As Atenzi rose to face Khan once more, a change came over him.

The serene focus of the flow state was gone, replaced by his true nature perhaps?

His eyes blazed with a cold fire, a look that made even the great Khan hesitate.

*I MUST WIN. I MUST SURVIVE.

I WON'T LET FATE DECIDE WHO I AM!*

The thought thundered through Atenzi's mind, drowning out all else.

Gone was the calculated precision of his earlier fighting style.

In its place was something raw, ferocious, and utterly unpredictable.

Atenzi launched himself at Khan with a speed that defied belief.

His katana became a blur of silver, striking from angles that seemed impossible. Khan, caught off guard by the sudden change in his opponent's tactics, found himself driven back.

"What manner of demon are you?" Khan growled, barely deflecting a strike that would have taken his head off.

Atenzi didn't respond. His mind was consumed by a single purpose: victory at any cost.

Each swing of his blade was fueled by a desperate, primal need to survive, to conquer.

*HISTORY REMEMBERS ONLY THE WINNERS, NOT THE LOSERS.

AND IT DOESN'T REMEMBER HOW YOU WON, ONLY THAT YOU WON.*

This thought drove Atenzi to new heights of ferocity.

He paid no heed to the wounds he sustained, ignoring the pain as Khan's hammer found its mark more than once.

Blood flowed freely from cuts on his arms and torso, but Atenzi pressed on, his attacks becoming more frenzied with each passing moment.

Khan, for all his centuries of battle experience, found himself struggling to keep up.

The warlord's face was a mask of concentration and growing concern as he fended off Atenzi's relentless assault.

"You fight like a man possessed," Khan panted, his hammer describing great arcs as he sought to create some distance between them. "But fury alone won't be enough to defeat me!"

As if to prove his point, Khan brought his hammer down in an earth-shattering blow. Atenzi, lost in his battle frenzy, barely managed to dodge. The impact sent shockwaves through the ground, causing Atenzi to stumble.

Khan seized the opportunity, his free hand lashing out to grab Atenzi by the throat. With his immense strength, the centaur warlord lifted Atenzi off his feet, squeezing with bone-crushing force.

"You fought well, little demon," Khan growled, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "But in the end, strength will always prevail over-"

Khan's victory speech was cut short as Atenzi's katana plunged into his shoulder. The warlord roared in pain, his grip loosening just enough for Atenzi to break free.

As Atenzi fell to the ground, gasping for air, a memory surfaced through the haze of battle-lust.

A technique he had read about and learned long ago, in his past life.

The voice of Hattori Hanzo, legendary ninja and master strategist, echoed in his mind:

"When facing a stronger opponent, victory lies not in matching their power, but in turning it against them.

A thousand small cuts can fell even the mightiest oak."

*I AM UNPARALLELED UNDER THE HEAVENS.

I WILL NOT FALL HERE!*

With renewed purpose, Atenzi changed his tactics.

Instead of wild, all-out attacks, he began a series of quick, precise strikes.

Each cut was shallow, barely more than a scratch, but placed with surgical accuracy.

Khan, at first, seemed almost amused by this change. "Have you lost your nerve, demon? These love taps will not save you!"

But as the fight wore on, Khan's amusement turned to frustration, and then to concern. The multitude of small wounds began to take their toll.

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

The warlord's movements, once fluid and powerful, became sluggish. His attacks, while still devastatingly strong, were easier for Atenzi to predict and avoid.

"What trickery is this?" Khan bellowed, his hammer missing Atenzi by a wider margin with each swing. "What have you done to me?"

Atenzi allowed himself a cold smile. "No trickery, Khan.

Merely the culmination of centuries of martial knowledge. Allow me to educate you."

As he spoke, Atenzi continued his relentless assault.

His blade found the weak points in Khan's armor with unerring precision, each strike adding to the warlord's accumulating fatigue and pain.

"This technique," Atenzi explained, his voice calm despite the intensity of the battle, "was developed by Hattori Hanzo, one of the greatest ninja to ever live.

He called it the 'Death by a Thousand Cuts.'"

Khan's eyes widened in recognition and dawning fear. "The legendary shadow warrior? But he lived centuries ago, in another world entirely!"

Atenzi's smile grew colder. "Indeed.

And his knowledge, along with that of countless other masters, flows through my veins.

You face not just one opponent, Khan, but the accumulated skill of ages.

I come from your world, except that I am for the future Khan.

Iknow who you are, and know your tactics and techniques.

And many others..."

As if to punctuate his words, Atenzi launched into a series of strikes so fast they seemed to blur together.

Khan, his legendary reflexes dulled by pain and exhaustion, could do nothing but endure the onslaught.

By the time Atenzi stepped back, Khan was a bloody mess.

The warlord's armor hung in tatters, blood flowing from dozens of precision cuts. His breathing was labored, his once-proud stance now hunched and pained.

"Do you yield?" Atenzi asked, his katana held at the ready.

Khan's response was a roar of defiance.

With the last reserves of his strength, the warlord charged, his hammer raised for one final, devastating attack.

Time seemed to slow for Atenzi. He saw the attack coming as if in slow motion. In that moment, he made his choice.

*FORGIVE ME, MUSASHI.

BUT SOMETIMES, TO SAVE MANY, ONE MUST BE SACRIFICED.*

As Khan's hammer descended, Atenzi moved.

Not away from the attack, but into it. He allowed the weapon to strike his shoulder, feeling bones shatter under the impact. But the move brought him inside Khan's guard, and Atenzi did not waste the opportunity.

His katana flashed once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

Each strike found a vital point – the juncture of Khan's human and equine bodies, a major artery in his torso, and finally, a thrust that pierced the warlord's heart.

For a moment, both warriors stood frozen.

Khan's eyes were wide with disbelief, his hammer slipping from nerveless fingers. Atenzi, his left arm hanging useless at his side, maintained his stance through sheer force of will.

Then, slowly, Khan began to fall. The great warlord, Scourge of Civilizations, toppled like a mighty oak, crashing to the ground with an impact that shook the very foundations of the ruined castle.

But even as Khan fell, Atenzi found he couldn't stop.

His body, driven beyond its limits by the killer instinct that had possessed him, continued to fight.

He slashed at the air, at unseen enemies, his movements becoming more frantic and uncoordinated with each passing second.

*I MUST WIN. I MUST SURVIVE. I MUST... I MUST...*

The thoughts that had driven him throughout the battle began to fade, replaced by a encroaching darkness.

Atenzi's vision blurred, the world around him becoming a smear of colors and indistinct shapes.

Still, he fought on.

Even as consciousness slipped away, his body continued to move, driven by some primal instinct that refused to acknowledge the battle was over.

From the sidelines, Báthory watched with a mixture of awe and concern.

She had seen many great warriors in her long existence, but never one who pushed themselves to such extremes.

"Enough," she said softly, stepping forward. "It's over, my champion.

You've won."

But Atenzi didn't seem to hear her. His movements were becoming more erratic, his swings wild and unfocused.

Blood flowed freely from his numerous wounds, staining the ground beneath him.

Musashi, who had been watching the duel with growing concern, moved to intervene.

But before he could reach Atenzi, the self-proclaimed demon's legs finally gave out.

Atenzi collapsed, his katana clattering to the ground beside him.

Yet even then, his body twitched and jerked, as if still trying to continue the fight.

As Báthory and Musashi rushed to Atenzi's side, a hush fell over the battlefield. Vampire and centaur alike stared in stunned silence at the scene before them.

Genghis Khan, the seemingly invincible warlord, lay dead. And beside him, battered, bloodied, but undeniably victorious, lay Atenzi – the mortal who had done the impossible.

Báthory knelt beside Atenzi, cradling his head in her lap. "Foolish, brave little demon," she murmured, a note of genuine affection in her voice. "What manner of being are you, to push yourself so far beyond mortal limits?"

Musashi's face was grave as he examined Atenzi's wounds. "He lives," the swordmaster announced, "but barely.

His recovery, if he survives at all, will be long and painful."

As if in response to their words, Atenzi's eyes fluttered open.

For a moment, they blazed with that same primal fire that had driven him throughout the battle. Then, slowly, awareness seemed to return.

"Did I..." Atenzi's voice was barely a whisper. "Did I win?"

Báthory's laugh was like shattering crystal. "Win? My dear Atenzi, you've done far more than that. You've become a legend."

A small smile tugged at Atenzi's lips.

As vampire healers rushed forward to tend to their fallen champion, the centaur army stood in confused disarray.

Their leader was dead, their invasion thwarted.

Many began to lay down their weapons, honoring the terms of the duel.

Báthory rose, her eyes scanning the battlefield.

When she spoke, her voice carried to every corner of the ruined castle grounds.

"Let it be known," she proclaimed, "that on this day, Oni no Atenzi, champion of Bloodmire, has defeated Genghis Khan in single combat.

The invasion is over. The war is won."

A cheer went up from the vampire forces, while the centaurs bowed their heads in grudging respect. As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting the battlefield into shadow, all eyes turned to the unconscious form of Atenzi.

In that moment, friend and foe alike knew they had witnessed something extraordinary.

A mortal had challenged a god of war and emerged victorious.

The balance of power in Naaim had shifted, and at its center lay a being of immense potential and terrible power.

As night fell on the blood-soaked ruins of Bloodmire's castle, one question hung in the air, unspoken but felt by all:

What manner of demon had they unleashed upon the world?

The answer, like Atenzi himself, remained shrouded in mystery. But one thing was certain – nothing in Naaim would ever be the same again...