Makro stood alone on the sand of the Gladiatorial Arena, gripping his training sword, its blade gleaming coldly beneath the spotlights.
His gaze shifted between Abaddon and Henry. His breathing had quickened, and a fine sheen of sweat had formed on his forehead.
Behind him, over a dozen Justaerin Terminators lay sprawled across the sand. Some groaned, some were already unconscious, and others struggled to get back up.
Apart from him, the only people still standing in the entire Gladiatorial Arena were the two figures opposite him.
Henry glanced at Makro, then at Abaddon, before shrugging and sliding his training sword back into the scabbard at his waist.
He turned toward Abaddon and grinned, speaking as though he were handing over a toy he had little interest in. "This one's yours. I've stretched my legs enough for now. I'll leave the rest to you."
"Thanks, brother of the Word Bearers," Abaddon said with a grin.
He watched Henry turn and stride out of the Gladiatorial Arena, disappearing into the crowd of onlookers, then slowly drew his gaze back and focused on Makro again.
Now, only Abaddon and Makro stood facing one another on the sand of the Gladiatorial Arena.
In the surrounding stands, the watching warriors held their breath, their eyes fixed on the two figures in the arena.
Tension filled the air like a string stretched to its limit, ready to snap at any moment.
"Aaargh!!!"
Makro roared and lunged forward.
His feet drove hard against the sand, and the assist systems of his Terminator Armour hummed low, propelling his enormous body forward at astonishing speed.
He gripped the training sword with both hands, its point aimed straight at Abaddon's chest, and thrust with all his strength and speed like a shell fired from a cannon.
The training sword