AN: Pain, Anguish, Betrayal! Hosen-Sama said he would update Dragon Souls and he didn't, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!

Well, I'm half done with next chapter, sadly I've been on vacation for the last week and thus have been unable to write, that and my vacation ended on a very sour note, so I'm feeling pretty down right now, and thought I could cheer myself up with some humor.

Projects can take on a life of their own: you can fall in love with it if you hit some sweet notes. Sadly just the opposite can happen as well: I hate SvS. It was fun the first few chapters, so I'll keep the story and may update in the future, but it has become so mean-spirited and trite it's hard to sit down and stick at it.

But, it would be unfair to my readers to deny them the best part of the story, which I was really looking forward to doing, so here it is. The ultimate battle of the gods as its own fic. One round per chapter.

All action, no fluff, much swearing and many immaturity. Doge dogg, fuck logic. No revisions made. Here we go.

The two lone figures wandered into the arena, shielding their eyes from the tremendous spotlights above. The roar of the crowd in the rows and rows of stadium seats was deafening to the forlorn fighters as overly dramatic and overplayed "epic" music blared in the background.

"Welcome to the cross dimensional stadium of the lords, I am your host, Marvelous Chester." The sinister host cackled over the radio, filling the stadium with yet another round of deafening applause which shook the very ground, the sky cloudy, the full moon peaking around the gaps upon occasion.

DSP gulped, his pants filling with bricks while Pistoff gave the finger to the camera, the appendage swelling up on the Jumbotron above the penhouse seats, a motley collection of teens (plus one pissed off lawyer) sitting below with their feet kicked up or lounging on the chairs. One of them, a brawny Englishmen with a skull mask looked over to a cleric in wearing blackened robes:

"'Ay Selfish, pass me the fucking popcorn would ya?"

"Get it yourself you twat!"

"This is feeling very Jolly-"

"No-one asked you Thomas."

"You're all giving me a headache!" Boomed a large, cynical man, dressed all in black with the glossy white mask of an assassin and a scythe that dripped darkness on his back.

"Shut it! I will revoke your fukn tickets and I won't even feel bad about it when I'm done scorching the fukn earth!" Boomed a tall, slender figure in ostentatious black armor with silver plates and grey hem, a black mask obscuring his face with a long hazel ponytail.

"He started it." The Darkwraith whined, pointing erratically at Selfish, the others just sighing or roflmaoing and watching the n00bs getting ready for their slaughter.

The two combatants settled at the center of the arena, the Victorian Assassin tapping his microphone:

"Alright, here are the rules, ahem." He started, looking at the blank sheet and throwing it to his side, his suave nature turning the paper into a lethal weapon, which deheaditated the waterboy and stuck in the wall with a clang-

*RIP Mister Wilkinson 1210-2014

"There are no rules. If at least one of you is able to survive the match, the other will be revived in the next round. All healing Items are allowed, and will be restocked at the end of each round, are you ready?"

"Damn right, get me back to Lordran you cruel assholes!" Boomed Pistoff, DSP looking to his feet,

"Wait, My Shoe's untied-"

There was a flash of blinding light, the duo getting some freaky LSD rainbow filters over their vision before they materialized in another world (ohhhhh spooky)

They seemed to be on the ramparts of Boletaria Castle, the stone fortifications lit up in the elegant midday while the flags waved softly in the calm afternoon. Chester buzzed over the intercom, which seemed to come from everywhere at once, the sky opening up into a monitor that seemed to shift over the various maps of the Soul/Scrolliverse.

"We have infected the various worlds with hidden cameras in order to track your progress, and so audiences can more easily laugh at your failure," he laughed, "This is the only time you will get a pause, the rest of the time you may be attacked at any time, good luck, and-"

He was interrupted by the sound of splashy and girly giggling, the screen shifting to the Lordran shower room after combat practice, the two nosebleeding a liter while many buttons were fumbled over-

"Oh Dear, avert your eyes from the screen, I will fix this, erm…" but, the assassin was so distracted he "accidently" hit the zoom button, the sound of deep catcalls heard clear from Cock of Doody, the sigh of despair even louder as the screen switched off-

"Technical difficulties, fight!"

"What?" DSP snapped, breaking from his trance while Pistoff drew his dwarven sword,

"Prepare yourselves, I smell a scrub… other than you." DSP stuck his tongue out at the orc, the sound of footfalls loud on the ground as a figure came up the stairs ahead, his vestige one of ungodly horror. Pistoff sputtered-

He was lean-

He was Overleveled-

He spammed lightning bolt-

"He stole my name!" DSP screamed, pointing an accusing finger at the interloper,

"Oh my god you're so fucking stooped!" Boomed the King of Manbabies, "You stole my name, not my fault the naming thingy is so poorly programmed!"

"Can't talk now, let's fight!" Pistoff charged, swinging his blade, ramming his blade into the scrub with all his might-

There was a slight *ting*, the scrub's lifebar barely moving, his poise unaffected. The Scrub Lord laughed, the dovahkiin hitting him a few more times, only to realize his poise was unpoisebreakable and his vitality levels were clear over 50-

"What are you?" Pistoff uttered in terror, the scrub charging up a point blank WoG, which Pistoff easily evaded, though he was still shaken,

"I was grinding for like three weeks, you fucking dick! I am fucking, invincible!" he laughed, drawing his generic longsword and charging, the new dovahkiin cringing and blocking with his shield, only to see the longsword nary a tap on the surface-

"ah what the fuck, fucking broken sword mechanics!" he switched out his longsword a dragon greatsword, spamming the R2 and swearing each time Pistoff dodged the linear ray, He had power but no fucking clue how to use it! "What the fuck is this, this sword is so fucking broken!"

The orc ran, hitting the scrub for all he was worth while other DSP, rather than raising his shield , fatrolled around, suddenly drawing a chime and kneeling down-

"Hit him before he heals!" Pistoff barked, the chosen undead running up and whacking the Scrub Lord as hard as he could, but the overleveled poise was too strong to resist, a great golden ray sending Lord DSP's health to max as he stood, taking a backstab from other DSP and getting kicked off-

"What the hell, I was facing towards him with my shield up, this game is fucking broken!" he whined, Pistoff feeling part of himself die on his next words-

"Spam backstab, it's the only way!" And spam backstab he did, until the Manbaby was no more, a stream of expletives leaving his mouth as he collapsed, crumbling away, Pistoff stepping in with his last words-

"Learn to play the fucking game, bitch. Yol Tor Shul!" the scrublord was vaporized, ending his tyrannical rein.

"Nicely done," Marvelous Chester praised, "That was one down, about- 15 to go." The two cheered, until it sunk in…

"What?"