As he clambered up onto the platform, before he could even get a shot off, his opponent threw his hands up and cast a spell. Reacting as fast as he could, he broke the thin layer of ice connecting his left hand to the platform and tried to twist to the left so the bolt tore past him, which it mostly did, but it also seared a path straight across the breadth of his chest diagonally downward, along with destroying the section of platform.

With a yelp he fell the fifteen or so feet to the ground and impacted with a thud and a grunt onto his back. Pain shot up and down his spine as he groaned and struggled to stand. The bolt had sheared off a clean section of his jacket and shirt and fur, leaving his flesh underneath burnt and bruised. Add to that the impact onto his back and he was feeling quite worse for wear, but not even close to out of the fight yet.

As he struggled to his feet, he shook his head to clear the cobwebs, bunched himself up and leapt straight upward to what remained of the original platform. His gun was in his hand now, and as he landed he gazed forward and spied his opponent on the floor. An easy target, especially from this distance.

Without waiting, he lifted the handgun, sighted down, aimed for his opponent's center of mass, and fired thrice. The first bullet would fly true, but the second, affected by recoil, would instead fly slightly higher and to the left. The third, fired after the first two, would travel slightly to the right of Metz's center of mass.

He squeezed the trigger once more to fire a fourth, but the pull was met with a resounding click.

Empty.