The Duel Arena lay deep within the Word Bearers' fortress, a grand circular enclosure built from dark stone. Its floor was paved with enormous slabs worn smooth by years of blood and footfalls.
Cold artificial light shone down from the towering dome, stretching the two men's shadows across the arena.
At one end, Cassios stood like a rock.
He had shed his battered armour and changed into a heavy suit bearing the plain, utilitarian style of the Word Bearers.
The armour was dark grey, its lines rugged, with a faint hum coming from the Servo Systems at its joints.
His left hand gripped a Storm Shield with thick edges, its polished face reflecting the cold light overhead.
In his right hand, he held a standard-issue Power Sword. Its Disruption Force Field had yet to activate, but the blade itself already gleamed coldly.
He repeatedly tested the flexibility of his armour's joints, checked his grip on the shield, and gauged the Power Sword's weight and balance. Every movement was meticulous, his breathing steady and deep. Behind his faceplate, his gaze was as sharp as a hawk's, fixed on the opponent across the arena as though he intended to engrave every slightest movement into his mind.
A century of combat instincts awoke and boiled in his blood, temporarily suppressing the exhaustion of his long journey and his uncertainty about the future. All that remained was pure focus on the coming clash.
At the other end of the arena, however, Hercules was in an entirely different state.
He seemed to have been summoned straight from sleep or rest. He wore only a simple training outfit, outlining a physique far larger and more powerful than that of an ordinary Astartes, as though it had been carved from a mountain range.
He wore no Helmet.