He skidded to a stop, turned, and fired a fireball directly between them.
"Ignis!"
The explosion sent both tumbling. One was reduced to burning fragments. The other, still whole, began to rise — slow, stiff.
Aamon was already there. Sword overhead.
He brought it down.
Seven down. 11 fireballs left.
The last three puppets stood at the far end of the circle, watching. Waiting. As if learning.
Aamon spat blood and faced them, breathing heavily.
"You're not going to win," he growled.
They didn't answer.
But then they moved — perfectly coordinated. One charged straight ahead. The others flanked, faster than before.
Aamon ran to meet the center one. Their blades collided — but this puppet was stronger. It pressed him back. Sparks flew as their swords scraped. Aamon barely sidestepped a killing thrust.
He elbowed the puppet hard in the side — it staggered just long enough for him to leap back and shout:
"Ignis!"
Another fireball blasted into the side of the flanking puppet.
It collapsed, torso burning, head rolling across the floor.
Eight down. 10 fireballs left.
The remaining two struck as one — a high-low attack. Aamon dropped to a knee, parried the low blade, and raised his sword to barely block the other. He was pinned.
"Damn it—"
He let go of his blade for a heartbeat and cast Ignis point-blank.
Boom.
The top puppet was engulfed. Fire swallowed it. The lower one reeled from the blast but remained intact. Aamon retrieved his sword with a roll, came up slashing.
Steel cut through shoulder and chest. The last puppet's arm fell off. It turned for a final strike — but Aamon was faster.
His sword plunged into its chest and burst out the other side.
Ten down. 9 fireballs left.
Silence returned.
Aamon stood, panting, sword dripping with oil and ash. His body trembled — from pain, from adrenaline.
Then—
A sound. Metal dragging.
From the shadows outside the ring of light, another figure stepped forward.
But this one wasn't a puppet.
It moved with grace. Wore armor. Its blade gleamed like moonlight. Eyes burned beneath a dark helm — intelligent, focused.
Aamon's stomach turned.
This was the true challenger.
And he had only nine fireballs left.
He steadied himself, raised his sword, and whispered:
"…Good. I wasn't done yet."
The final puppet dropped in silence, collapsing in a heap of splinters and smoke.
Aamon staggered back, sucking air into scorched lungs. His hands trembled—one from gripping his sword too tightly, the other still warm with lingering flame. His coat was torn across the ribs, the leather blackened where fire had licked too close.
Ten down.
Nine fireballs remained.
He let out a shaky breath—then froze.
A creak echoed through the dark, like wood bending under a great weight.
Then came a thunderous thud. Followed by another. Dust fell from the high stone walls. The light above flickered—just once—and returned.
From the black void outside the ring of light, something enormous moved.
Aamon stepped back as the darkness shuddered. The edge of the arena groaned, stone cracking beneath something colossal.
A giant hand emerged into the light—crafted of thick timber, wrapped in rusted chains. Then another. The creature dragged itself into view, ducking low to pass under the unseen ceiling.
Aamon's gut clenched.
It was a puppet, yes—but no human shape.
It stood at least twenty feet tall, its arms like tree trunks, legs thick as columns. Its "face" was a warped wooden mask with hollow eye sockets, jaw locked open in a frozen scream. Several longswords—remnants of fallen warriors—were embedded in its chest like broken spears.
And in its hand: a massive blade, as long as Aamon's entire body, serrated and forged for nothing but ruin.
The giant puppet stopped at the edge of the light—then stepped in.
The ground trembled.
Aamon stared up at the monster, fingers flexing around his sword hilt.
"So that was just the warm-up," he muttered.
The giant moved.
It swung its blade in a devastating horizontal arc. Aamon dove to the side as the sword hit the arena floor, carving a massive gouge in the stone. Shards flew like shrapnel. He rolled, came up running, and sprinted around behind it.
"Ignis!"
A fireball launched from his palm and struck the puppet's back. The explosion left a burn—but the giant didn't even flinch.
Aamon frowned.
Eight fireballs left.
The puppet turned, faster than it should. Its massive leg swept across the arena. Aamon jumped—barely clearing the kick—but midair, the giant's arm came down like a hammer.
He raised his sword and braced.
The blow hit him like a landslide.
He was slammed into the ground, his vision flashing white, his sword knocked from his hand. The air left his lungs in a screamless gasp. Something in his shoulder tore.
He forced himself up, teeth clenched against the pain.
The puppet lifted its sword for a vertical strike—a finishing blow.
Aamon's eyes narrowed. He whispered.
"Ignis."
The fireball struck the raised arm just as it swung. The blast threw the weapon off-course—it crashed beside him instead of through him, shaking the entire floor.
He dove for his sword, grabbed it, and ran between the puppet's legs.
Then he stopped.
Think. Don't waste fire.
The joints. The neck. The knees. Vulnerable points.
The puppet turned slowly—but Aamon was already behind it again.
He shouted:
"Ignis—quadra!"
Three fireballs in rapid succession.
One to the left knee. One to the back of the head. One to the right shoulder.
Five fireballs left.
The knee joint buckled—the massive puppet staggered. It reached back to swat him, but its shoulder was scorched and slow to move.
Aamon leapt onto its lower back, gripping the protruding swords embedded in its wooden frame. He climbed up like a cliff face as it shook and howled—a low, grinding wail from its hollow chest.
He reached the upper back—and drove his sword deep into the neck.
The blade sank halfway. Sparks flew.
The puppet began thrashing wildly.
Aamon hung on, barely. He shouted again:
"Ignis!"
Fire erupted at the base of its skull.
The wooden mask split down the center, smoke billowing from the inside. The whole body jerked, spasmed—then collapsed backward.
Aamon jumped free just before the colossal form crashed to the ground.
Silence.
His knees hit the floor. He didn't rise for a moment.
Then, painfully, he stood. Blood ran down his side. His sword was cracked near the hilt. His left hand trembled from channeling too many spells too quickly.
But he was alive.
Ten puppets down. One giant destroyed. Four fireballs left.
He turned toward the shadows beyond the arena. Still breathing. Still standing.
Still ready.