"A dozen against one, and you call this a duel?"
Abaddon stood in one corner of the Gladiatorial Arena, his gaze sweeping over the figures opposite him in their heavy Terminator Armour. His lips curled into an openly mocking smile.
His voice echoed through the spacious Gladiatorial Arena, laden with contempt, as though he were ridiculing a band of challengers who had no idea how outmatched they were.
Makro stood on the other side of the Gladiatorial Arena, with more than a dozen fully armed Justaerin Terminators behind him.
Their Terminator Armour gleamed a cold, dark green beneath the spotlights, and the sword-and-shield insignia on their pauldrons flashed with metallic reflections.
A savage smile spread across Makro's face, twisting the old scar that ran diagonally from his forehead, across the bridge of his nose, and down to his jaw into a writhing centipede.
His voice carried a matter-of-fact ruthlessness. "The victor rules. Victory is worth any price. That is Cthonia's tradition, and an iron law of war. Surely you aren't naive enough to think anyone will give you a fair, one-on-one duel on the battlefield?"
"Those who pursue victory too obsessively often fail to attain it." Abaddon slowly rolled his neck, producing a string of crisp cracks.
He took a step forward, his bare foot leaving a clear print in the arena's sand.
He raised a hand and beckoned Makro and the others with his fingers, the gesture openly provocative and contemptuous.
"Come on, then. Let's see what you greenhorns in your tin shells are really made of."
"Heh." Makro sneered and wasted no more words.
He exchanged glances with several Justaerin Terminators beside him, and they stepped forward together, striding into the Gladiatorial Arena.
They spread into a line, forming a wall of steel as they slowly closed in