It was the real threat. Its sting meant an eternity of torment as food for the demon bound within.

Ulrik shuffled forward, blade held ready, moving more slowly than he was capable of, hoping to lull Lem into a false sense of confidence. His foe closed the gap with the controlled movements of the professional, his feet well-spaced for maximum balance, his sword moving back and forth, the red runes leaving a faint blur in the air to Ulrik’s magic-sensitive eyes.

Lem sprang.

Ulrik parried and leapt back out of striking distance, and then Lem was on him again, like a cat on a trapped rat, his blade a great claw, swiping at his prey. The crowd’s roar was deafening. Ulrik parried the whirlwind of blows. He even managed a strike of his own, turned by the rock hard skin of Lem’s dermal armour.

They sprang apart after that first exchange, Ulrik breathing hard, his arm aching, and his blade notched in half a dozen places, the near-indestructible ancient crystal chipped by the demonic blade.

Lem raised his blade in mocking salute. “You will make a worthy century of kills.”

“I see you need a demon blade, old man,” said Ulrik. “Not able to get by on the strength of your arm anymore?”

“I am not even breathing hard. Your brow is covered in sweat. Don’t worry. You won’t have to care about that much longer.” Lem unleashed the full fury of his sword arm; Ulrik retreated, not wanting to slip, unable to stand his ground. Crystal rang against demonic metal. Lem was a master swordsman and the blade made him better than any foe Ulrik had ever faced. Inexorably Lem drove Ulrik all the way back across the Pit until his back pressed against the cool ancient stone. Then he struck the death blow.

Ulrik activated his implant. Alchemical fury poured into his veins. Everything slowed. Lem moved at half speed. Ulrik ducked under his blade and lashed out with his foot, aiming for the groin. Lem half-turned and Ulrik’s blow landed on his armoured leg. It was like kicking a stone column. Ulrik threw himself forward and rolled to his feet, getting himself out of the corner.

“Yours will not be an easy end,” said Lem, moving in for the kill.

Ulrik knew he had perhaps fifty heartbeats before the alchemicals faded, leaving him weak and numb and easy prey to a swordsman of Lem’s skill. It was always risky using such methods but he had no choice in this fight. His foe was too good for anything else. Lem came on again, confident, powerful, certain of victory.