Amos fired—and at the same moment, Bryanard hurled his war hammer with terrifying force.
The bullet and the weapon streaked past one another midair. The Gambler's shot struck the Warhammer dead on, and a sudden burst of electricity exploded across the knight's armored body. Sparks arced violently across his plating as the current surged through metal, and Bryanard let out a pained yell, his body locking up from the voltage.
Still swinging from his whip, Amos barely managed to avoid the flying war hammer—but not entirely. The handle clipped his side with a heavy crack, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his ribs before the weapon slammed into the fortress wall behind him. The impact tore through the stone, obliterating the anchor point his whip had latched onto.
The line gave way—and Amos dropped.
He hit the ground hard, but tucked into a roll just in time, skidding through the dirt and dust with a grunt. His hat spun away, landing beside him.
"What is this!?" Quincy cried out, her voice echoing from above as she hovered high over the arena. "So much has happened in such a short time! The Warhammer used magic! The Gambler saved himself with a whip! And was that an electric bullet!? This match just keeps getting more exciting by the minute!"
In the fighters' waiting room, the sorceress Annabel folded her arms and tapped her chin. "So the rumors of him using magic were true after all…"
"The more I watch this tournament," Roland muttered, glancing out the window toward the field, "the more glad I am that you're my substitute."
Xain gave him an unamused look and said nothing.
Mae leaned forward slightly. "Hmm. That bounty hunter's doing better than I thought he would. And what are those bullets he's using?"
Back in the arena, smoke curled from Bryanard's armor as the electricity finally stopped coursing through him. He knelt in the dust, recovering from the jolt.
"You... lied?" he said, his voice low and rough.
Amos, now upright, dusted himself off and bent to snatch his hat from the dirt. He set it back on his head with a small tug before answering, "Of course I did. I need every advantage I can against you."
With a flick of his wrist, the Gambler cracked his whip—and the cord snapped through the air, wrapping tight around Bryanard's throat.
"So sorry about this," Amos said, gripping the handle with both hands and bracing his boots against the ground. "But this is the only way I'm winning today!"
Bryanard's hands shot up—but instead of yanking at the whip, he brought his palms together with a thunderous clap. A shockwave blasted outward from his hands, bursting through the air with such force it struck Amos like a battering ram.
"Ahhh—!" Amos was thrown clear off his feet. The whip slipped from his fingers as his body was launched backward, straight through the fractured wall his opponent's war hammer had torn open earlier.
Quincy clapped once.
The ground rumbled.
The arena began to shift.
The battlefield cracked and split apart, the floor shifting beneath the rubble. Sections of stone sank downward while new formations pushed up from below—pillars of jagged granite and rugged slate jutting skyward in uneven clusters. Shallow mineral pools formed in the recesses, their surfaces catching the shifting light. Clusters of quartz and raw crystal erupted from raised platforms like jagged trees, casting fractured reflections across the stone.
The wide, open space had transformed into a broad cavern floor—wild, fractured, and treacherous—yet still fully visible from the stands. The reshaped terrain rose in natural terraces, layered like ancient steps, allowing the audience a clear view of every corner of the battlefield.
From his seat in the VIP stand, Prince Mark leaned forward slightly with a grin. "Here comes the arena shift again," he said, swirling his drink. "Such an exciting addition."
Back in the arena, Amos groaned as he pushed himself up from the dirt, relieved to find he hadn't landed on any of the newly formed minerals. Shards of quartz and jagged rock surrounded him like a scattered minefield.
"Ugh, goddess… my ears are ringing," he muttered, blinking through the dust. His eyes scanned the battlefield for his hat—but instead landed on something else. Something big. Something familiar.
"Oh… I could definitely use this," he said, forcing himself upright as he grabbed the object with both hands. His arms shook slightly under its weight. "Damn, that's heavy…"
No sign of his hat. But what he'd found would do more than replace it[1].
Meanwhile, Bryanard yanked the whip from around his neck and was ready to toss it aside—but paused. He turned it over in his hands, expression thoughtful. Maybe it could serve a purpose. With a grunt, he hooked it at his side and crouched low.
Then he leapt.
His armored form launched skyward, clearing the crystal pillars with ease. From his aerial vantage, he scanned the rugged terrain of the reshaped arena—and spotted Amos. The bounty hunter was crouched low beside a patch of razor-sharp quartz, his silhouette just barely visible through the haze.
Bryanard shifted his momentum midair and redirected into a steep dive. Arms cocked back, he brought both fists down in a crushing overhead blow aimed straight at the crouched figure.
A direct hit.
The ground cracked beneath the weight of his impact. Dust and shards exploded outward in a deafening burst—but as it cleared, Bryanard stared down at what he'd actually struck.
Not Amos.
Just a crumpled duster coat draped over a jagged stalagmite.
From behind, danger stirred.
Bryanard whirled—just in time to see Amos, stripped of both coat and hat, charging in with his own war hammer raised high above his head.
"Fooled ya!"
Bryanard lashed out with the whip in his hand, snapping it forward wildly—but the strike flew too high and missed completely.
"That thing requires finesse!" Amos shouted.
He swung the war hammer with both hands.
"But swinging a big fucking hammer doesn't!"
The weapon slammed into Bryanard's chest with a dull, metallic thud, sending him staggering backward. He stumbled over the jagged quartz behind him, which shattered beneath his weight in a splintering crunch—but his armor held firm. No blood. No break.
Amos didn't wait.
He dropped the war hammer and drew both of his steam-revolvers in a single motion, snapping their barrels into place with practiced ease.
He pulled the triggers. Again. Again. Again.
The first bullet sparked on impact—another electric round, discharging across the surface of Bryanard's armor. The next two latched onto the plating with sharp metallic clinks, but fizzled harmlessly—meant for lighter targets. Useless here.
Amos didn't care.
The last two shots roared from the barrels, striking with punishing force. One drove a dent into Bryanard's shoulder plate. The other slammed into his chest, hard enough to make the knight flinch. Still, the armor held.
"The Gambler just unleashed an onslaught of shots!" Quincy shouted from above, circling the arena with excitement in her voice. "But will it be enough to break through!?"
Parts of the crowd erupted into cheers—others, mostly the soldiers, looked tense. Uneasy.
"Just break already!" Amos yelled. He dropped the steam-revolvers and grabbed the war hammer again, dragging it up off the ground.
Bryanard staggered on the ground, but smiled through clenched teeth. Smoke still hissed off his armor. "Clever," he said, fighting through the electrocution by enhancing himself as he forced his body forward.
"Thanks," Amos growled, lifting the war hammer above his head. "But lose already!"
He swung it down.
Crack!
[1] Nothing could ever replace the hat!
-The Narrator.