The sky that morning was unlike any before. The clouds were steel-gray, and the sun barely pierced through the dust hanging over the horizon. In a rear courtyard of the city of Sawa, King Karis Krios stood silently before a massive map spread over a stone table. Wooden tokens representing units of his army and the enemy were scattered across it.
"We will rearrange everything," he said in a deep voice. "The temporary defeat was a lesson... and now, it's time to respond."
Around him stood his commanders, among them Marcus, whose face still bore the scars of the previous battle, and whose eyes burned with defiance.
"I suggest a three-pronged assault."
"No, we lure them north where the terrain favors us."
"If we deceive Valram and Nirsa again, it's over."
But Karis raised his hand—and silence fell.
"This time, I won't deceive them," he said, his voice like thunder, "I'll crush them face-to-face."
With the dawn of the next day, the earth trembled beneath the feet of tens of thousands. The army of Uruk marched in full armor, their shields gleaming, horses neighing, and war drums beating in unrelenting rhythm.
From the opposite end, the armies of Ashur stretched endlessly across the plains, their black banners fluttering ominously. At their head stood General Valram, the iron-bearded giant, and beside him, General Nirsa, the she-wolf of shadows, her white hair flowing over black armor, her eyes aflame with fury.
The final battle... had begun.
Uruk's legions surged forward like a flood, led by Karis himself. Arrows flew. Spears clashed. Screams drowned the wind.
The fighting was maddening. Front lines collapsed and reformed. The earth became a battlefield of blood and fire.
Karis, wielding his colossal blade, moved like an unstoppable storm. Each swing shattered five men, every leap left a circle of corpses. The enemy crumbled before him, as if something divine—or monstrous—dwelled within his body.
"He's a beast…" whispered an Ashur soldier—before his skull was crushed beneath the king's fist.
As Karis carved through the ranks, a towering figure blocked his path.
Valram, the iron mountain of Ashur, raised a massive axe with arms like cliffs, and bellowed:
"KARIS!!"
Time seemed to halt.
Then the sky erupted with blade and axe.
Each clash between them shook the ground. Every strike sent tremors through the air. It wasn't a battle—it was a duel between legends competing for a place in history.
"You won't survive this time!" roared Valram, bringing down his axe with terrifying force.
"I'll make your name a warning they weep over!" Karis replied, swinging his blade like lightning.
Elsewhere on the battlefield, Marcus advanced through the dead, striking swiftly, appearing and vanishing like a ghost. Until he reached his true opponent...
Nirsa, general of Ashur.
Her white hair danced in the wind, twin short swords gleaming in her hands, a predator's calm etched on her face.
"Your past mistakes won't repeat, Marcus…" she said coldly.
"I don't make mistakes—I test my prey before I kill it." He smirked as he drew his long dagger.
And the duel exploded.
Their clash was art. Blades clashed, feet twisted, blood splattered, but neither yielded.
Nirsa was faster. Marcus was trickier. Each searched for the killing opening.
Slash—parry. Spin—evade. Punch—kick. Scream—laugh.
And the ground beneath them cracked with the weight of their strikes.
Above, birds fled in fear. Below, corpses piled up. In between, glory and carnage burned everything in their path.
The sound of horns mingled with the screams. Blood of thousands soaked the fields.
The battle reached its climax.
Karis and Valram exchanged devastating blows before the eyes of both armies.
Marcus and Nirsa continued their deadly dance in the shadows.
And no one knew… who would live to see tomorrow.