Malik didn't move.
His flames gathered again, coiling and whispering through the air like serpents eager to strike.
He didn't look like a man in a fight.
He looked like a predator enjoying the slow collapse of his prey.
He hadn't taken a single step since the battle began.
Not one.
He just stood there, composed, flawless, surrounded by rings of fire spinning around him like planets around a star.
A god on a battlefield.
Looking down at the last, hopeless defiance of a warrior who refused to stay down.
At the dwarf, whose eyes still held hope of victory.
And that...that was starting to piss Malik off.
The crowd had gone quiet.
Why? Because the dwarf was still moving.
Bruised. Burned. Bloodied.
But not broken.
They watched in disbelief as Grugrim pushed a hand against the cracked arena floor, fingers digging into the scorched stone for balance.
His arms shook violently—a mix of exhaustion and raw pain.
His axe slipped once, scraped the ground…But he caught it. Held on.
