He’d fought many warriors over the years—including several instances of brutal mortal combat during the final stages of the Great Games—but in every one of those cases, he’d known he had a chance.

Not so here.

Rastor was too big, too strong, and quite simply too good.

And then one of Rastor’s blows hit home and Jack’s vision blurred.

And a flashing memory of that schoolyard fight whipped across his mind: a succession of vicious blows from those three bigger boys—bam, bam, bam!—slamming into his face, while Sumil stood helplessly behind him.

Jack had lost that fight. And in that moment of blurred vision, he knew he was going to lose this one, too.

But he fought anyway, doggedly dodging Rastor’s swings, and even landing a couple of punches of his own, not that they did much.

Then another of Rastor’s terrible blows landed, smashing into Jack’s cheekbone.

Jack heard the bone break and he staggered, close to the edge of the temple, high above the drop.

He felt dizzy, saw stars.

Stay conscious! his mind screamed. You must stay conscious or else he’ll throw you off this tower into the quicksand!

It was no use.

Rastor’s next blow broke Jack’s nose and Jack collapsed like a sack of shit to the floor.

Jack lay on his stomach, gasping.

Blood poured from his nose, mixing with spittle dribbling from his mouth.

Pain shot through him, from his broken cheekbone, from his busted nose.

Aw, damn . . . he thought. I didn’t want to go out like this.

And then Rastor stomped on Jack’s titanium left hand.

Once, twice, three times, till he had dented its thinner struts and broken its fingers.

Jack lay with his face against the ground, groaning.

Broken and beaten, he tried to crawl away from Rastor.

‘You might have been one of the five greatest warriors, West, yet I am in every measurable way a better warrior than you are.’

Rastor stood over him as Jack tried pathetically to get away from the giant general.

Then Rastor picked him up by his collar and carried him like a rag doll to the edge of the temple and held him over the drop.

Jack’s feet dangled above the edge.

His cut and bloodied face stared dazedly back at Rastor.

His hands hung uselessly by his sides—the real right one, dirty and bloodied; the artificial left one a bent and broken mess of titanium and steel rods.

‘You know the strength of my conviction,’ Rastor said. ‘Indeed, I couldn’t have reached this innermost sanctum of the Labyrinth if my intentions were not pure. The colossus told me so.