down.

“Tem. Tem? TEM?! FUCK!” Körgoth became black with wrath as he felt the severed neck stump of his fallen partner. Without a moment of hesitation, he tore his blindfold off his face and began hacking away at Tems lifeless body. In seconds he was free from his fallen comrade. He murderously began swinging the chain around him, turning himself into an overwhelming maelstrom.

“Martin, what's happening?!” yelled Jöruc.

“Körgoths lost it! He tore his blindfold off!” Shouted Martin in fright.

“Can he do that?” Jöruc called out in disbelief.

“Who cares, take off your damn blindfold and cut me free!” Martin pleaded.

“It's against the rules Martin…” Jöruc Foolishly stated. Körgoth whipped the chain out toward them, the iron binding cracked martin across the face leaving a bleeding gash above his left eye. The blow sent Martin to the ground, knocking him unconscious. Körgoth, deep within his berserker rage charged Jöruc. The giant batted Jörucs sword out of his hand and punched him in the face with his massive fist. Jöruc collapsed to the ground. Like a rock slide, Körgoth fell on top of Jöruc. He forcefully clasped both hands around Jörucs throat, entwining his fingers and squeezing till his knuckles were white. Jöruc tried to claw at Körgoths face and hands but the Monster was as grainy as wood and harder than stone.

“No, you have a small penis Jöruc!” Körgoth childishly bellowed as he violently choked the life out of Jöruc.

Jöruc was seeing a wide range of spots and colors, he kicked his feet around frantically, his head felt like it was going to burst. He tried to resist the almost uncontrollable urge to fall unconscious but quickly felt his vision begin to slip. Just then, Martin cut himself away from his wrist bindings with the disarmed sword of Jöruc. He hopped onto the ogres back and wrapped his chain around the impressively thick neck of Körgoth. Martin began to jerk viciously at Körgoths throat with the intent on breaking it. Martin tugged, and tugged, straining dauntlessly. Every vein in Martins' neck was bulging, his eyes were clamped shut as he pulled the chain, he screamed in absolute desperation. With another jerk, Martin heard an audible crunch. It seemed as if he had broken Körgoths trachea. The ogre let go of Jörucs throat and began to crazily yank the chain away from himself. Jöruc gasped for air and seized on the ground for a moment. As he came to he looked up, his vision blurry, he saw Körgoth whose eyes were bleeding and was pulling at Martins chain noose. With as much effort as he could muster, he picked up his blade and slowly gutted Körgoth across the stomach, spilling his steaming entrails on the arena floor.

“Huh… I Guess… I was wrong...” Jöruc painfully said with a broken, hoarse, voice as he stared into Körgoths dying eyes. The giant grunted, shook from the pain then his eyes slipped behind his head and collapsed.

Jöruc dropped his sword and hobbled over to Martin who was still angrily pulling on the chain, his eyes tightly welded shut, screaming wildly.

“Martin... you oaf… let go.” Jöruc hoarsely said with a chuckle as he nudged Martin with his foot. Martin opened his eyes. He began to settle down seeing that Körgoth was slain. He let go of the chains, his hands were bruised badly from the vigorous pulling. The gash over his eye had stained the left side of his face in blood. The young men looked into each other's eyes and let out a faint laugh that could only be explained by the feeling of shared suffering. Jöruc coughed as he reached down to help Martin to his feet, the two began walking toward there gate. As they passed Käröl’s corpse Jöruc stopped.

“Aw, Martin… poor lad shit himself.” Jöruc stated with pity.

“Yeah, yeah he did.” Was all Martin could say.