The storm above raged with unrelenting fury, the sky itself a black canvas torn by streaks of silver fire. Rain fell heavier, drumming against broken armor and shattered shields, turning the battlefield into a mire of mud and blood. The duel between Renher and the orc chief had consumed all else; every clang of steel, every shockwave of their blows rippled outward, drowning the cries of soldiers in its wake.
They circled each other now, titans worn yet unbroken. Their breaths came ragged, but their eyes burned brighter than ever—flames of will refusing to bow.
The orc chief was the first to move. With a roar that shook the rain from the heavens, he hurled himself forward, his colossal frame a blur of muscle and rage. The axe descended in a brutal arc, one that could split a mountain.
Renher raised Excalibur, bracing for the impact. When steel met steel, the collision tore through the battlefield like a thunderclap. The ground beneath them fractured, forming jagged fissures that raced outward. Men were thrown back, horses screamed and bolted, and shattered banners fell into the mud.
Renher gritted his teeth, every muscle straining as the weight of the blow pressed him down. Sparks showered his vision, his arms screaming under the pressure. Yet even as his knees buckled, his gaze never faltered.
If I yield here, everything ends. Not just me—every soul behind me, every dream they clutch, every prayer whispered into the storm. I cannot fall.
With a roar, he twisted, redirecting the force, Excalibur slashing upward to carve a line across the chief's chest. Blood sprayed, hot and dark, but the orc only laughed—laughed through the pain, as if the wound had only sharpened his joy.
"You bleed me, human," the chief bellowed, tusks glistening. "But blood is nothing! Blood is the river that carries me to my destiny!"
He swung again, relentless, unyielding. Renher dodged, deflected, countered, each movement precise, measured, his blade carving small wounds into the giant. Yet none were enough. The chief's vitality was monstrous, his will inexhaustible. Every strike Renher landed was swallowed by the sheer enormity of his foe's existence.
And still, Renher fought on.
So this is what it means to face a being who knows no compromise, he thought, chest heaving. Raw instinct against honed discipline. But if instinct is the river… then I must be the dam that halts it. The edge that cuts through chaos.
The duel escalated, their movements faster, sharper. The rain turned to mist around them, vaporized by the sheer heat of their clashing auras. Lightning struck the ground nearby, searing the battlefield white, yet neither warrior flinched.
Their philosophies clashed as violently as their weapons.
The orc chief fought for death, for the eternal struggle, for the glory of vanishing in a blaze of violence. To him, mortality was not a chain but a crown, and battle the only altar worth kneeling at.
Renher fought for life, for the fragile threads that wove humanity together. To him, mortality was a burden only overcome by giving tomorrow to those who could not seize it themselves.
Steel screamed. Earth split. Blood flowed.
From the ridge, Thymur watched with narrowed eyes, sweat mixing with the rain upon his brow. Every pulse of mana from the duel rattled his senses, but worse still was the unease festering at the edge of his awareness.
The mage leader stood too still, the blackness in his eyes deepening, unnatural. Power coiled around him—not the raw burst of spellcraft but something slower, subtler. Like chains tightening, like strings being pulled.
Then he saw it.
The crow.
Perched upon the mage's shoulder, feathers dripping with rain, eyes glowing with an eerie crimson light. Thymur's stomach lurched. It was no bird. It was a vessel—a conduit of something darker, something not of this battlefield.
Someone is watching through him.
He turned sharply toward the duel, panic rising. If that presence interfered, if it reached for Renher in his most fragile moment—
"Thymur!" Alison's voice tore him back. The general limped up, bloodied but resolute, soldiers at his back. "Eyes forward! We need to hold the line!"
But Thymur's gaze lingered on the mage, on the crow's unblinking eyes, before snapping back to the duel. His fists clenched.
Please, Renher. End it before they move.
The fight raged on.
Renher's body screamed with exhaustion. His vision blurred at the edges, his arms trembling as Excalibur grew heavier with each swing. His lungs burned, every breath a fire in his chest. He was mortal, and mortality was a weight that could not be denied forever.
The orc chief, too, bore wounds deep and brutal. His chest heaved, his laughter ragged, blood soaking his armor until it clung like tar. Yet his spirit only flared brighter, as though the brink of death was his true home.
At last, their duel narrowed to its inevitable end.
The orc chief raised his axe high, aura blazing like a bonfire in the storm. "One strike, human! Let the gods themselves bear witness!"
Renher lifted Excalibur, its silver light cutting through the darkness like dawn's first blade. His voice, though hoarse, rang clear: "So be it. One strike—for every soul who cannot stand here with me."
Their auras erupted, colliding in a storm of energy that shattered the ground beneath them. Lightning arced downward, drawn to their fury, splitting the battlefield in blinding brilliance.
Then they charged.