The Death Knight's black sword gleamed under the crimson glow of the dungeon's abyssal light. Every inch of it radiated inevitability—the kind of inevitability that demanded obedience or destruction.
Drax didn't flinch. His white eyes, cold and unblinking, focused entirely on the armored figure before him. Shadows pulsed beneath his feet, writhing like liquid night, feeding his movements with the hunger of the Abyss itself.
No words were exchanged. Words were meaningless. This was combat, not conversation.
The Death Knight lunged, a perfect, disciplined strike aimed at Drax's chest. Drax sidestepped, letting the momentum carry him past, pivoting into a quick elbow strike to the knight's ribs. Armor screeched, but the Death Knight barely staggered.
Each strike from the Death Knight was precise, deadly, calculated—meant to kill if Drax misstepped by even a fraction of a second.
And each strike Drax endured was devoured.
"Absorb. Adapt. Learn," he thought, feeling the Abyssal essence crawl into every fracture, every bruise, every agonized scream his body emitted. Every hit from the Death Knight added to him—reinforcing bones, sharpening reflexes, heightening senses.
The fight became blow for blow. Punches, elbows, kicks, shoves, and throws exchanged between them like a storm. Every strike from Drax was met with a counter, every counter was absorbed into his understanding.
And slowly, a pattern emerged. The Death Knight was disciplined—predictable—but only if one could survive long enough to notice.
Drax did.
At some point, amidst the chaos of bone-cracking strikes and armored fists, Drax felt a shift inside him. The Abyssal essence pulsed, deeper and darker than before, almost sentient.
"Stop thinking. Move. Devour the rhythm, the intent… the strike itself."
It wasn't just strength. It wasn't just regeneration. It was combat itself becoming an extension of the Abyss.
Drax's limbs moved with unnatural fluidity. Every strike he received was countered instinctively. Every attack he threw was refined midair, adapting to the Death Knight's armor, weight, and timing. He wasn't just fighting—he was merging with the Abyss, becoming the abyssal response to every threat.
He named it silently in his mind: Abyssal Combat.
The Death Knight grunted, blocking a spinning kick with his gauntlet. "Impressive… You've learned to endure. But endurance isn't enough to kill me."
Drax didn't respond. He countered with a flurry of strikes, elbows snapping into ribs, forearms striking knees, each blow feeding into his essence. His movements were cold, smooth, precise.
The Death Knight's voice was calm, almost amused. "You're clever. I like clever. But clever won't save you from steel."
The Death Knight drew his black sword fully, spinning it in a calculated arc. "Now… let us honor the blade. You wield one yet. Only then is this duel fair."
Drax's dagger—already infused and remade by the Abyss—shimmered black, tendrils of energy extending from the fragments to coalesce into a lethal, jagged obsidian sword. Shadows wrapped around it like a living thing, breathing.
The distance between them contracted. The air seemed to thicken with tension, every heartbeat amplified, every breath deliberate.
The Abyssal Knights at the periphery paused, sensing the elevation of danger. The Death Knight's army knew this wasn't a simple duel—it was the moment of reckoning.
Steel met steel with a sound that echoed like thunder in the vast chamber. The Death Knight's blade was precise, crushing, deadly. Every swing forced Drax to counter, parry, or evade, his body reacting instinctively.
Each clash resonated through his essence core. The Abyssal energy rippled across his muscles, bones, and nerves, absorbing impact, redistributing force, and learning from each swing.
Drax's white eyes glimmered faintly. The Abyss whispered guidance—how to anticipate, how to flow, how to strike without thinking.
"No hesitation. No thought. Only the strike."
A spinning slash forced Drax back. Another overhead strike crushed his shoulder. A feint aimed at his ribs almost pierced his side. Pain exploded, but with each wound, his reflexes improved, his body adapted. The Abyss was training him in real time, molding him into a perfect predator.
Finally, Drax found an opening—a minor flaw in the Death Knight's guard. He moved with liquid precision, slashing across the knight's armor. Sparks and black smoke erupted, the blade humming with Abyssal resonance.
The Death Knight blocked the strike, but his helmet creaked. "Hmph… You're fast… too fast."
Drax didn't reply. He pressed the advantage, each movement a blur. He twisted, rolled, ducked, and struck again. Every strike wasn't just damage—it was analysis, feeding the Abyssal essence, enhancing his ability to anticipate, to adapt, to dominate.
The Abyssal essence, he realized, was not just a weapon. It was a mind, responding to combat instinctively, enhancing intuition, reflex, and adaptation to deadly levels. With it, even the most disciplined opponent was mortal.
The Death Knight's strikes began to land harder. Armor dented. Pain ripped through Drax's side, back, and shoulders. The Abyssal Knights pressed from the periphery, threatening to overwhelm him.
Yet Drax didn't falter. Every strike he absorbed made him stronger. Every wound he endured hardened his resolve. Every near-death moment honed his instincts.
The chamber was a maelstrom of shadow and steel, a brutal ballet of death, adaptation, and raw, evolving strength.
Drax pivoted on the edge of exhaustion, blocking a deadly overhead strike. His blade pulsed black and red. The Death Knight paused, studying him with almost respect.
Drax's lips pressed into a line, silent, unyielding. The Abyssal essence coiled around him like a storm, whispering:
"You are mine. Adapt. Destroy. Ascend."
The Death Knight spoke one final time before the next wave of attacks:
"Show me… the abyss in you, boy. Let us see if you can claim your soul's dominion."
Drax didn't answer. He didn't need to. His fists clenched. His blade hummed. Every fiber of his being—body, mind, and Abyss—was prepared for the next strike.