origin ver. section2(2)
“You’re awfully persistent!” The hare laughed. “But come now, the Leadbetters have beaten you. Concede.”
The wolf’s vision narrowed — dark shapes closing in. His sword, just inches in front of him, floated farther and farther away.
The match fixer, an aging wolf cloaked in Armellian finery, grabbed the fence so tightly that his claws dug into the wood. “Could it be?” He shouted in disbelief. “The Prince of Blades downed by Odwald Leadbetter of the Rabbit Clan?”
Leadbetter raised his hammer high and turned to face the half-adoring crowd, his tall ears swiveling this way and that. “Thank you, thank you, I’ll take my winnings now, please. I believe my dear opponent has—”
“Just barely begun to fight.” The wolf rose to his feet once again, leveling his blade at the hare from across the arena. “What, you thought a couple hits from that big hammer would finish me off?”
The hare cocked his head to the side, impressed. “A little bit, yes.”
“I thought the Leadbetters were master artisans.” The wolf nodded at Odwald’s war hammer. “You sure that isn’t hollow?”