Broding spat blood onto the floor. He was battered and broken. The loss of blood was going to make even him lose consciousness if he wasn't careful. It was drying on his skin, although his dulled and jaded senses couldn't feel it. It was overwhelmed by the pain from his wounds, no other sensations could penetrate the thick fog of blood loss. His vision was swimming, blackness filling the edges of his sight, and it became hard to decide which way was up. He had hit the man by chance, a lucky blow. While the punches didn't do much to his hardened body, when they struck wounds, he could severely damage the muscles beneath. Every part of his body was battered and bruised, a state that he had never expected to find himself in. Around him was pooled not the blood of his enemies, but his own blood, flowing down from cuts and gashes all over his body. He could feel it down into his bruised bones, a feeling that was new to him. It pressed down to him, sank it's teeth into his mind, a feeling both foreign and oppressing, something that Gutra should never feel.

Broding felt defeat, clutching his heart in it's hand. He could feel the weight of fear, the knowledge that he had been equalled and outdone by an opponent. It was laughable, the idea that a small figure such as Lord Polvark could possibly defeat Gutra, strongest of Gun, chosen of Amun. And yet, as his opponent spoke, the conviction in his tone was obvious. He could feel a willpower, tempered in the fires of hate and adversion. A man who had been pushed down by the world, beaten into a corner, as one by one the pillars of his world view had become corrupted. And, now, all that pent up anger, all that frustration, was being focused into one fight. It was like a berserker rage, a state in which one felt no pain, and no fear. Such a thing was considered to be holy among the Gun, the ultimate warrior state, the ability to transcend human limits and to become a predator of man, a reaper of souls.

Slowly, the giant rose to his feet. He laughed, he couldn't help it. It wasn't a mocking laugh, for indeed his opponent had won his respect and more. It was a laugh directed at the stupidity of this situation, the fact that he had been bested by the man who would surrender for the lives of his men. In many ways, the little man was different from Broding. In his beliefs, in his morals, and in his view of this world. He thought differently from the Gung, and didn't abide by the warrior code that presided over their culture, he wasn't even a warrior. And yet, in one important way, Broding had found a reflection of himself in the little man. The man fought for his goals. He had decided what he wanted the world to be, and he had fought to forge the world into that image. The will to try and change the unchangeable, to try and fight the unfightable, to stand in the face of the greatest dangers and scream your defiance. It was something Broding could learn from.

"I must admit defeat, little man. You have bested me. By law of the Warrior Code, you may take my lands, my title, my wives, and my life. All are yours to do with as you see fit. You have earned the name of Gutra, and, having been defeated by such a small man, I can no longer wear that title with pride." Broding's voice was deep and heavy, and yet it was filled with an almost childlike sense of exhileration. A happiness that, while seemingly completely inappropriate for the situation, filled the former Gutra's heart. For in this defeat, in his first loss in this world, he had found something of far greater importance than victory. He had found an opponent, and a goal. "If you take my life, as is your right, the Gung will allow you out of this castle. However, if you leave me alive, I shall lead them out of this castle. If you truly wish to rebuild the world, then take up your arms and do so, little man. It would be a shame to see such a fiery soul die."

As Broding spoke, hushed whispers went through the observers. Gutra had renounced his title, and possibly his own life. Without Gutra to lead them, the Gung would need to select a new leader. There was no time for a massive tournament, for warriors to compete to be the one to take back the title from the iron man. As such, it was the duty of the High Shaman to apoint a new leader, and yet that same shaman was still at their home town. They would be left leaderless, although, with control of the great walls of Castle Rivergate, they could hold their position for months on end.