The battlefield had fallen to an eerie silence, broken only by the sound of boots scraping against broken glass. Henry broke into a desperate sprint, his remaining arm pumping while his left shoulder remained a raw, bleeding socket. His head stayed low, daggers ready—one gripped in his right hand, the other clenched between his teeth.
He struck first with the precision of a master hunter. The right-hand dagger punched beneath an obsidian plate at the Avatar's ribs, the blade grinding against the divine material before sliding through with surgical accuracy. Black ichor pushed out around the steel and flowed down in thick, viscous streams. The metallic scent filled the air with its alien coldness. Henry twisted the blade free and slashed again in a calculated arc designed to widen the breach. More divine blood spilled across the glass.
The Avatar's counterattack came like a falling mountain. Its forearm, a mass of razor-sharp obsidian edges, swept toward Henry's head. The blow barely missed his scalp, tearing loose strands of hair as he ducked beneath the follow-up strike. Henry pressed inside the Avatar's guard and drove the mouth-held dagger upward into the same damaged rib section. The impact rattled his teeth against the weapon's handle. He worked his head from side to side, sawing the blade deeper into divine flesh. The handle bit into his gums hard enough to draw pink-tinged saliva.
The Avatar's elbow crashed into Henry's wounded shoulder with bone-crushing force. Muscle and sinew compressed against shattered bone fragments. Henry stumbled but caught himself, yanking the mouth blade free in a spray of black blood that splattered across his face and chest. The divine ichor was unnaturally slick, immediately cooling his skin wherever it touched.
Henry adapted his strategy, working low and close. A quick sidestep left, followed by a precise cut to the inner thigh where plates joined together. He felt the point catch the seam and pry it open. The Avatar's leg trembled under the assault. The divine being responded with a straight punch that could have shattered stone. Henry raised his forearm to deflect it, the obsidian plates scraping his skin and leaving shallow cuts that burned like acid. He slipped under the blow and chopped at the hip joint before driving his blade deep into the abdominal wound that stubbornly refused to heal. The knife sank to its hilt. He twisted with vicious efficiency and pulled out a fist-sized chunk of ruined divine flesh. It hit the glass with a wet, sickening sound.
Behind them, Irene forced herself to breathe steadily despite the carnage. "He's still fighting," she said quietly, partly to reassure the unconscious Nox. Hans remained silent, his experienced eyes tracking Henry's footwork and the precise angles of each counter-attack like a surgeon monitoring a patient's vital signs.
The Avatar grabbed for Henry's head with fingers like stone chisels, trying to gouge out his eyes. Henry caught the wrist on the flat of his blade and used his hip rotation to redirect the attack. The Avatar's other hand clipped his ear, sending a line of fire through his skull. Henry responded with a knee thrust to the Avatar's groin seam. The divine being actually flinched. Henry capitalized by hammering the mouth-held knife upward into the same vulnerable spot, the point sinking deep before he ripped it downward. The Avatar jolted and smashed a forearm into Henry's ribs. Something cracked under his skin. His breathing hitched, then found an irregular rhythm.
They were locked in brutal close quarters now. No room for elegant techniques—only elbows, knees, headbutts, blades, and desperate savagery.
Henry slashed at the abdominal seam again. The Avatar guarded with both forearms, allowing him to strike an outer plate instead. Obsidian shards scattered across Henry's boots like deadly confetti. The Avatar drove its forehead into Henry's face with crushing force. His nose broke with an audible crack, flooding his mouth with blood around the knife handle. He coughed, spat crimson, and bit down harder on the weapon.
He feinted toward the major wound, then pivoted to attack the wrist joint. The dagger chopped repeatedly at exposed tendons. The Avatar's hand began to sag. Another precise cut severed something crucial. The Avatar tried to club him with the dead limb anyway, the sheer weight of it sending Henry sliding backward across the slick glass, his boots squealing against the surface.
Henry planted his feet and drove forward again. He refused to let distance open between them. He kept the Avatar occupied with constant, methodical damage—hip, thigh, ribs, abdomen—never striking the same target consecutively. Black ichor poured freely now, making the battlefield treacherous underfoot.
The Avatar began to adapt its strategy. It stopped making wide swings and focused on joint manipulation. It caught Henry's right wrist in an elbow crook and twisted with divine strength. Tendons blazed with agony. Henry drove forward, rolled his wrist, and freed the knife with a violent jerk that tore skin from his own palm. His hand came back bloody and slippery. His grip felt noticeably weaker. He adjusted his hold and slashed at the elbow that had trapped him. The obsidian plate developed stress fractures.
The Avatar struck him in the side of the head. Henry's vision went white, then returned as a narrow tunnel. He shouldered forward and cut again to disrupt the Avatar's rhythm. He could feel his strength ebbing like water from a cracked vessel. He didn't have time to acknowledge the growing weakness.
The dagger between his teeth clicked against his molars. His jaw muscles screamed with fatigue. He used the weapon anyway, ducking low and swinging his head to rake the blade across the Avatar's neck seam where plates overlapped. The edge bit deep. He dragged it sideways, opening a thin but crucial line. The Avatar swatted at his head but struck his ruined left shoulder instead. Pain exploded through his vision again. He crashed into the Avatar's chest but kept his feet by locking his knee joint.
Henry noticed the neck plates beginning to separate at his cut. A line of pale stress showed along the damaged edge. He focused his attack there.
The Avatar recognized the threat. It grabbed Henry's right bicep and squeezed with inexorable pressure. Obsidian plates pressed into muscle like a mechanical vise. The grip climbed toward his shoulder and locked down completely. The power flowed from the ground, through the Avatar's core, into its crushing arm. Henry drove his forehead into the Avatar's face repeatedly, trying to stun it and break its concentration. The plates scraped his skin away in strips. He felt the bone under the grip beginning to splinter.
He tried desperately to cut the restraining hand. His knife skittered uselessly over the hard angles. He couldn't find purchase on the smooth obsidian. The Avatar wrenched with divine strength.
Henry's arm tore away at the shoulder with a wet, tearing sound and immediate searing heat. Blood cascaded down his chest and side before settling into a steady pour. His entire body lurched from the traumatic separation. He staggered but refused to fall. The knife clattered against the glass and spun beyond reach.
"Henry!" Irene's voice broke with anguish. She forced herself to remain in position.
Hans placed a steadying hand on Nox's forehead, preventing him from sitting up. "Stay down," he commanded, his voice artificially steady because leadership demanded it.
Henry bent and snatched up his remaining dagger before it could slide away on the blood-slicked glass. He clamped the handle between his teeth, planted his feet, and charged straight back into combat. He ignored the weapon he'd lost—he lacked the hand to wield it anyway.
He targeted the neck seam he'd opened. Swinging his head left to right, then right to left, he worked the blade deeper. Each motion pulled at his torn shoulder and sent shock waves of agony through his chest. He grunted and repeated the motion. Obsidian chips fell like black snow. The seam widened progressively. He could see the dark gap beneath the plates beginning to show actual flesh.
The Avatar pounded him relentlessly with both hands. Each impact layered fresh bruises over existing ones. A hammer blow caught his chest above the heart, stealing his breath completely. He fought to recover it with harsh, ragged gasps. Another strike clipped his jaw and nearly dislodged the knife. He clenched harder, tasting leather and copper. He drove his left side—the armless side—into the Avatar's sternum like a living battering ram. He used his entire body as a wedge to prevent the divine being from backing away and protecting the critical wound.
He savaged the neck with animalistic determination until the plates rolled back like bent metal lids, exposing the muscles beneath. The tissue was hard, black, and slick with divine ichor. Henry bit through it regardless. He ground his molars against the alien flesh and pulled until something tough finally gave way.
The Avatar attempted to hook his leg and throw him down. It scraped a foot across his shin and nearly succeeded. Henry drove his knee forward and absorbed the throw attempt on his thigh muscle. The tissue protested with white-hot pain. He stayed upright. The Avatar hammered his shoulder stump. The agony was so overwhelming that sound itself disappeared for several seconds. He continued his assault anyway. He pressed his forehead against the Avatar's throat and bit deeper into the exposed wound.
The mouth-held dagger slipped from his teeth, bounced once against the glass, and slid away into the spreading pool of blood. Henry didn't pursue it. He had a better grip now—his own teeth.
He set his jaw against the exposed gap and tore with primal savagery. It was brutal, inelegant work. He shook his head like a wild animal at carrion, not for dramatic effect but because the divine fibers held stubbornly and would not separate without raw force. The neck gave way in stages: first a strip of tissue, then another, then the final tough band holding everything together. His jaw muscles felt like they were tearing apart. He refused to release his grip.
The Avatar hammered the side of his head repeatedly. Black spots exploded across his vision. A thin, high whine emanated from somewhere deep in his skull. He closed his eyes and completed the fatal pull.
The neck came apart with a sharp, dry crack followed by a wet tearing sound. The head separated completely in his teeth. Henry fell backward with his grisly prize and struck the glass hard enough to rattle his spine. The severed head rolled from his mouth and shattered along existing damage lines. The inner glow that had powered it flickered once and went dark forever.
The headless body remained standing for a long moment, divine instincts still functioning. Black ichor poured from the stump in heavy streams that struck the plain with wet, slapping sounds. The stance gradually sagged. Knees buckled with mechanical precision. The massive form toppled sideways and slid to a complete halt. The obsidian plates settled against each other with a dull, grinding finality.
Henry lay on his back, staring up at the alien red sky that he could barely focus on anymore. His chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths. Blood continued flowing from his shoulder stump, burning wherever it touched the numerous cuts across his ribs. He turned his head just enough to see Irene's silhouette and Hans bent protectively over their unconscious companion—two figures still doing their jobs despite everything.
He attempted to push himself upright. His body completely refused the command. He tried again and managed perhaps three inches before the world tilted dangerously and swam back into rough focus.
"Good," he tried to say. The word emerged as nothing more than a rough exhalation.
The glass plain accepted his weight as he finally surrendered to it. Heat drained steadily from his skin. The edges of his vision began folding inward like closing curtains. He let consciousness slip away, not as defeat but because there was simply nothing left in him to spend.
The Avatar of the Obsidian God was dead, and Henry had paid the price for their survival.