The dust of the now silent battlefield was thick in the air, stirred by the slow, heavy steps of Grashnak, the Ork Hero, as he descended from the back of his armored boar. The beast snorted, tusks plated in steel, but its master waved it away with a grunt.
Before him stood Onyx, the Shadow Reaper, his skeletal frame draped in a black mantle that seemed stitched from midnight itself. His cracked horn caught the faint light, a reminder of his silent and dependable power.
Grashnak spat to the ground and chuckled, a guttural, mocking sound.
"Pathetic," he rumbled. "A broken-horn runt thinks he can stand before Grashnak Skullcleaver? I'll split you like kindling."
Onyx said nothing. His stance was low, lance angled downward, his hollow eyes fixed on every twitch of the ork's muscles. His silence was unsettling, deliberate—an assassin's poise.
The two armies stood in tense stillness. At the forefront, Kairo raised a hand. His voice was calm, measured.
"Lets Begin."
Jack, standing just behind him, smirked. "Let's see if your reaper can really stand infornt for my strongest."
Grashnak charged, his massive axe raised high. Each step shook the ground. With a roar, he brought the weapon down in a vertical arc meant to crush Onyx outright.
Onyx blurred sideways, shadows peeling from his body as if he melted into smoke. The axe slammed into the ground, stone cracking, debris flying. Onyx reappeared with his lance thrust forward, aiming at Grashnak's exposed ribs.
The ork twisted, catching the blade with his bare hand. Hardened shadow screeched against reinforced flesh, sparks spraying. Blood welled between his fingers, but Grashnak only grinned wider.
"Fast," he growled, "but not enough!"
He swung the axe horizontally with his free hand. Onyx ducked low, rolling beneath the strike and rising behind him, but Grashnak's instincts were savage and sharp. He spun, a hidden dagger flashing from his belt, parrying the incoming strike at the last moment.
Steel rang like a bell as their weapons clashed in quick succession. The ork pressed forward, every attack a storm of raw power. Each swing of his axe carried the weight of a battering ram, carving through stone and dirt alike.
Onyx answered with speed—sidesteps, feints, and gliding movements that seemed unnatural. He never met strength with strength. His lance was a serpent, striking at openings, probing, always searching.
Grashnak laughed between blows, his tusked grin feral.
"I expected more from the Shadow Reaper! Where's the fear? Where's the death? Or are you just another corpse waiting for me to bury?"
Onyx's silence was unbroken. He let the ork's arrogance fill the air, while his own presence grew colder, sharper—like the edge of a knife waiting for the perfect cut.
Not far from the duel, Shiri, coiled upon a broken column, his arms crossed. His golden eyes never left the fighters.
"Watch carefully," he murmured to Theo and Flint who stood nearby, breathless.
"This is how the hero-tiers fight. Every strike is lethal. Every move is made to kill. You must learn the rhythm of life and death from this clash."
Theo swallowed hard. Flint's fists tightened. Neither dared blink.
The battle intensified. Grashnak charged with a roar, his axe overhead, ready to cleave Onyx in two. The air itself seemed to split as the blade descended.
But in that instant, Onyx dissolved. His body melted into liquid blackness, vanishing into Grashnak's own shadow. The axe hit nothing but stone, shattering another section of the ruined courtyard.
The ork's head snapped around. His instincts screamed danger.
Behind him, the shadow surged upward. Onyx emerged, lance thrusting for the heart.
Clang! The dagger met the strike again, sparks scattering. Grashnak snarled, but his grin never faltered.
"Hah! I knew you'd try that trick again!"
From his vantage point, Kairo studied every movement, every exchange. His eyes weren't on the weapons, but on the rhythm, the energy, the gradual tilt of tilt of momentum.
Their status hovered over his eyes.
Name: Onyx
Title: The Shadow Reaper
Bloodline: Abyssal Horned Fiend (Cracked Horn Variant)
Class: Shadow Lancer
Tier: Hero Tier (Low)
Skills:
Umbral Step, Lance of Nightfall, Shadow Veil, Specter's Patience
Name: Garshnak
Title: The Warhammer Tusker (Ork Hero)
Bloodline: Ironhide Ork (Boar-Blooded Lineage)
Class: Berserker Warchief
Tier: Hero Tier (Mid)
Skills:
Boar Rush, Titan's Grip, Savage Counter, Blood Roar, Unyielding Fury
He folded his arms, mind racing.
"They're equal," he murmured to himself. "But equal is never enough. To win, we need the battlefield itself."
His gaze shifted to the half-collapsed wall at the edge of the courtyard. An opportunity.
"Onyx," he commanded through the system's link. "Pull him back. Draw him toward the ruin."
The shadow reaper's hollow eyes flickered faintly in acknowledgment.
The duel continued, but Onyx began to give ground. His dodges pulled him backward, step by step, toward the looming wall. Grashnak, drunk on aggression, followed without hesitation, each swing hungrier than the last.
"You run well!" the ork bellowed. "But let's see how far your legs carry you when your head's rolling on the ground!"
He hurled himself forward, axe flashing in a brutal overhead strike.
Onyx slipped aside, vanishing into shadow once more. The axe met stone—this time striking the weakened wall.
Crack—BOOM!
The structure gave way, collapsing in a roar of dust and rubble. Chunks of stone crashed down on Grashnak, burying him beneath tons of debris.
For a moment, silence. Dust billowed across the battlefield.
Then, with a roar that shook the ruins, the ork burst free, stone flying in all directions. His armor dented, his face bloodied, but his grin was wider than ever.
"Good! That's more like it!"
Onyx jumped from the shadows, darkness swirling around him. He raised a hand. The darkness of the courtyard thickened, coiling like serpents. From every corner, the shadows sharpened, hardening into black blades that hung suspended in the air.
The reaper's silent intent was unmistakable.
Kairos' voice cut through the tension, calm as ever:
"Now, end it."
Onyx's form blurred. He leapt from the shadow, all the black blades following like a storm of death.
Grashnak, still laughing, raised his axe and dagger in a cross-guard, ready to meet the oncoming tide.
And then—
The world seemed to hold its breath.
To Be Continued...