It only took the Carnage Stitchers five hours to construct a fighting pit in the lower decks. They then proceeded to spend the next three using it to determine who would be selected to represent the warband in fighting the Night Lords' champion. By the time Pyotr arrived, there was already a fine layer of blood staining the gray sands of the arena and the stench of sweat and straining ligaments in the air.

He had been instructed to come unadorned in his sacred armor with only a single chosen weapon. Pyotr heeded these requests, arriving bare-chested with his chainglaive resting atop his shoulder.

The pit was surrounded with a majority of both warbands in attendance. He had no doubt that while the World Eaters were there for the enjoyment of watching the spectacle of their brothers fight in glorious melee, Pyotr's own brothers were primarily there to watch him die like a dog. Well, he supposed he could do that for them, considering what he would be subjecting them to in the days to come.

Sixth Claw met him at the arena's entrance.

"Best of luck, brother," Gyrthemar said, offering a hand to Pyotr. The lord discordant clasped forearms with his brother begrudgingly.

"Try not to die too quickly," Retrigan added, attempting black humor. Pyotr almost wished he could find it amusing. Taresh only nodded to him—a gesture that he did not return.

With no words of his own for his brothers, Pyotr walked past them and entered the pit, immediately being met with the roars and cheers of the Carnage Stitchers as well as the quiet snickering and whispered bets and wagers from his own warband above him.

Pyotr paid them no heed. Instead, he took his position at one end of the small, ovular arena and planted his glaive down into the sand with a muted thump and held onto the shaft with one hand. Moments later, his opponent entered with even greater fanfare from his fellow berzerkers as he raised his serrated falchion into the air, bellowed out his enthusiasm, and flexed his scarred musculature.

It was far more preening than Pyotr had ever expected of the Sons of Angron.

Once his opponent had finished his showmanship, he took his own place opposite of Pyotr in the sands. Another breath transpired before a new figure appeared atop the ring and the din quieted immediately. Zasharr inspected the two opposing forces; then, with no words or address, nodded and stepped out of sight.

Pyotr's opponent came upon him immediately. In less than ten strides, the berzerker eliminated their distance, battering Pyotr's glaive away and slashing him across the chest. Flecks of skin and meat fell to the floor and the lord discordant stumbled back to regain his balance as the crowd roared and jeered above. He met his opponent's eyes and the berzerker smiled.

"First blood," he said with mocking glee. He had no need to keep score, all that mattered to him was ending Pyotr's life. He would be doing it anyway.

The next strike took him in the thigh, the point of the blade driving deep into his muscles and nearly emerged out the other end. Pain blossomed and drooled through Pyotr's veins and he clenched his jaw and bared his teeth. He'd barely even seen the attack coming and hadn't had the time to position his glaive to parry or even block.

That trickle of agony became crashing waves as the blade in his leg was abruptly ripped free, its curved fangs along the edge tearing and ripping away flesh and blood with it. Pyotr's knee buckled and slammed down into the sand.

His opponent laughed and flicked the blood off his falchion's edge directly into Pyotr's face. "Second blood," he said, then turned and raised his hands to accept the adoration of his brother in the crowds. Some of Pyotr's own kin even cheered, but he spotted others sneering at the display or even calling out ridicule.

"You toy with him!"

"As if you would not do the same to us!" a World Eater countered. The shouts continued and Pyotr felt a sneer begin to stretch across his face. He had every intention to die, yes—but not like this. Not as an example. Not as proof of his Legion's inferiority.

Pyotr's grip on his chainglaive tightened as he snapped back to his feet and swung his weapon, the polearm's hungry teeth biting and snapping a diagonal slash across the berzerker's back. He rasped his pain and spun to face Pyotr.

"First blood," Pyotr spat. His opponent's frown became a look of shock as he attempted to reassert dominance with another blow, only to have his sword's blade slammed into the floor by a downward strike from Pyotr's glaive. He then twisted the weapon in his hand and brought the head upwards, scoring another devastating cut along the chest. "Second blood."

The berzerker began to stumble back in an attempt to gain distance between himself and the lord discordant. Pyotr advanced, ignoring the howls and cheers that echoed up above him. Both Astartes left droplets of blood in the sand as their enhanced physiology worked to clot their wounds. Pyotr continued to glare at the Carnage Stitcher across from him, listening as the spirit of his butcher's nails screamed and ordered the berzerker to fight, to maim, to kill.

When the charge came, Pyotr was ready. His opponent came in with another lunge that Pyotr wove his chainglaive into so that it locked their weapons together. He then proceeded to slowly push the shaft of his weapon forward while gunning the motor, causing sparks and shrapnel to fly as it snapped along the side of the falchion's metal. The berzerker strained, but the teeth edged their way toward him until they inevitably began to bite away at his forearm.

"Third blood," Pyotr said. Then headbutted the berzerker for good measure. The crunching of nose cartilage under the pressure of his skull was almost satisfying enough to cut through the numb haze of Pyotr's soul.

The World Eater raved and gnashed his teeth, attempting to tear into the Night Lord after the disrespect he was suffered, but two pairs of ceramite-encrusted hands appeared on either side of the warrior and forced him back as additional members of the Carnage Stitchers began to drag their brother out of the arena.

Pyotr was only able to force three breaths of air into his lungs before another challenger toting a chainaxe emerged into the arena and began to descend upon the wounded Night Lord.

Clenching his jaw, the lord discordant forced his pain down without the aid of combat stimulants and took a defensive stance with his glaive. He coughed and forced words to form from between his bleeding lips, "I hope you're better than he was."

-

The second through seventh bouts were much the same as the first. Each opponent came at Pyotr with the intention to kill him. Each one took their pound of flesh and blood from him. Each one was a fresh and healthy warrior eager to fight a marine who was slowly being whittled down by exertion and blood loss. Each one also kept score on the number of hits they made against him despite there being no necessity for it.

And none of them made it beyond second blood.

As the seventh duel ended, Pyotr watched as his challenger exited the arena, saluting his twin combat knives to him in a sign of respect. The Night Lord's shoulders and chest heaved with the immense labor of dragging air into his lungs and forcing it back out. He leaned on his chainglaive, using it in much the same way an elderly man would a staff, his old age having sapped him of all of his vigor and strength to the point that even supporting his own weight was a challenge.

Pyotr waited for his next challenger, knowing this would be the duel that he died. Not because he would allow it like he had wished before, but simply because he was only a few degrees off from slaughterhouse meat at this point.

A chorus of stomping boots began to rise in the stands above him. A crescendo of ceramite clangs and guttural vocals filled the air from the Carnage Stitcher in anticipation for the final fight. The noises grew louder still, turning the chamber into a house of thunder and a choir of ursines. It wasn't until several of Pyotr's now-irregular heartbeats passed that the noise reached its apex and he spotted movement at the entrance of the arena as a new figure began to approach from the shadows. With arduous effort, Pyotr pulled himself fully to his feet and waited for his final opponent to take his position.

Zasharr stepped out of the darkness and onto the field.

The berzerker surgeon, like the others, did not wear his battle plate. He was bare of any garment beyond the leather gladiator's skirt that draped around his legs, but looked no more vulnerable for it. His skin was a network of scar tissue and bulging, angry veins. Most notably, Pyotr spotted a coiling scar around his upper left arm that spiraled down to his wrist. The scar was occasionally stained black throughout its length, creating organic sections in its path, but these deviations were few and far between.

"Zasharr," Pyotr croaked, spitting acid and blood into the dirt. "What is this?"

The mad apothecary prowled the edge of the ring, looking at Pyotr with a frown that verged on becoming a snarl.

"How many times, cousin? How many times have I come to rescue you and your brothers? How many times have I tended to your wounded, harvested and preserved your geneseed, and given you new Astartes? Too many times. And each time the debt is never paid. Your warband drools promises and gratitudes, but never supports us. They never pay us the respect that we have earned for all of our deeds. And I see why now." He pointed his chainsword at Pyotr, the hissing daemon within strangling and constricting the blade's machine spirit and urging the surgeon to act, whispering to his nails to bite harder so that they may reap soon. If they had any effect, Zasharr did not show it.

"Where there's smoke…" he said slowly. "Our alliance is one-sided. You see myself and my men as nothing more than fodder and puppets for you to throw away when you no longer have use for us. That ideal has infested into the minds of your brethren, as a result. No more. In this, you face me and either learn to respect me and mine, or die and exonerate my shame in chaining myself to your flailing warband."

Pyotr weathered the words with wheezing breaths. "Forgive me for not shedding any tears for your plight," he managed. "Perhaps the Emperor's Children will be more sympathetic. They too know the pain of having fragile egos."

Zasharr's nostrils flared and he entered a charge. Pyotr summoned what little strength he had within him and met the mad apothecary halfway across the pit. They both swung at the other with their chain weaponry.

"First blood," they rasped in unison.

Pyotr stumbled forward as blood gushed from his side. Zasharr's wound had been deeper, struck with might, speed, and precision that the lord discordant couldn't hope to match.

The two spun and Zasharr advanced, bashing Pyotr's glaive away and remaining inside his reach. Another strike.

"Second blood."

Pyotr slammed his shoulder into the berzerker surgeon in an attempt to create distance, but Zasharr weaved his torso out of the way. He smacked Pyotr in the back with the flat of his blade, sending him tumbling, then dealt another slash to accompany it.

"Third blood."

Swinging his glaive in a wide circle, Pyotr watched as his opponent ducked underneath the attack, rolled within his reach, and swung upwards.

"Fourth blood."

Grunting through the pain and the rivers of ichor that painted his skin, the Night Lord kicked Zasharr in the chest. The Eater of Worlds stumbled back, but as Pyotr thrust forward to capitalize on the advantage, Zasharr had already lunged toward him again and drove his chainsword into Pyotr's shoulder letting it eat deep into the muscle so that when he pulled forward to free the blade, Pyotr was yanked with it and sent down to his knees.

"Fifth blood."

Pyotr stayed where he was. His existence was agony. The pain of exhaustion, the pain of the flesh, the pain of his mind and the knowledge of how he failed, the pain of his soul and the rot that was festering there. There was nothing the lord discordant could find within himself that was not some flavor of torment. It made it nigh impossible to rise and open himself for more.

"Stand and die on your feet, cousin," Zasharr said, his voice soft, like crunching snow rather than rolling boulders. His tone was almost compassionate.

He did not rise. He could not. All that would have awaited him was more suffering. Zasharr's naked skill alone was enough to match Pyotr, but with that sword… That damnable sword heightened him beyond the capacity of most duelists that Pyotr knew.

It does not have to be this way, a voice like poisoned honey whispered and pried its way into his mind. This pain, it is a gift. It can be your power, your strength. You simply do not know how to wield it yet. One more step. One final step, my chosen, and you will…

"Begone," Pyotr whispered, but it sounded feeble even to him. The offer was tantalizing now. No more suffering. All the power he could want. After years of running and writhing in the misery of licking his wounds and failing to strike back against the Imperium, the chance to change all of that was becoming impossible to refuse.

He felt as if his soul were being strangled and squeezed by forces beyond him. Looking up, he eyed Zasharr's blade and could not help but draw a comparison between the machine spirit within and his own flayed and tortured soul.

Pyotr blinked.

The… machine spirit…

"Go to hell," he snarled, rejecting the proffered deal with far more conviction now and struggled, once again, to his feet.

Zasharr, thinking the barb was intended for him, grunted and his lips quivered in what could have been a ghost of a smile. Pyotr was not paying attention to that, however. Instead, he focused on the chainsword and proceeded to reach out with metamechanical senses and attempted to forge a link with the motive force within.

The spirit shrank and whimpered at the presence of now two malevolent forces within the sanctity of its holy physical housing, but was unable to do little more than beg to keep him at bay. Within moments, there were two supernal links within the weapon: the surgeon to his daemon, and Pyotr to its victim.

The two warriors approached each other once again to continue their bout, this time with the lord discordant's vigor marginally restored.

Zasharr raised his blade to strike. Feint to the right, Pyotr heard in his mind as he seized on his bond. It was not dissimilar to infiltrating an enemy squad's vox systems, although this was far more intimate.

As the chainblade came down, Pyotr anticipated the change in trajectory and deflected the strike. Cheers and taunts rose up amongst the audience above them, but the lord discordant's only pleasure came in the hiss of outrage that the bound daemon emitted, as well as the narrowing of Zasharr's eyes.

Strike his legs!

Pyotr parried the weapon aside then struck his opponent on the backswing.

"Second blood," he panted.

Zasharr ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, then pressed the attack once more. Pyotr blocked again. Then again. And again. Each swing that came, he anticipated with perfect accuracy and cast it aside. However, even with forewarning of what was to come—for he was unsure if even Zasharr knew the daemon was influencing his thoughts and decisions—he was still granted no additional skill or prowess to properly counter them, and Pyotr's sore limbs strained to keep up with each one of the berzerker surgeon's blows.

He continued to pry insights from the withering machine spirit, using what he gained not only to defend but attack, forcing him and Zasharr into a dance of trading and blocking strikes. It was after the initial dozen or so moments of this that the first signs of exertion began to appear on the mad apothecary as his skin glimmered with pearls of sweat. The process was worse for Pyotr, however, as he felt himself slowing both from drainage and his wounds. It was taking more and more effort to keep up with the Astartes in front of him.

I need to end this, Pyotr thought through growls of exhaustion.

His moment came as he saw a savagery begin to take over Zasharr's expression. The nails were biting and he was losing his grip. They were making him far more fearsome, but also far more reckless. Another swing came from his chainblade with a wet snarl—only this time Pyotr allowed it to connect.

Metallic teeth sank into his hip, lapping up the blood with such fervor that not even a drop found its way onto the sand. Zasharr did not count out his strike this time.

Almost bucking under the pain, Pyotr dropped his glaive and grabbed onto Zasharr's wrist, yanking him closer with all the waning strength he had left. Unaccustomed to anyone ever wanting a member of the XIIth Legion closer, Zasharr was caught in the ploy and was brought directly into Pyotr's grappling embrace. With how pathetic he was now after so many rounds of fighting, the clinch would've taken only moments to break. But, then again, that's all he would need.

Pyotr bared his teeth and bit down on the side of Zasharr's face.

The yell that emitted from the berzerker surgeon's throat was one more out of shock than any real pain or rage. The calls that came from the stands were ones of equal bemusement from both sides of the legionary divide. Zasharr quickly broke the grapple and shoved Pyotr away. The lord discordant stumbled back, his opponent's blood dripping from his lips and running down his chin. Barely able to stand, he drew his lips back from pink-stained teeth and spat the chunk of ear that he'd taken from Zasharr to the side.

"Third. Blood."

He then collapsed and fell unconscious.

Pyotr Kravis awoke in the apothecarion.

He knew this before even opening his eyes, as the carrion stench of death masked by medicae chemicals greeted his nose as awareness returned to him. When he finally did open his eyes, he saw the lord of the Carnage Stitchers—now adorned in armor once more—sitting across the chamber facing him.

"Is this real?" Pyotr asked.

"Yes," Zasharr said without confusion or hesitation.

Pyotr forced himself to sit up, noting that a vast majority of his wounds, while still tender, had been predominantly healed. "How long have I been out?"

"Mm. Not long. Your biology did most of the work, I simply helped speed it along." Pyotr nodded and stood on surprisingly steady legs. "We are to enter realspace again within the hour."

The lord discordant hid the way those words vexed him. It meant that they were drawing closer to their doom.

And he was still alive to witness it.

"Why did you save me?" he asked, annoyance bleeding into the edges of his words.

"You absolved yourself," Zasharr said, rising to meet Pyotr. "It is my duty."

"Yet you still do not forgive us. Forgive me."

The mad apothecary's nostrils flared. "It is my duty," he repeated. "Not my pleasure. My men are still dissatisfied, you will need to earn their respect again."

Pyotr only grunted in response, then glanced around the empty treatment theatre. "The captives are gone."

"I no longer had need for the Ferric Sentries." Zasharr turned away to begin maintenance on his instruments then—a task the medical servitors were more than equipped to handle. "My experiments were complete."

Another grunt and Pyotr turned to leave.

"You were hoping for a quick death in our duel," Zasharr abruptly pointed out. "That was why you insulted me as you did."

"Yes," the lord discordant admitted.

"Hm. Why?"

"I am tired, Zasharr. That is why."

"So you would give up?" The berzerker surgeon looked back to Pyotr at that, eyeing him with a cold, questioning gaze.

"Did it look like I 'gave up' in that arena?"

The Son of Angron's throat rumbled with the sound of a dissatisfied thunderstorm, but he pushed the matter no further. "Where the brawl between our warbands broke out. I found something there that you should see."

"I do not care."

"Cousin–"

"I said," Pyotr interjected, "that I am tired. Leave it for another time."

He did not give Zasharr the opportunity to answer as he left the apothecarion and slapped the controls to close the door behind him. He then trudged down the veins of the Savory Wound, looking for something to do before they all died.