Yeah, yeah, he fixes the guy's mouth. His new friend has been a real sport about getting his dental nerves wiggled around like spaghetti, so it seems only fair.

The smile is wild. This guy really is something else.

"Not bad."

It's good to have his voice back. The Emperor falls back at a leisurely backwards stroll, rubbing his throat as he straightens out any lingering internal damage. He wipes a little more blood-dust out of his eye. He lets his skeletons do their thing.

Maul is too good at this: he powers through skeletons like a knife through butter. Bone chips fall like rain. So their God decides to keep things a little interesting: he stands up every melty-edged victim of the saber, every sheared-off humerus or hunk of ribcage. Each one grows into a fresh skeleton. Five opponents become nine, then thirteen, then twenty.

They surround Maul in a clicking, scrabbling horde: reaching for his eyes, his face, his throat. None of them seem capable or even particularly willing to do much damage, but it's still a horrifying crush of living bone.

And it lets John straighten his clothing, dust himself off, observe the carnage from a more comfortable distance.

"It's over, mate."

He spreads his arms, all amusement, while his servants try to bury Maul beneath their brittle bodies.

"I have the high skeletons."