It was respectable indeed, a man who was able to look into impossible odds with such fire in his eyes. Even injured to such an extent, there was no way Gutra would lose to an unarmed man, no matter what the gods decided. His fists didn't have the oomph necessary to deal any damage, despite the little man landing several decent hits. The pain was negligible compared to his earlier injuries. It would have been sad, had Broding not been able to feel the earnest force behind each blow. His eye broken, his bones shattered, his muscles torn, this man's body should have stopped moving ages ago. The fellow didn't notice it at this point, but Broding was an expert in injuries, both dealing them and recognizing them. Lord Polvark would later realize that by all rights, he should have been unable to move. His body was motivated not by any biological function of the body, but he was held up by sheer willpower. Nothing more, nothing less.

After several unsuccesful attempts, Broding managed to get a hold of the small foe, who had darted in and out of his guard. Holding Lord Polvark up to his face, Gutra looked into those flaming eyes. "The Gods have granted you their favours for your valiance and courage, Polvark. You have earned the title of warrior. Even if you discard every name your feeble empire has bestowed upon you, even if you have lost all the glory you obtained as his servant, know that here you are recognized. You faced Gutra, and you have won my respect. Every man present here knows of your deeds, and you will live on into the realm of legend." The man's fists rammed into muscles like steel, flesh hardened beyond that of most men. It was useless, but he fought until the end. "Know that you have died the best death that a man can wish for, for you died with eyes of fire, and a heart forged in steel."

The men around the fight were silent, witnessing this event. There were few who received praise from Gutra, even among the most skilled of warriors and knights. He had faced far more powerful opponents than Polvark, and devoured their hearts. To see such lavish praise granted to one who could barely wield a weapon was unusual at best, and yet, those present would all know why. The tale would certainly be told around campfires for many winters to come, inspiring the many warriors who would one day challenge Broding for the position of Gutra.

The crimson giant pulled back his left fist, staring Polvark into the eye. Among the Gun, it is dishonorable to turn away from a dying man, for none deserve to die alone. Your opponent is also your companion, and a bond forged with steel is the strongest bond among men. With a final smile, his fist shot forward, aimed straight for Polvark's heart, as soon that spirit would become a part of Broding. Then-

Pain arched across the side of his face, and Broding fell backwards. A guttural roar of agony echoed through the chambers of the fortress, seeming to make the very stones tremble. Blood flowed like a river down the side of his face, covering the hands that clutched the now ruined eye socket. Pain clouded Gutra's mind as he staggered backwards. It shouldn't have been possible, that blow. And yet, Broding realized, that he had been struck in the eye. A wound that would last for the rest of his life, a mark of defeat that could never heal. Dropping to his knees, Broding roared once more, as much from pain as from humiliation.