The last echoes of Thymur's spell rolled like thunder across the battlefield. Where once the orc shaman had stood in defiance, there remained nothing but a scorched crater, the earth itself scarred by the sheer magnitude of magic unleashed. The acrid stench of burned soil and the faint crackle of lingering energy filled the air. Thymur lowered his staff slowly, his breath ragged, each inhalation cutting sharp in his chest. Even for an advanced mage, such power came at a price.
And yet, there was no time to bask in victory.
To his right, a cry split through the clash of steel—a cry he recognized. Alison.
The general stood bloodied but unbroken, surrounded by the hulking forms of two orc warlords. They were mountains of muscle and malice, towering a head above even the largest of soldiers, their crude weapons dripping crimson. One carried a spiked hammer heavy enough to crush a man in half; the other wielded dual cleavers, each swing sweeping arcs of death.
Alison staggered back as the hammer slammed into the ground, earth shattering beneath the blow. Dust and stone erupted around him, but his sword rose to meet the cleavers with defiance. Sparks danced as steel bit steel. He was slower now, his once-precise movements dulled by fatigue, but his eyes still burned with the fire of command.
"Come then," Alison growled, his voice hoarse but steady. "You'll find I don't fall so easily."
The warlords answered with a roar that shook the air, both descending upon him in a flurry of savage strikes.
Alison's blade blurred, parrying one cleaver, sidestepping another, twisting his body just enough to avoid the crushing hammer. Pain shot through his side where blood soaked his armor, but he grit his teeth and forced his limbs to obey. He could not falter. His men were watching.
Thymur, hovering on his platform of runes, saw the danger and considered lending aid. Yet even exhausted, Alison's presence on the battlefield had always been larger than life. The mage clenched his fist and held back. A general's pride was forged not by being saved, but by enduring.
The clash raged on. The hammer came down once more, gouging a crater where Alison had stood a heartbeat before. He slid past the blow, sword flashing upward, biting into the warlord's exposed flank. A bellow of pain shook the air, but the beast did not fall. Instead, rage seemed to fuel it further.
The cleavers came at him again, twin arcs meant to sever him in two. Alison twisted, driving his sword forward in a desperate thrust. The steel pierced the warlord's chest, bursting out the other side in a spray of dark blood. The orc's eyes widened, its cleavers falling limp as it collapsed to the ground with a resounding crash.
The second warlord roared, swinging his hammer with wild fury. Alison, drained and reeling, could only raise his sword in partial defense. The impact sent him skidding across the blood-soaked ground, armor groaning from the force. His blade trembled in his grip.
The warlord charged, each step quaking the ground. Alison forced his legs beneath him, raising his sword in one final stance. His arms shook, his vision swam, but he held.
The hammer fell.
With a roar of defiance, Alison met it head-on. Steel and iron collided with a thunderous crash. His sword shattered, fragments scattering like shards of light. But his resolve did not break. Using the momentum, Alison surged forward, seizing the shard of his broken blade and plunging it into the warlord's throat.
The beast gagged, clawing at the wound, before finally toppling with an earth-shaking thud.
Alison collapsed to one knee, panting heavily. His once-proud armor was battered, dented, and slick with blood, yet his spirit remained unbowed. Around him, human soldiers cheered, emboldened by their general's defiance against the mightiest of foes.
Thymur descended beside him, steadying him with a hand. "You'll kill yourself fighting like this," the mage said quietly.
Alison chuckled bitterly, coughing as blood flecked his lips. "Not today. The men needed to see those beasts fall. Now they know victory isn't beyond them."
Their respite was short-lived.
From the ridgeline ahead, a barrage of magic rained down upon the battlefield—bolts of fire, shards of ice, bursts of raw force that tore into men and earth alike. Soldiers screamed as the sudden onslaught ripped through their ranks, formations scattering under the unrelenting storm.
Thymur's eyes narrowed. His instincts screamed. He stretched his senses into the flow of mana that filled the battlefield. Yet… it remained undisturbed. That was impossible.
"This isn't conjured," he murmured, realization dawning.
Alison frowned. "What do you mean?"
"It's scroll magic," Thymur said grimly. "No mage casts these spells. They're prewritten, pre-sealed into parchment. Whoever prepared them knew what they were doing."
Alison cursed, spitting blood onto the soil. "Then the shaman wasn't just a brute. He prepared for this."
Thymur gave a reluctant nod. To forge so many scrolls of such destructive caliber required skill, patience, and an understanding of magic that exceeded even many human practitioners. The orc shaman, though fallen, had left his legacy in fire and ruin.
The two generals steadied themselves. The fight was not yet done. Their eyes turned toward the heart of the battlefield, where a storm unlike any other was gathering.
There, standing amidst a sea of corpses and clashing steel, Renher faced the orc chief.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
Renher's cloak whipped in the storm winds, his blade gleaming with a terrible light. Across from him, the orc chief loomed, taller and broader than any warrior on the field, his tusks curling in a grin that promised death. The massive war axe in his grip radiated menace, its edge scarred from countless conquests.
The battle around them dimmed, as if every soldier knew instinctively that this was no ordinary duel. The clash of steel and the cries of war became background noise, drowned out by the sheer weight of the moment.
The orc chief stepped forward, and the ground trembled beneath his feet. His aura spilled across the battlefield, primal and suffocating, pressing down like the presence of a mountain. Warriors on both sides faltered, their eyes drawn helplessly to the titans preparing to clash.
Renher did not flinch. His grip tightened on his sword, his own aura surging in answer, refined and unyielding. Where the orc was raw power, Renher was sharpened precision.
The sky darkened. Clouds roiled overhead, lightning flickering in jagged veins. The air itself seemed to shiver, caught between the wills of two beings too great for mortal confines.
And then, with a roar that split the heavens, the orc chief charged.
His axe descended like a falling star, its weight enough to cleave the earth.
Renher moved to meet him, sword flashing as steel met steel. The impact shook the battlefield, sending shockwaves rippling outward. Men were thrown from their feet, the ground splitting beneath the force of the collision.
The duel had begun.