Virk was so amazed by Irelius' new spell he didn't notice Remy had just missed him in a spinning attack. His back was killing him as well as his thigh. The breton was turning out to be a formidable foe, disabling him to make any easy fight unlike the first time they sparred. Virk's energy was running out quickly after his acrobatics, his stunts, his climbing, all the skills he wished he had showed his father to make him proud. The thought motivated and angered him at the same time. Quickly grasping his sleeve for the green leaves he had collected earlier, he cast them at Remy in order to gain some time while confusing him. Surely it was no dust, but no one, not even if as smart as the man would predict such a thing. While sprinting away with all the energy he had left, Virk found an opportunity of stepping on the tree he had climbed before's log and tackling Remy, who would most surely have gotten closer to chase him. He jumped, as usual, and met a terrible flaw in his plan: Virk had no energy to rebounce from the tree. His spine snapped, his body slammed against the ground, and his wooden dagger landed lightly in front of his now full of dust face. "Sweet Beatrice! That hurts!" His trembling hand tried to reach the dagger as his foe appeared to get closer. What a humiliating positon, fallen in front of the rest of the group, disarmed, in the middle of the battle, in an attempt of making a finishing manoeuvre which would probably have secured Virk's victory. After a few seconds which looked and felt like hours to Virk, his fingers finally felt the touch of the improvised weapon. Closing his eyes in pain, Virk tried to pull the dagger closer to his own grasp.