DING!
The bell rang a third time, closer now.
Meanwhile, Bruce threw the punch.
His fist hit a hollow at the side of its skull-like head, and the impact was so weak that for a moment he thought he had missed entirely. But the hollow staggered. It was already half-cracked from earlier blows. It came apart slowly, mist rising off the place where its head had been.
Bruce pulled his arm back. The arm did not want to come. Every muscle in his soul-body was telling him to stop, sit down, close his eyes. He told it no. He raised the fist again.
Beside him, Kael was making sounds Bruce had not heard from him before. Not laughter. Not banter. Just heavy, ragged breaths between punches — the breaths of a man who had been at the bottom of his reserves for too long and was now operating on something other than soul energy, something older and meaner. He was still fighting. But he was not fighting well anymore.
