Human beings were an amazing race. They were survivalists, and everything they did propelled them to their one and only goal: continuation. It was perhaps this birth right that had taken hold in the Lord's mind, as he dangled helplessly, waiting for death. He had fought the good fight, drawing on strength that would have put his father to shame, but Jacques Polvark the Afflicted had reached the end of his meagre tale. As the hulking giant pulled back its hand, readying to rip his heart from him, he felt a surge of revulsion. To think that he would not truly die, but instead, would be trapped in a prison as a murderer of thousands used stolen knowledge to plunge the world further into chaos. 

Polvark saw his chance, and went for it. With his hand stretched, as if his fingers were claws, he swiped at the giant's face, catching its eye and digging deep. With a brief sickening gurgle, he tore the enlarged orb from the face of his enemy, and the grip that suspended him in place loosened. Fighting with the strength of an angry God, Polvark broke free and dropped to the floor, even as his foe released forth a deafening roar - or was it a scream? 

Standing to his full height, Jacques looked his opponent in its one working eye, "my name is Jaques Polvark, and it is within me to build a better world." 

Rushing forwards, he planted a series of bone-crunching jabs and hooks to the dazed giant's exposed torso. One fist after another, battering away at an impervious wall of muscle - but this time, his assault yielded results. The monster recoiled, half blinded, and heavily diminished, batting away at Polvark with panicked throws of its meaty arms. Sensing an opening, the Lord put everything he had into an uppercut, making contact with the giant's chin, and sending it stumbling backwards. Not willing to lose his advantage, he shoved his enemy, and with a loud crash the hulking mass fell backwards. 

Before he knew it, he was upon the giant, wailing on its face repeatedly, his knuckles feeling as if they were contacting with stone. Again and again, his attacks thundered on his enemy, sending splatters of blood over the stonework. 

"Die, die, die!" Polvark screeched between hits. 

Something akin to a treetrunk smashed into the side of his head, and he rolled several feet from his adversary. Blood dripped from his ear, and his already bloodied vision became studded with stars. He had little doubt his skull had been cracked, and that death was a strong possibility even in the event of victory, yet still Polvark felt energy surging through him. An energy not driven by magical powers, or divine blessing, but of raw adrenaline - the hammer and the anvil of all mankind. 

"On your feet, monster," coughed Polvark, spitting a mixture of blood and teeth onto the floor. "I've enough... I've enough in me yet to rid your evil from this world."