The arena had become a blur of pain and blood.
Ian could barely hear the roaring crowd over the pounding of his own heartbeat, the thrum of hope he was so desperately trying to hold onto.
His body was screaming at him, muscles shredded and raw from the brutal exchange.
The air held the stench of sweat, blood, and death, the cries of the spectators vibrating through the ground beneath him.
Yet none of that mattered. Not now.
Joras had cut him, many times.
He could feel the burn of his wounds, searing through him like a fire.
His flesh had already begun to regenerate, but it was slow, agonizing.
"I need more... just a little more," he thought, his fingers tightening around the hilts of his twin daggers.
But his reserves were exhausted.
The brutal dodge of his Swift Cut had drained him, and his Necrotic Energy was spent.
He had no fuel left to use Soul Assimilation.
