Blood dripped to the floor as the wound battered warrior started taking some of his final breaths. His hair in his face and sending scorching waves of pain with the cuts they made contact with he raised his head to his opponent sending more pain throughout the head of his corpse like body. He put one foot forward and clinched his fang. The fang he trusted for so long, the same fang he at the beginning of the fight trusted to end it but it now to was coming to its end. He raised his blade so its tip pointed directly at his enemy right he planned thrust his blade.

His opponent was in no better condition than he. They both traded blows, countering and attacking there blades singing through the air as they were ruthless and indifferent toward one another. At some points in the fight there fangs were moving so fast there seemed no time to block. But that was all history now. The opponent did the same as the man before him and took a step forward and pointed his fang at the heart. He planned to end this as quickly as possible or just as painfully as possible.

But there was no pain, not now because everything about them was worn out. They were only twenty feet apart. A mere leap for either of them and a straightaway of death as well. They charged, their sandaled feet stomped across the floor. Their lives flashed before their rage filled eyes, but were blind to it-they cared not of anything that was going on around them or has. The duel was coming to an end and they charged swords singing and sending a final and sad song a shrill of impending doom throughout the air. The wielders glided across the ground and in one last attempt at victory thrust their withering masters, their fangs, their blades, their swords, their katanas.