Bout after bout, without pause.
The sand was repeatedly soaked and compacted by sweat, tiny droplets of blood, and scattered remnants of energy fields, then faithfully turned over and leveled by servitor machinery, like parchment constantly wiped clean and rewritten, yet never entirely free of its old marks.
The clash of steel, the explosive hum of psychic energy, the dull thud of colliding bodies, suppressed growls, and the occasional shriek of shattering armour took turns echoing through this ancient circular space, playing a brutal symphony of pure strength pitted against skill.
The clamour in the stands rose and fell, swelling into cheers or sighs with every spectacular or unexpected outcome.
When the dust settled on the final quarterfinal, only four figures remained standing in the centre of the arena.
Hercules of the Word Bearers.
He stood quietly in his corner, like the uncanny stillness in the eye of a storm.
Once again, he held that edgeless greatsword, its rough tip lightly touching the ground.
He had acquired almost no new wounds, as though the preceding battles had been nothing more than a warm-up.
But his silent, almost tangible oppressive presence had grown heavier than at the outset, like gathering leaden clouds.
Ahriman of the Thousand Sons.
He stood diagonally opposite Hercules, arcane glimmers flowing across his crimson armour.
He carried no conventional weapon, only a heavy tome floating beside him, its pages turning without wind and radiating ripples of spectral blue psychic energy.
He stood straight as a scholar, but his eyes, hidden in the shadow of his hood, glittered with sharp starlight that seemed to perceive the laws and weaknesses of all things.
Sevatar of the Night Lords Legion.
Like a true ghost, he silently "stood" in another corner, as though he might melt into the shadows along the