At an open field, Leon could be seen clashing fiercely with one of the seven generals of the Orc King.
"Aren't you a little too weak!?" Leon mocked as his crystalline daggers danced in his hands, striking and deflecting with casual precision.
"Hmph!" the Orc snorted, rage filling its eyes. Its pride as a general burned with shame at those words. To be mocked by a mere human—no, by something it considered inferior—was the gravest insult. Its every swing grew heavier, its steps more desperate. A
Yet no matter how much effort the Orc poured into overpowering Leon, he was effortlessly suppressed. Leon treated every strike as if it were nothing more than a child's tantrum, redirecting blows with his daggers, his movements calm and fluid, his grin only widening with every failed attempt the Orc made.
