(I got stuck on this chapter lmao
TW: blood and fighting is mentioned m a n y times)

Wels grimaced as he watched the retreating back of his clone, staggering through the nether portal. When Hels disappeared, he refused the urge to fall to his knees, holding his bleeding arm with a tight grasp to stem the blood.

His counterpart was injured in practically the same way, and it relieved him to not be the only one that felt like they were run over by a herd of ravagers. His body stung with pain, but was the small prince he had to pay if he wanted to walk away with his pride. Had he been killed, Hels would have the upper hand of wins and the message would appear in chat. This was his problem, not the other Hermits'.

Still, sweat matted his forehead, as well as blood on the rest of his visible skin. That wasn't the Hermits' problems either. Dear goodness, he was tired, but he couldn't kneel over and die of exhaustion or blood loss right there. He was tired, but he couldn't give up just yet. At least let him make it to his bed...

To be completely fair, that's how it always felt after the fights. Hels always showed up at the most inconvenient times. Always at least thirty minutes of rapid activity... it drained his energy fast.

Wels sighed, slight annoyance lining his harsh exhale. He tugged the helmet off his head, smearing more blood on his ears and hair as his hands brushed them. He walked through his front yard, the grass squished with orange and red blood, Hels' and his own respectively. Some blood even stained the white walls of his house. It may be easier to replace those parts instead of scrubbing it away until his fingers were raw.

Stupid duel and stupid clean up duty he got stuck on every single time. Cleaning the blood from his well cared for lawn and his pristine walls took more time than the actual duel itself. And even then, both the fight and cleaning were more of an annoyance than a fatal threat. He didn't know what Hels' goal was with the duels, nor did he particularly care, but whatever it was, Wels wasn't sure if he should brush it off his shoulder or begin to take note of whatever he could about his counterpart.

His common sense told him to take note because Hels doesn't do anything without careful calculations... although, they can be wrong sometimes, as shown by this duel. Maybe he miscalculated their endurances, didn't include the amount of blood that was possible to congregate into obnoxious puddles, or maybe something was wrong with both of them. (Because let's be honest, the duel wasn't supposed to be as short as it was.)

Wels thought about how the Netherborn just waltzed onto his front yard and began his monologue, somehow completely different than the five hundred previous ones yet giving the same exact message of 'you suck, I'm gonna kill you'. It became irritating after a while, and this proved no different. He would think his counterpart would eventually run out of words or be smart enough to send a different message to spice up their squabbles, but apparently not.

Monologues aside, it started out like every single bicker they've had. Neither would never and have never backed down before it started because they always seemed to have a verbal quarrel first. Hels being there in the first place and Wels adding fuel to the fire with taunts and sarcastic quips didn't help Wels' irritation, but still, it seemed normal enough to actually continue with their fight.

As predicted, the two knights proceeded with their normal duel, neither getting an upper hand on the other because they are literal equals. This too, annoyed Wels. Fighting Hels was the same thing as fighting himself, and by logic, neither should win unless one gets lucky. Their stupid duels always end in a draw, both of them ending up too injured to continue because they knew if they did, the other would surely strike them down where they stood.

But the weird part came to be their endurance. Both of them fought their entire lives, so in theory, they should have lasted longer than they did. Twenty minutes? They normally sparred for thirty or more minutes. It frustrated Wels when he came up with no reasonable explanation.

The knight made it to his porch and leaned against the doorframe, pressing his forehead against the cold wood and using it as a support. Walking to his house had drained his energy some more. A simple walk of maybe twenty steps shouldn't have been as tiring as it was.

Maybe he just needed sleep, to not build without break for days upon days. Maybe he's... just having an off day. No one can last long without rest, as many of the Hermits demonstrate regularly.

But what were the chances that his clone was also slipping? Very low, in his opinion.

So because of that, Wels should probably brush off that theory. Hels wouldn't let himself go long without rest with the risk of passing out during one of their fights. Wels knew he wouldn't show weakness in front of him, except at the end of a duel, when both were dead on their feet.

Wels stumbled into his bedroom, miraculously not knocking anything down in the process. He didn't know if he wanted to sleep first, or clean before another Hermit stops by and gets concerned with the amount of blood in his plot of land.

If sleep was an option, sleep would always be the first choice.

But changing out of his bloodied armor while his arms felt like lead proved to be more difficult than fighting Hels. He snorted at the thought. Kind of funny, considering it left them both out of commission for days depending on the severity of the duel.

Though, he couldn't blame himself for struggling. Being tired from the duel, being tired because he probably needed rest, the heavy armor drenched with blood, and the armor straps' stubbornness almost made him want to slice them off with his sword... if he could even pick it up.

Goodness no, he wasn't that pathetic or weak. He's survived for this long, he wasn't about to die because he couldn't get his armor off.

Wels managed to tear all his armor pieces off after an undetermined amount of time, discarding them where he stood. It could have been minutes or hours since he first attempted, he couldn't tell. He definitely would not be cleaning today. Or tomorrow.

The knight collapsed into his bed, sinking into the mattress. He'd have to clean the sheets from the blood that smeared his skin, and he grimaced at that, but it was too late to change his mind.

He had already fallen asleep.

(January 3rd, 2021. 1138 words)