Russian mobster or not, Mikael Sokolov had saved his life, pulling Gray out of that bathtub himself and carrying him to the hospital.

And now, they stood opposed.

Gray raised his head, looking Sokolov in the eye; his souls power flowing through his arm into his nightstick imbuing it with ethereal flames.

“I am Dyrnwyn, the sword of Truth, beholden to none. I hereby accept your challenge.”

Sokolov smiled and flexed his hands on the old wooden axe handle, power flooding through his tattooed arms. Glowing light making the old woodsmans axe come alive to its former glory.

“I am Oathtaker, the axe of John Phillips, and beholden to Sir Reginald Thatcher. I am glad to see you, Gray, I would have no man call themself my equal, than the boy I called my son.” He let the head of his axe hit the ground, a shower of sparks scattering across the grass around his feet. “So come, boy, take my life, if you can.”

The attack came like a shot, Sokolov moving so fast his image only flickered where he was for a second.

Their clash sent shivers up through Gray’s arms as axe met nightstick, their opposing souls repelling each other in showers of flames and sparks.

His teeth clenched he brought his knee up in a dirty strike to Gray’s side.

But Gray remembered how Sokolov had favored muay-thai. He dropped his elbow and parried the bigger man’s side swipe with his arm, throwing his shoulder under Sokolov and rolling the bigger man past him over Gray’s back.

Sokolov rolled to his feet swinging wide, bringing the axe up in an uppercut, followed up with a heel kick that connected where the axe strike went wide.

Gray was thrown back, ploughed like a field,  driven to the ground and sliding to a stop in the church yard garden.

Gray stared up at the starry night sky chuckling.

“You going easy on me, boy!”

Sookolov looked like a thundercloud.

Gray sat up, “I had to shoot you once before already. It’s no easier knowing, that you’re like me.”

“Bulletproof?”

“Uh, well, yeah, that too. But I meant, a Reborn.”

“It is why I was set on you, boy. Now, get up, and fight.” He let the old axe again slide to the length of its grip, swinging it in slow arcs, “Or I will kill you.”

Gray stood, he looked around, the knightstick he had been using up till now was laying a ways away from him. Bent at an angle, he could tell it was not going to be of much use.

Gray sighed, “One second, okay?”

Sokolov nodded, “If your conviction is weak, so will your soul be too,” he growled, shouldering his axe.

Gray looked around, finding little of use till his eyes came to a statue nearby. An angel in granite, a sword pointing down in her grip held by just the pommel.

Gray walked up to it and took hold of the crossbar, the heavy stone blade breaking away in his magically powered grip.

His soul seeped into the blade and became an extension of his body like none of the other things he had ever held before. He could feel it, its castiron core drinking in his power, a perfect fit.

“Now, I’m ready Sokolov.”

His opponent dashed forward, leaves kicking up in his wake as he bore down on Gray with a fury. Their souls clashed in a shower of sparks, golden flames and blue snaps of lightning flashing around them, ahmgain and again as they stepped apart only to be met again.

Sokolov’s grin began to slip, lip curling in a snarl of fury and concentration as Gray parried his blow again and sent Sokolov careening into a tombstone.

His axe cleaved into the heavy granite like it was butter, sheering the heavy slab in two.

Gray struck again, the large stone and rebar blade like a feather in his grip striking a deep slash across Sokolov’s back leaving a burning cut that made him cry out.

Sokolov distanced himself, patting out the flames on his back.

“You elemental types, bah! You are good.”

“You’re not to bad yourself old man,” Gray raised his arms to show off the strikes that had left stinging cuts all over his body.

The magical flames didn’t spread like before when he had fought Jacklyn. Sokolov wasn’t a bad man at heart, so he was beyond the orange of the flames Gray possessed.

I am getting tired Gray, in my younger days, I would have cleaved your head from your shoulders in three moves. Now here we stand.”

He stood back up, patting down his shirt front, then realized they still burned and threw them away, tearing the an fabric from him.

His tattoos were still a marvel, covering him from the neck down.

“I never did get inked.”

“It takes a special artist to do our kind anyways, I will add my artists name to the bet, if you win.”

Gray felt a hot streak of a tear burning down his cheek.

“We don’t have to do this.”

“We do, we either end this here, or someone else will do it for you boy. I am old, I have not so many matches left in me, and while I am favored to win today because of your bleeding heart. I will not last against one who wants my death.” He flexed, lightning leaping about through his veins, “I would rather it be you.”

Gray raised his blade, the flames dancing the edge between his eyes.

“Then, let end this.”

He closed his eyes, opening himself up to the power of his soul as incurred through him. Flames searing hot beating with his pulse.

He could feel the courtyard around them, the sound of the city beyond the old church courtyard, the faint steps as Sokolov made his move.

They clashed only the one last time, as Gray brought his knee up and used Sokolov’s own favourite move against him.

He felt the crunch, and Gray spun back at the last moment, taking another score from the axe that opened his side. But in the flurry, he drove his blade pommel into Sokolov’s gut, ripping past him as hr doubled over, parting arm from shoulder as the old mobster was knocked off center and fell to the ground.

He waisted bo words, what needed to be said had already been said.

Gray spun and drove his blade through the back of Sokolov’s skull, a quicker and less painful way he hoped, to end it.

A moderator appeared as they always did, dressed all in black with their raven styled plague doctor masks. She knelt down and touched his Sokolov’s neck, as if the blade through his skull was maybe a ruse, but it was clear the outcome.

Gray started to walk away, his heart heavy as he headed for the gate leading back out to the street. One of the moderators there blocking his path.

“Move,” he growled.

The dead-eyed masked face just stared at him.

“I said move,” he had left his weapon behind, but he wasn’t above beating the shit out of this guy right here.

Unfortunately for his mood, that option wasn’t given, as the guy all of a sudden, touched his ear and stepped aside.

“Psycho freaks,” he mumbled, pushing past the taller man.

“We’re trapped like you are, you know.”

Gray didn’t have words for that, he didn’t have feelings for anyone else. Especially not some mask wearing weirdo.