The arena was silent. The god-emperor of Earth, Damien, stood in his private box, his face a mask of cold fury. Below, the man they called the Silent Farmer stood over the unconscious form of Damien's champion.
The crowd did not understand what they had just seen. A fight that was not a fight. A victory that was not a victory.
Nox pulled the energy sword from his chest. The wound, which should have been fatal, was already gone. The homespun magic of Aethel, a gentle, stubborn thing, had mended the flesh and sealed the wound. It was a power this world of cold logic and hard numbers had never seen.
He met Damien's gaze across the sand.
'Your power is a scream,' Nox thought. 'Mine is a whisper. Let's see which is louder.'
"You," Damien's voice boomed, amplified by the arena's speakers. It was a voice used to absolute obedience. "You will face me. Now."
