There is a moment where eyes meet, where predator and prey is stripped completely from the equation. Vulnerability and weakness are shared in that moment, almost human among the beasts. Then, the war drum thunders once more across the battlefield, and hundreds of razor sharp teeth descend on Ultraviolet.

Its neck snaps with a crunch, and the voidlight of the valkhound's eyes is snuffed out. Those eyes stare out glossily at the crowd as Terror rips back, taking a huge chunk of flesh with it. Oil bursts from the wound, spraying down the victor as the feline's limbs spasm from their disconnected nerves, the body falling to the earth.

But this creature of chaos will die a thousand deaths before the final death finds its grasp upon him. The war is far from over, and the debt he owes too great for his job to be done here. Through agony that no dead creature should feel, his skin breaks open as the oilstone reclaims him, bones cracking and twisting, his insides liquefied by that glorious, holy touch, shaped and aggrandized, to be remade and reborn, better and more broken.

He was born imperfect.

He still is, imperfect.

Again and again and again.

From the crowd, bloodthirsty cries roar with kinetic joy. Some curse and complain as the oilstone tries to crystalize the broken body. Others hush, perhaps frightened by the gory display. Among them, golden eyes watch from behind an obsidian mask, silently calculating this failure into plans.