The battlefield stank of blood and death.


    The thick, metallic scent clogged the air, mixing with the stench of rotting flesh and burnt remains.


    A pile of corpses lay stacked in the center, a grotesque monument to slaughter.


    Twisted, broken bodies of gnolls, goblins, ogres, and barbarians were heaped upon one another, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing.


    Some had been cleaved clean in half, their entrails spilling onto the dirt like spoiled fruit bursting from its skin.


    Others were missing limbs, jagged bone protruding from torn flesh, their bodies still twitching in the last, agonizing moments of death.


    The battlefield was silent now, save for the crackling of distant fires and the occasional wet squelch of blood pooling in the dirt.


    The survivors had already fled, abandoning their leaders, their comrades, and their honor in a desperate bid for life.


    Only seven or eight remained, their breaths ragged, their bodies battered and exhausted.


    Asael and his group stood among them, swords heavy in their hands, their fingers slick with sweat and blood.


    The taste of iron clung to their tongues, mixing with the dryness of exhaustion.


    The remaining barbarians, once proud warriors, trembled.


    Their hands clutched their weapons with little strength, arms shaking under the weight of fear.


    They had landed blows on Movok.


    They had seen his blood spill, watched steel bite into his monstrous flesh.


    Yet the beast still stood.


    Unfazed.


    Unbroken.


    Still grinning.


    Steven’s body crackled with energy, arcs of lightning snapping along his skin.


    His breath came short, each inhale burning his lungs.


    His arms ached, screaming for rest.


    But he couldn’t stop now.


    He surged forward, a blur of lightning and desperation, his feet kicking up dirt and blood-soaked earth beneath him.


    Movok’s greatsword swung in a brutal, monstrous arc, slicing through the air with a deafening roar.


    Steven barely ducked in time.


    The blade howled past his head, the force alone enough to send a shockwave through his chest.


    His heart pounded as he lunged, eyes locked on the one weak spot—a cracked scale patch on Movok’s leg.


    His sword shot forward, the steel glinting under the dim light.


    A perfect strike.


    Then—


    A metallic clang echoed through the battlefield.


    Steven’s eyes widened as his blade skidded uselessly across Movok’s thick, armored hide, leaving behind nothing but a shallow, meaningless scratch.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    Before he could react, Movok’s knee drove into his stomach like a battering ram.


    The breath was ripped from his lungs.


    The world blurred.


    Pain exploded through his ribs as he stumbled backward, gasping for air, his vision darkening at the edges.


    Then came the shadow.


    The greatsword swung again, death rushing toward him.


    Before the blade could find its mark, a golden streak cut through the air.


    Asael.


    His sword glowed like the sun, its edge humming with power as it slashed toward Movok’s exposed shoulder.


    It should have cut deep.


    Should have drawn blood.


    But Movok was faster.


    A flick of the wrist. A twist of the greatsword.


    Steel met steel with a deafening clang.


    Sparks burst into the air, scattering like dying fireflies.


    Asael’s arms shook from the impact.


    His bones rattled, his grip faltering for just a moment.


    Movok barely moved.


    His monstrous strength turned the parry into a counter, and with a single push, Asael was flung backward.


    His boots skidded against the blood-soaked ground, his breath ragged.


    Giren saw an opening.


    With a roar, he dashed forward, his axe raised high.


    His muscles burned, his lungs screamed, but he pushed past the pain.


    Movok’s back was turned.


    A perfect opportunity.


    He swung.


    But then—


    A flash of movement.


    Movok’s fist slammed into Giren’s face with a sickening crunch.


    Bone shattered.


    Blood sprayed from his nose and mouth.


    His skull rattled, his vision exploded into white-hot agony.


    The world spun.


    He barely registered the sensation of flying before the ground rose up to meet him.


    He crashed down in a heap. Blood pooled beneath his broken face.


    His limbs twitched once, then went still.


    Greg leapt through the air, his sword poised, his heart hammering.


    He would strike Movok down, drive his blade through the beast’s heart.


    End this nightmare.


    But before he could even bring his blade down, a clawed hand shot up and closed around his throat.


    His momentum stopped instantly.


    His feet dangled in the air, kicking helplessly.


    His hands clawed at Movok’s fingers, but the grip only tightened.


    His vision blurred, his lungs burned.


    Darkness crept in.


    Then came the ground.


    Movok slammed him down with bone-crushing force.


    The earth beneath him cracked from the impact.


    His body spasmed, blood spilling from his lips.


    And Movok did not hesitate.


    The greatsword lifted.


    Then it came down.


    A wet, sickening sound.


    Greg’s body convulsed, his breath hitching in a weak, choked gasp.


    His fingers twitched once.


    Then, nothing.


    Movok ripped his sword free, and Greg’s lifeless body slumped into the dirt.


    Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into the earth.


    The remaining barbarians saw this.


    And broke.


    Weapons clattered to the ground.


    They turned and fled, abandoning everything in sheer terror, their screams lost in the wind.


    The battlefield fell into silence.


    Movok exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.


    The scent of blood filled his lungs, intoxicating.


    He turned his gaze toward Asael and his group.


    The only ones left.


    Their bodies were battered, bruised, bloodied.


    Their breaths came in ragged gasps.


    Yet they still stood.


    Still fought.


    Movok’s lips curled into a smirk.


    His clawed fingers tightened around his greatsword.


    His scales, though marred with scratches, still gleamed beneath the dim sky.


    He stood tall.


    Unshaken.


    And with a voice rich with cruel amusement, he spoke.


    "Now, it’s just you all."


    His golden eyes burned, filled with hunger.


    The thrill of battle.


    The thrill of killing.


    ---


    The result of battle is decided by momentum and strength.


    Words Giren had heard all his life, hammered into his mind like an unyielding war drum.


    Movok knew this too.


    That’s why, despite the deep gashes in his flesh, despite the blood trickling from his side, he still stood with that same unbearable confidence.


    Because confidence alone could turn the tide of war.


    And if Giren let doubt creep into his heart, even for a second—


    He would lose.


    So he refused to hesitate.


    Not anymore.


    "You all rest for a moment," Giren growled, his golden eyes locked onto Movok’s piercing gaze.


    Asael stepped forward, voice tight with disbelief.


    "What? But—"


    "Our teamwork is a mess. We’re getting in each other''s way. If we keep this up, we’ll all die."


    His grip tightened around the hilt of his weapon before he let it go entirely.


    "I’ll hold him. But listen—"


    His voice carried the weight of a final command.


    "You’ll only get one chance. Just one. When the time comes—strike."


    Silence.


    Asael hesitated, his hands trembling.


    "But what if—"


    "It doesn’t matter."


    Giren cut him off, his voice barely above a whisper, yet firm as steel.


    "As long as I can kill him, it’s worth it."


    Nobody spoke.


    Steven clenched his fists so hard his knuckles turned white.


    Anne looked down, biting her lip, refusing to meet Giren’s eyes.


    They all knew what this meant.


    But there was no stopping him now.


    Giren stepped forward.


    Movok mirrored him.


    Their towering figures cast long shadows over the ruined battlefield.


    The remaining orcs and barbarians lingered in the distance, unwilling—perhaps unable—to interfere.


    This was no longer a battle.


    This was a reckoning.


    Movok’s sharp yellow eyes gleamed with amusement.


    "So," he drawled, stepping forward with a lazy confidence that made Giren’s blood boil.


    "You’re fighting me alone now?"


    Giren’s stare did not waver.


    "Yes."


    "And I’ll defeat you."


    With those words, he released his grip on his axe, letting it fall to the ground.


    Movok raised an eyebrow.


    Then, with a deep, rumbling chuckle, he followed suit.


    His greatsword crashed into the dirt with a weight that made the earth tremble.


    "You remember our past battles, don’t you?"


    The first—


    Movok had snapped Giren’s tusk like it was nothing more than a brittle twig.


    Left him in the dirt, broken and bleeding, a mockery of a warrior.


    The second—


    Movok had beaten him within an inch of his life, only to walk away, unimpressed.


    And the third—


    Movok had slain his brother without hesitation, yet never even bothered to finish Giren off.


    Because Giren was never a threat.


    Not then.


    Not now.


    But this time was different.


    Movok could feel it.


    The rage burning in Giren’s stance.


    The unwavering determination smoldering in his golden eyes.


    For the first time—


    Movok saw not a broken warrior, not a failed brother—


    But a real challenge.


    And it made his blood sing.


    "This time," Movok murmured, voice low and edged with danger,


    "I won’t be merciful."


    Giren’s muscles coiled like a predator about to strike.


    "Don’t worry."


    His lips curled back, revealing teeth bared in a snarl.


    "This time—you’ll die."