“What… are you?” Elite Pain whispered, for the first time feeling a cold trickle of something unfamiliar: doubt.
The bell chimed once, softly.
Elite Pain’s eyes widened. He yanked the whip, expecting tendons to snap, for the bone mask to shatter in a howl. Instead, the barbs dug in—and stopped. 3l’s grey sleeve darkened with a thin line of black ichor, but they simply raised their other hand and placed two fingers on the whip’s length. Elite Pain Painful Duel 5 3l
Across from him, the challenger was simply known as 3l. No armor. No weapon. Just a thin figure in a grey tunic, hands clasped loosely in front of them. Their face was a smooth, featureless mask of polished bone.
The bell chimed again. Is that all?
“You’re late,” Elite Pain snarled. “I was told you’d beg.”
He opened his mouth. No sound came out. His body convulsed as a thousand deaths—none of them his—tore through his nerves. The obsidian shards fell from his armor like dead leaves. His eyes went white. “What… are you
Next.