Desire courses through Silnarion’s being. 

Desire to crush the opponents under their leather boot’s heel clashes with the desire to gather accomplices to slave for and bear witness to their plan. 

Desire to become stronger, more worthy of their Master, rules all. 

Lack of training shows in the sloppiness of Silnarion’s martial form, but the natural grace of a dragonfly helps to offset the harms. 

The age old story of talent beleaguering industry continues, upsetting the competitors of many years.

Strong blows are directed towards sensitive pressure points in a bid to establish dominance while avoiding unnecessary damage to the human form, the corporeal cage.

Shimmering souls lie encased in cocoons of glistening fat and pulsing muscle. Through channels of elastic fiber flows liquid metal and gas and waste. The gross physiology of the human vessel plods away, determined to maintain ownership of this beautiful and enigmatic soul, the only portion of spiritual substance.  

Time inevitably hammers the shell open without the intervention of the greater beings. Over the years, veins burst, muscle atrophies, fat vesicles swell, and the organ housing the mind, commander of spirit, decays within its hollow throne of bone. 

The soul slips through the cracks made by the incessant wear of living, its energy gathered up into the greater stream of existence beyond life and death.

Occasionally a hand reaches to fish out one soul or another, causing ripples and upsetting the natural flow, before allowing it to slip back into its own course. 

The movement of the soulstream continues steadily onward, full of peace and inevitability in contrast to the roaring protests of the aching, bitter shells left behind.

Fear of this future is embedded in the shells with souls still bound.

Perhaps this explains why one such as Silnarion, so preoccupied with matters of the Heights of Divinity, still has the violence and grit and desire of the Mud-bound Mortals.

Cracks in their vessel abound, signs of a life most determinedly set to be short. The hourglass of their time is cracked, allowing the escape of more sand than is due to the hour. 

The soul of the pitiful creature reaches out strands of itself, knitting the worn parts together and controlling action where the mind cannot reach. The mind’s eye leads the soul to action, guiding and shaping it as an extension of itself.

Still, the sharp edge of the spiritual self lacerates the healthy flesh with willful abandon. The sword’s sharpness damages the scabbard with each movement, with each alteration. 

The mind’s reins are not enough to keep the soul from damaging its prison, forcing the body to surrender more and more of its being to the evasive, possessive, omniscient substance.

The natural soul is agitated, encouraged, impassioned by the presence of a soul stronger, belonging already to the place where no shell shackles the power undying. 

The vessel is preoccupied, meeting blow for blow with another human shell. The mind is focused on calculating future actions and maintaining the destabilization of the heart’s emotions. 

And so the soul moves. It reaches out and collects the whisps of energy slipping through the more damaged bodies. 

The soul tightens its grip on its own battered automaton, filling the holes in the flesh with spirit, weaving together the invisible and the corporeal. 

This, this is from which their strength is derived.

Silnarion’s breath quickens. Their eyes seem to glow like molten quicksilver. Lines of silver appear on their hands and body, giving them an ominous glow.

Further damage to Silnarion’s body seems to never register. Pain is a fleeting memory, adrenaline and strength the feast of today.

The emotions barely regained once again run rampant, the heart beating quicker, the desire growing stronger, the ecstasy of existence overpowering the mind’s floodgates.

The mind itself lights up with whirring thoughts, barely registering the present moment before moving onto the next action. Spinning calculations of weak points are chased by soul-fueled physical targeting. 

Discarded are the cold analyses of which opponents would make fine allies. Those whose actions catch them off guard, whose prowess allow them to lose without disgrace are those worthy of further consideration.

Rather than mind controlling soul, soul controlling body, the soul now serves the channel between all, urging forward thought and action. 

The dirty instincts of humanity strengthens the soul with its virility, while the mind brings logic, imbuing the soul with the power to organize itself as a being more than spirit.

Glowing eyes haunt the enemy, seeing through bluffs and feints. Striking elbows and knees knock the wind right out of the opponent while fleet-footed dodges prevent a gift of the same in turn. 

From the audience stands, there seems to be a vague halo surrounding Competitor 13. The Kintsugi pattern of the flesh is left unnoticed, too subtle to see from afar. 

More and more patrons focus their gaze upon the lithe form. Wealthy bidders hold tight to their purses, but the common rabble are swift to bet spare change on the black horse rising through the ranks. 

The House changes the odds, bringing 13’s chance of victory closer to those of the proven recurrent warriors.

Defeated opponents limp to the rest area one after the other.  A hushed whisper rises up as they exchange observations of their losing matches. A burly man swears 13’s shin broke on impact when met with his fists. A sweaty compatriot tells of how a jarring punch must have done damage to their thin, frail hands. 

Meanwhile, the damage to themselves seems surprisingly minimal for the fear they felt in dealing with the masked daemon. Comparisons of wounds show that the personage must have taken mercy on them. After all, one so frightening cannot possibly be so weak as to leave no lasting damage.

Seed of devotion sprout in the minds of the competitors left by the wayside. How strong could they become if taught the ways of a personage so powerful that random blows dealt without form could do thoroughly crush them, if they were to be taught by a personage that views them as unworthy of serious technique?