The Templar was still for a moment.

Then he charged.

The distance between them vanished in an instant. The Templar moved with speed that shouldn't have been possible for someone in full plate armor, closing the gap before Nero could even process what was happening.

But Nero charged too, driven by rage and desperation and the refusal to die on his knees.

Gungnir came up, the spear's point aimed at the gap between helmet and chest plate. Nero's mind raced, analyzing the Templar's stance, looking for an opening, any weakness he could exploit—

And found nothing.

The Templar had simply raised his sword into a guard position.

But in that stance, Nero saw perfection. Every angle covered. Every approach blocked. The blade positioned exactly where it needed to be to intercept any attack.

There were no openings.

None whatsoever.

The realization hit Nero so hard, he staggered. His forward momentum faltered, his attack hesitating for just a fraction of a second.

That was all the Templar needed.

The distance closed and the sword came down.

Nero tried to adjust by bringing Gungnir up to block, but he was too slow.

The blade caught him across the chest, cutting through cloth and skin and muscle like they were paper. The edge bit deep, splitting him open from shoulder to sternum.

Blood erupted from the wound in a fountain of crimson. Nero's scream caught in his throat as agony, blood red and all-consuming flooded his nervous system.

He dropped to his knees, gasping for air. His free hand clutched at the wound, trying to hold himself together, but blood poured between his fingers in hot waves.

The Templar didn't pause, brutanot giving him a moment to recover.

Two more strikes came from above, heavy and brutal, aimed at his head.

"Crossing blades with a Warrior of God is an offence punishable by a thousand deaths, lad."

Nero raised Gungnir desperately, catching the first strike. The impact drove him further into the ground, his knees sinking into the mud. The second strike came immediately after, and he barely managed to deflect it.

Then a boot crashed into his solar plexus.

The air exploded from Nero's lungs. He flew backward, his body ragdolling through the air before slamming into the ground a dozen yards away.

More blood fountained from his mouth. His vision went dark at the edges, his brain struggling to process the damage.

As he lay there, gasping and bleeding, a single thought cut through the haze.

Why is he so powerful?

The Abominations he'd fought had been strong, yes. Dangerous. But this was different.

This was oppressive. Overwhelming. Like fighting a force of nature, something beyond human comprehension.

There was no way to win. No strategy, no trick, no desperation play that would make a difference.

Unless...

The thought formed before he could stop it.

The Yang form of the Black Body Transformation.

If he activated it, maybe he'd have a chance. Maybe the increased strength and speed would be enough to—

The sword came down again.

Nero's body moved on instinct, Gungnir coming up to parry. He followed with a thrust of his own, aiming for the Templar's throat.

The Templar tilted his head to the side, and the spear passed harmlessly by. Then he stepped fully into Nero's space, inside his guard, too close for the spear to be effective.

But Nero had anticipated this.

The Ein Sof within him surged to life, bubbling up from the depths of his being. Power flooded his muscles, sharpened his senses, and accelerating his perception.

He activated Shadow Shift.

The world became shadows and momentum. Nero's body melded with the darkness, gliding through it like water. His speed rocketed upward, so fast he left an afterimage behind.

He rolled around the Templar's guard, positioning himself behind the armored figure. The gap between helmet and gorget was exposed, just a thin strip of vulnerable flesh.

Nero gathered every ounce of strength his body could muster and drove Gungnir forward with all his might.

The spear's point struck metal with a deafening clang.

Nero's eyes widened in disbelief.

The Templar had moved. Somehow, impossibly, he'd tracked Nero's movement and shifted his position just enough to intercept the attack with the edge of his pauldron.

The spear scraped against enchanted steel and slid away harmlessly.

Nero pressed forward desperately, dark veins forming at the edges of his face and spreading down his arms. The corruption within him surged, trying to break free, trying to give him the power he needed—

A deep, disappointed sound came from within the helmet.

"Pathetic."

Nero felt himself lifted off the ground. Then he was airborne, spinning through the air.

His back hit the ground with bone-crushing force. The impact drove what little air remained from his lungs and sent fresh waves of agony through his broken body.

He tried to use Gungnir to push himself up, to get back on his feet, but his body wouldn't respond.

Then he looked down and understood why.

His arm was gone.

It lay a few feet away from him, still gripping Gungnir's shaft, severed cleanly at the shoulder. Blood poured from the stump in rhythmic spurts, pooling beneath him in a rapidly expanding puddle.

A soul-piercing scream tore from Nero's throat. The sound was like that of a dying animal. It gave way to suppressed cries and groans as he stared at the severed limb, his mind unable to process what he was seeing.

"My arm," he mumbled through clenched teeth. "My arm..."

Captain Orpheus approached, his blade held loosely at his side. Not a drop of blood clung to the pristine steel.

"Perhaps not a noble bastard then," he mused, "The spawn of some evil Abomination disguised as human?"

He stopped above Nero and pointed the sword at his throat. The edge bit into flesh, drawing a thin line of blood.

"What are you, heathen? My curiosity belays your death, so you should be grateful."

Nero was too dazed to respond at first. The pain was overwhelming, drowning out thought and reason and everything except the primal need to survive.

But the cold steel pressing against his throat drew something else from him. Something deeper than pain or fear.

Fury.

His lips peeled back in a wretched snarl, blood staining his teeth.

"Go to Hell!"

The Templar snorted.

Then he raised his blade, angling it for a killing blow.

The sword hung there for a moment, poised to fall.

"Orpheus! That's enough!"

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