The battlefield was a graveyard of steel and corpses, but for these two warriors, it was a stage for something far more primal.
Marquis Hector and Movok clashed again and again, their bodies broken, their blood spilling freely onto the already tainted ground.
Neither hesitated. Neither flinched.
The night air hung heavy with the iron scent of blood, thick and suffocating.
The battlefield stood eerily silent, the watching soldiers frozen in place, captivated by the sheer brutality unfolding before them.
Movok’s yellow reptilian eyes burned with unrestrained hunger, muscles rippling like coiled steel beneath his thick scales.
He breathed heavily, savoring the battle, reveling in the pain.
Hector, despite the deep gashes along his flesh and the fire that raged in his ribs, remained standing, his silver aura flickering like the dying embers of a once-mighty flame.
His body screamed for rest, but his spirit denied it.
Every time one of them was struck down, they rose again.
Every drop of blood that poured only fueled their will to destroy.
They were monsters in their own right—unstoppable forces of chaos and carnage.
Then, in a blur of movement, Movok lunged.
Clawed fingers slashed through the air, fast as a striking viper.
Hector barely had time to move before those monstrous talons sank into his shoulder, piercing through flesh with sickening ease.
A deep, guttural scream tore from Hector’s throat as burning agony ripped through him.
Hot blood gushed from the wound, dripping down his armor in thick rivulets.
Movok’s claws twisted deeper, scraping against bone.
Hector’s vision blurred. His knees trembled.
The world wavered before him.
But he refused to fall.
Summoning the last reserves of his strength, he drove his knee into Movok’s gut, forcing the beast to loosen his grip.
Without hesitation, he twisted, pouring everything into a vicious kick that sent Movok stumbling backward.
Green blood splattered onto the dirt.
The watching soldiers gasped.
Yet even as Movok staggered, he never stopped smiling.
His scaled chest rose and fell in ragged breaths, his muscles quivering with exhaustion, but his body still pulsed with the energy of a beast that had tasted victory.
Because he knew.
Hector was fading.
The silver glow surrounding the Marquis flickered weakly, struggling to hold on against the overwhelming tide of pain and blood loss.
Movok’s eyes gleamed with the ruthless certainty of a predator closing in on its prey.
With a low snarl, he launched himself forward, moving with inhuman speed.
His fists became a storm, a merciless barrage of strikes.
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A brutal punch to the stomach—
Hector’s body jerked forward, blood spewing from his mouth as he gasped for air that would not come.
A savage kick to the face—
His vision shattered, white-hot agony exploding through his skull.
His legs buckled, his knees slamming into the blood-soaked earth.
Movok did not stop.
With a roar that sent shivers down the spines of those watching, he pounced on Hector, his massive body pinning the battered warrior to the ground.
The moon hung high above them, silent, cold, bearing witness to the final, unforgiving act of brutality.
Movok raised his fist.
And brought it down.
A sickening crack echoed through the night as bone snapped beneath his knuckles.
Hector’s head snapped to the side, his mouth spilling blood onto the dirt.
His body convulsed.
Another punch.
And another.
And another.
Movok’s fists hammered into Hector’s skull, into his ribs, into his throat.
Each blow sent fresh splashes of crimson flying, painting the earth in violent streaks of red.
His knuckles, once gleaming with golden scales, were now drenched in blood.
The Marquis’ breathing grew shallow, rattling, each exhale weaker than the last.
His silver aura flickered one final time before vanishing into the darkness.
His body went still.
Limp.
The silence that followed was absolute.
The watching soldiers could not move. Could not breathe.
Only when Movok was certain—only when he was sure that life had truly left his foe’s body—did he finally stop.
He exhaled, slow and steady, his broad chest rising and falling, his muscles trembling with the weight of exhaustion.
His bloodied fists hung at his sides, fingers twitching, still stained with the remnants of his victory.
Then, he lifted his head to the sky, and let out a deep, triumphant growl.
Behind him, the gathered monsters roared, their voices shaking the heavens.
And in that moment, the fate of the battlefield was sealed.
The Wall of the North had fallen.
----
A haunting silence fell across the battlefield.
The wind carried the heavy scent of blood and steel, mingling with the cold night air that wrapped around the fortress like a shroud.
The sky, once adorned with a sea of stars, now seemed darker—tainted by the death that had unfolded below.
Above the fortress walls, the defenders stood frozen in place.
Their hands clutched their weapons tightly, yet their arms felt like lead, too heavy to lift.
Their breaths came in uneven gasps, and though their bodies trembled from exhaustion, it was not weariness that held them still.
It was the sight before them.
The lifeless body of Marquis Hector lay sprawled across the blood-soaked earth, his silver armor shattered and drenched in crimson.
His once-mighty form, the man they had followed into countless battles, was now nothing more than a corpse beneath the pale moonlight.
His sword lay just inches from his outstretched fingers, his grip loosened in death.
And standing above him, towering over the fallen warrior, was Movok.
His massive form was battered, deep gashes carved into his thick reptilian skin.
Green blood dripped from his wounds, mixing with the red pooling beneath him.
His chest rose and fell with heavy, labored breaths, but despite the injuries, despite the pain—he stood.
Victorious.
His reptilian eyes glowed in the dim light, sweeping across the walls, across the terrified faces of the soldiers who dared not meet his gaze.
The corners of his mouth curled into a slow, deliberate smile, sharp fangs glinting as he took a step forward, his presence alone enough to send a ripple of unease through the ranks.
He said nothing.
He didn’t need to.
His stance, his expression, his very existence spoke a single, undeniable truth.
Come down and fight me.
Come down and avenge him.
Come down and die.
No one moved.
No one dared to challenge him.
Asael’s hands clenched into fists, his nails digging so deep into his palms that he barely noticed the sting.
His breath came sharp and uneven, his chest tightening with each passing second.
Movok was injured.
Weak.
This was their only chance to kill him.
His eyes darted toward the others.
They had to move.
They had to attack now.
But their bodies refused.
Every single one of them stood rooted to the spot, as if bound by invisible chains.
The battle against Magnum had already drained them, left them gasping for breath, barely standing.
Their wounds throbbed, their muscles burned, and even the strongest among them struggled to remain upright.
Steven, due to the last battle, swayed on his feet, barely conscious.
Anne had collapsed to her knees, her hands trembling from exhaustion of healing others.
They had already given everything.
And yet, it wasn’t exhaustion that held them still.
It was fear.
Movok had not just killed Hector.
He had crushed him.
He had pounded his fists into the Marquis until there was nothing left but blood and broken bone.
And in doing so, he had shattered something far more important—hope.
The unshakable belief that they could win.
And then, there was the horde.
The creatures that had stood behind Movok, watching in anticipation, now stirred, their claws raking against the earth, their eyes gleaming with hunger.
They had been waiting.
Waiting for their master’s signal, waiting for the command to feast upon the remnants of the battlefield.
Even if they killed Movok, even if they somehow managed to strike him down—
Could they survive what came next?
Could they make it out alive?
A single sound broke the silence.
A voice, low and commanding, filled with nothing but cold, merciless finality.
"Finish them."
Movok''s words were spoken without hesitation. Without emotion.
And then—
The monsters moved.
A wave of death surged forward, claws scraping against the dirt, fangs bared, their howls rising into the air like a chorus of the damned.
They came for them.
Asael''s body locked in place.
His breath hitched.
They had to run.
But his heart screamed against it.
This wasn''t right.
This wasn''t how it should end.
Marquis Hector still lay there, his blood soaking into the earth, his body abandoned in the dirt.
He had fought for them, bled for them, died for them.
He had led them, shielded them, given them everything—
And now they were supposed to leave him behind?
To let the monsters tear him apart?
His throat burned as he gritted his teeth.
"Marquis…" His voice trembled, his legs refusing to obey the command to move.
He had to stay.
He had to fight.
But then—
"Asael!!"
Sam’s voice cut through the chaos, snapping him back to reality.
He turned.
The others were already moving.
Marquis Hector’s final words echoed in his mind.
"If things get worse, flee."
And this…
This was far beyond worse.
His hands trembled, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt, but he forced himself to move.
"I know!!"
The words felt like shards of glass on his tongue, but he turned and ran.
The others followed.
They slammed the front gates shut with the last of their strength.
And then—
The back gate burst open, and they vanished into the night, swallowed by the darkness.
Behind them, the monsters roared, their howls shaking the very earth, their fury chasing them into the abyss.