From a small hill nearby, Zola watched the titanic struggle below. Rain fell in cold sheets, drenching the valley, turning the battlefield into a mud-soaked chaos. Between the shifting formations, Renher and the Orc Chief moved like living storms, their weapons clashing with earth-shattering force. Sparks flew from every strike, the air thick with steam, the smell of blood, wet soil, and scorched wood mingling into a suffocating haze.
Zola's heart raced. Every nerve screamed urgency, every thought focused on the final moments of the duel. His dagger, long sought and dangerous beyond measure, rested in his hand. It had been forged from the fangs of a Flaming Python, capable of piercing the strongest flesh and poisoning even the mightiest warriors. He knew what one swift strike could do—but his target? In the confusion, his intent was shrouded even from himself.
The Orc Chief swung his greatsword, the colossal weapon carving through the mud with a roar that shook nearby soldiers off their feet. Trees were torn from the ground, and the shockwaves from the blows sent splintered debris flying. Renher's golden aura cut a radiant path through the gloom as he parried and struck with impeccable precision. Yet even he showed signs of exhaustion; each breath was ragged, each motion more deliberate than the last.
From Zola's vantage point, the scene seemed almost cinematic, the two giants locked in a duel that transcended human understanding. Around them, human soldiers struggled to hold the thinning front line. Orc warriors, leaderless and battered, clawed desperately for survival, their war cries swallowed by the thunderous clashes. Arrows hissed through the air, some deflected by stray shields, others burying themselves in mud-soaked bodies. Mage fire erupted in brilliant streaks, incinerating trees and leaving smoldering craters in the landscape. Lightning forked overhead, illuminating the chaos in violent flashes.
Zola's hands tightened around the dagger. The villagers' safety, the orcish honor, and his own ambition coiled in a knot of urgency. The Mage Leader moved unseen from his hiding, eyes vacant, a black blade clutched as though guided by something beyond comprehension. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to narrow: the Orc Chief, the king, and these two figures approaching from behind.
"Now," Zola thought, stepping through the rain, dagger poised.
Every instinct screamed caution, every pulse screamed action. He imagined plunging the blade into Renher's back, a decisive strike that could end the duel before the battlefield itself could. His thoughts danced with the grim reality of what he was about to do, guilt twisting against ambition, yet there was no turning back. Not now. Not when the final clash was imminent.
The Orc Chief roared, a sound that seemed to split the storm itself. Mud clung to his armor, rain dripping into his tusked face, but his gaze remained locked on Renher. The chief's power emanated in waves, rippling through the battlefield. Humans flinched, orcs hesitated, and even the magic spells unleashed around the valley seemed to bow to his presence.
Renher's golden aura flared in response, sword raised high. He sensed the incoming danger but could not yet comprehend its source. Every muscle tensed, every thought focused on meeting the Orc Chief's attack head-on. The air around him shimmered with heat and raw energy. Lightning streaked through the clouds, reflecting off Excalibur's polished edge, turning the blade into a radiant beacon cutting through the storm.
Then, from Zola's blind perspective, the Mage Leader drew near the Orc Chief. His black blade seemed unnatural, an extension of some dark will, and every subtle movement suggested treachery. The humans around him froze, unsure whether the Mage Leader would strike the Orc Chief down. Zola's mind raced—this was his window, his moment.
Rain streaked across Zola's vision. The battlefield blurred, shouts and cries fading into a low roar of chaos. Soldiers slipped in the mud, banners shredded by wind and fire, corpses lying scattered like discarded toys. Arrows bounced off armor or lodged in splintered tree trunks. Fire and ice spells lingered, their residual energy twisting the very air into crackling ribbons of power.
The Orc Chief bellowed, unleashing a War Cry amplified by his ancient magic. The sound cut through the storm like a blade, shaking soldiers on both sides to their core. Humans faltered, some dropping weapons mid-fight, hearts seized by raw, instinctual fear. The chief's presence surged, each heartbeat amplifying the tension in the air.
Renher charged forward, golden aura blazing, sword aimed to cleave the Orc Chief in a single, decisive stroke. The battlefield seemed to hold its breath. The greatsword met Excalibur with a clash that shook the valley. Shockwaves tore through mud, hurling debris, tossing soldiers off their feet, and leaving wide trenches where their feet had stood moments before. Lightning flickered, illuminating the dueling titans in a strobe of violence.
Then, in that suspended heartbeat, Zola moved.
The dagger flashed in the rain, his grip firm, his motion precise. Yet the world's cruel irony twisted perception. To any observer, it seemed Zola was lunging toward Renher. Every soldier who glimpsed the movement gasped, fear twisting in their hearts. The Mage Leader, meanwhile, appeared poised to strike the Orc Chief, eyes vacant, a black blade glinting in the stormlight. Betrayal seemed inevitable on both fronts.
Zola's mind screamed the stakes: one strike, one misstep, and everything—the king, the chief, the battle itself—could end. He advanced, dagger aimed at Renher, yet hesitation flickered, a ghost of doubt: had he misjudged the moment? The battlefield itself roared, rain and blood mixing, splashing over faces streaked with mud and grime.
Then the impossible happened.
Both attacks landed simultaneously. Zola's dagger found the Orc Chief's side, sinking deep, venom coursing immediately through the chieftain's massive frame. The Mage Leader's black blade pierced Renher's back, blood spraying in a perfect, terrible symmetry. Both titans staggered, shock and pain locking their expressions in frozen horror.
The battlefield erupted in chaos anew. Orcs howled in anguish, humans gasped in disbelief. Soldiers scattered, the storm masking cries of fury and despair. Debris and mud flew as the shockwaves of the final strikes reverberated across the valley.
Renher's vision blurred, golden aura flickering, rain streaking across his blood-smeared face. He turned just enough to glimpse the Mage Leader, blade still raised, eyes empty. The betrayal settled in, a crushing weight that mirrored the poison coursing through the Orc Chief.
The Orc Chief's eyes fell on Zola, who froze mid-step, dagger still drawn. His frailty contrasted starkly with the chieftain's monstrous frame, yet his act had sealed the fate of both titans. The chief's lips curved in a fleeting, knowing chuckle as the venom took hold. He collapsed, blood steaming as it met the rain, never to rise again.
Renher staggered as his strength ebbed, collapsing to one knee. Pain seared through him, every breath a trial. Yet he clung to consciousness, the golden aura flickering weakly. Around him, the battlefield seemed to shrink, the chaos fading as he focused on survival, on the last whispers of command and duty.
Zola watched, breathless, guilt and triumph warring inside him. From his perspective, he had acted against Renher, yet fate and timing had rendered the moment ambiguous. The Mage Leader's role remained equally mysterious, a puppet seemingly beyond his own will.
Rain continued to pour, washing blood into the mud, steam rising where fire and magic had scarred the earth. The battlefield lay broken, alive with chaos yet strangely silent at the duel's epicenter. Human and Orc soldiers alike froze in awe and horror, understanding that the duel they had witnessed—between king and chief—had ended in betrayal and blood, not by their own hands.
Thymur and Alison, bloodied and exhausted, sprinted forward, mud clinging to their armor. They reached Renher's side just as his strength began to wane, his hand trembling as he sought to command the remnants of his will.
"Renher… stay with us!" Alison cried, voice cracking against the storm.
Renher's eyes, dim yet still burning with the last flicker of authority, met theirs. "Protect… the kingdom… the people…" he whispered, every word a struggle. His gaze drifted toward the Mage Leader and Zola, understanding dawning but incomplete. "The future… is in your hands… now…"
Horus, sensing the danger and urgency, dove from the storm-torn skies, wings beating furiously, landing beside Renher. The loyal bird's presence offered a faint anchor against the rising tide of chaos.
Zola, standing amid the destruction, now bore the weight of his actions. What had begun as an act of ambition and desperation had irrevocably changed the battlefield, the war, and the lives of those around him.
In that moment, rain-soaked and bloodied, the valley held its breath. Betrayal and heroism, victory and defeat, all entwined in the storm's fury. The duel between Renher and the Orc Chief had ended—not by their own hands, but by those who had fought beside them, shaping the course of history in a single, devastating instant.
The lancers nearby moved forward and without any hesitation captured the mage leader although his eyes were lifeless but the body was still holding strong.
At the back of the front lines the message had arrived that all the mages belonging to the magic association were being captured. The bows of archers which once were aiding in the battle now turned towards the very mages whom they were supporting earlier
Over on the orcs side there was a silence among the surviving members; none dared to go forwards to zola.
Both sides had stopped fighting as if to pay their respect to their leaders.