The ground quaked as the orc chief stepped forward, each stride a drumbeat of inevitability. His presence was not merely physical—it was elemental. Power radiated from him in thick, suffocating waves, as though the raw essence of war itself had taken shape in his towering frame. His tusks jutted forward in a vicious grin, and his axe, blackened from blood and fire, seemed less a weapon and more a fragment of some cruel god's will.
Renher felt the shift in the air, the way the battlefield seemed to bend around the orc's existence. It was pressure—palpable, primal, crushing. But he did not flinch. His fingers tightened around Excalibur's hilt, knuckles whitening as his own aura surged to meet the storm. A glow rippled outward from his body, steady and resolute, clashing invisibly with the chief's presence. Two storms had met, and the world groaned under the weight of their collision.
Above, the heavens seemed to mirror their intent. Clouds rolled in, black and swollen, lightning veins flashing like blades drawn in anticipation. The battlefield hushed, not by command, but by instinct. Human and orc alike turned, drawn toward the epicenter where legend was being carved. Even the wind, carrying ash and embers, stilled for a heartbeat as though nature itself braced for the clash.
The orc chief's roar tore through the silence. It was not merely a cry of challenge but an anthem of annihilation. He surged forward with impossible speed for his size, the axe whistling through the air like a falling star, its sheer weight promising to sunder flesh, steel, and stone alike.
Renher did not retreat. He met the blow head-on.
Excalibur flared, a silver arc through the gloom, striking the axe with a detonation of force that rippled outward in a shockwave. Warriors were thrown from their feet, the ground cracked like glass beneath them, and dust exploded upward in choking clouds. Sparks cascaded, dazzling in the gloom, and the air itself seemed to shiver from the violence of steel on steel.
They did not pause.
The chief swung wide again, a brutal sweep that would have reduced any soldier to a mangled corpse. Renher ducked beneath it, sliding forward, Excalibur flashing upward in a deadly thrust. The orc twisted, parrying with the haft of his axe, the sound of metal grinding against metal shrieking across the battlefield. Renher spun, his cape snapping, blade a blur of precision.
Every move was calculated, refined, honed by years of discipline. Yet every counter was met by the orc's sheer instinct—raw, primal, unyielding. It was not elegance but dominance. Not technique but ferocity.
This is what separates us, Renher thought as he pivoted away from another bone-shattering strike. Humans fight with discipline, with order. Orcs fight with chaos, with the hunger to devour. Yet in this moment… both paths meet in blood.
Their duel consumed the battlefield. Winds screamed with every exchange, trees on the valley's edge splintered and toppled, their trunks shattered by stray strikes. Firelight from burning siege engines cast long shadows that danced wildly with each surge of power. Rain began to fall, hissing as it struck scorched earth, steam rising to veil the field in ghostly mist.
The world around them was dissolving. Only two figures remained—titan and king.
Renher pressed the assault, his swordsmanship flowing in relentless arcs, the teachings of Imperial sword arts interwoven with the improvisation of a warrior who had fought countless battles. He struck high, low, feinted, then turned a thrust into a slash, forcing the orc chief to retreat half a step.
Yet half a step was all the orc conceded. His body absorbed blows that would have crippled a lesser being. His grin widened as blood seeped from shallow cuts, each wound a badge of defiance. He answered Renher's fury with strikes that could level walls, his axe hammering down again and again until the very ground split.
Why do you fight, human? the orc's eyes seemed to say with every swing. To protect? To conquer? To endure? All roads end in the grave. Yet we—
The axe slammed down, Renher twisting aside at the last instant. The earth exploded, shards of stone flying.
—we orcs fight because it is all we are. To die in battle is not defeat. It is the highest truth.
Renher's eyes burned, his breath ragged, yet his resolve blazed ever fiercer. And we humans fight because there is more than death. We fight for tomorrow. For the ones who cannot stand in this place. For the world that must survive beyond our graves.
The clash of philosophies was etched into every strike, every dodge, every scream of metal. It was no longer a duel of flesh and blood but of ideals, of two worldviews colliding with cataclysmic force.
Meanwhile, further back in the chaos, Thymur and Alison carved a path through the remnants of the orc forces. Alison, bloodied yet unyielding, raised his shattered blade high, his men rallying at his side. Each step he took steadied their wavering spirits, reminding them that courage was not the absence of fear, but its defiance.
Thymur, staff crackling with residual mana, scanned the battlefield with wary eyes. The resonance of Renher's duel reverberated even here, but something else tugged at his senses—a discordant note in the symphony of battle. His gaze shifted to the mage unit stationed at the ridge.
Their leader sat cross-legged, eyes closed, as though lost in meditation. Too still. Too calm.
Thymur's unease deepened.
"King's holding his ground," Alison shouted over the din, pointing toward Renher's clash with the chief. "He doesn't need us—look at him!"
Thymur nodded absently, though his focus remained elsewhere. His instincts screamed. Magic was a language, a rhythm. And something about the mage leader's presence was off-beat, like a drum played by hands not its own.
He glanced again. For the briefest instant, the man's eyes flickered open—eyes black as pitch.
Thymur's heart clenched. No… something else walks in his skin.
Back at the heart of the battlefield, Renher felt fatigue gnawing at his limbs. His strikes, though precise, began to slow. His breaths came ragged, his chest heaving with the weight of exertion. He had weathered countless battles, had cut through warlords and shaman alike, but this foe—this chief—was unlike any he had faced.
The orc, too, bore wounds. Blood dripped from his arms and shoulders, his breathing heavy. But his vitality was monstrous, each drop of blood seeming to feed his frenzy rather than sap his strength. He pressed on with reckless abandon, his laughter echoing between blows.
Renher's mind sharpened amidst the haze of exhaustion. If I allow this to drag on, I will fall. He thrives in endurance. I must end it before the dusk deepens.
But another voice within whispered—one quieter, older, steadier. And yet, king, what lesson do you leave the world if you end it by desperation alone? To fight without patience is to betray your own creed.
For a heartbeat, his sword wavered. That hesitation nearly cost him his life. The orc's axe roared downward, and only a desperate sidestep saved him, the shockwave sending him sprawling.
The chief sneered, tusks gleaming. "Too eager, human. Even your fire burns low."
Renher's jaw tightened. He staggered to his feet, bloodied but unbowed. His vision swam, but Excalibur's weight anchored him.
"This fire," he rasped, raising his blade, "is not mine alone. It is every man who fell before me. Every soul who believed tomorrow was worth bleeding for. That is what separates us, beast. You fight for death. I fight for life."
The orc laughed, a booming, guttural sound. "Life? You dress your cowardice in fine words. All your kingdoms, your legacies—they crumble. All your hopes—they rot. Only strength endures. Only the clash. Only this." He slammed his axe against the earth, sending a tremor through the ground. "That is truth."
The storm above raged, lightning splitting the heavens, rain falling harder. Their words were lost in the roar, yet their meaning burned in the eyes of every soldier who watched.
The duel had become more than a battle—it was a mirror held up to every soul present, reflecting their own beliefs, their own reasons for raising a blade.
Elsewhere, the corrupted mage leader rose silently to his feet, his movements deliberate, his presence veiled. Alison greeted him with a nod, unaware.
But Thymur lingered behind, suspicion curdling in his chest. He could feel it now, like oil slicking over water—an alien presence twisting within the man. And worse, he felt its gaze turn toward the duel at the battlefield's heart.
Toward Renher.
The duel slowed as exhaustion set in. Renher's shoulders sagged, his blade trembling faintly in his grip. The orc's chest heaved, his swings growing sloppier but no less deadly. It had become a contest not of speed or skill, but of will—whose body would break first, whose spirit would shatter.
Both knew it. Both embraced it.
Renher's gaze sharpened. If I fall, the line breaks. If he falls, his army shatters. There can be no stalemate. Only one leaves this place standing.
The orc's eyes burned the same truth.
And so they circled, titans bloodied, breath steaming in the chill air, each waiting for the moment to commit their final reserves.
The storm above swelled, thunder shaking the valley. The soldiers dared not move, dared not breathe.