The air between them was thick with tension, heavy enough to crush the breath from their lungs.
Blood mingled in the battlefield, twisting into a suffocating haze, but in this moment, nothing else existed.
Just the two of them.
Movok, the monstrous lizard warrior, loomed like an unshaken monolith, his scaled body carved with the scars of countless battles.
And Giren, the battle-worn orc, standing firm, his heart a furnace of fury and vengeance.
They had fought before.
Three times.
And each time, Giren had fallen.
Movok had shattered him, humiliated him, stripped him of everything.
His father died in front of him.
His tusk—crushed beneath an unrelenting grip.
His pride—trampled into the dirt.
His brother—slain before his eyes.
But not this time.
This time, he would not fall.
He would win.
Or he would die trying.
----
The battlefield was a graveyard of bodies, soaked in blood, the scent of iron and death suffocating the air.
Crows circled overhead, their hungry cries mingling with the distant echoes of dying men.
Only two figures remained standing amidst the carnage, locked in a battle that had long surpassed the limits of their endurance.
Their bodies were broken, their limbs trembling, their breaths reduced to ragged gasps.
Yet neither warrior would yield.
Giren moved first.
His fist coiled with raw, untamed power.
Muscles screamed, veins bulging under his skin as he lunged, driving his fist straight toward Movok’s face, a strike meant to shatter bone and end it all.
Movok reacted at the last possible moment, twisting his head, the wind from the blow slicing across his cheek like a blade.
His claws, sharp as obsidian, lashed out.
They struck Giren’s stomach with brutal precision.
A sickening crack tore through the air.
Pain erupted inside Giren’s gut like wildfire.
His ribs groaned under the pressure, maybe even cracked, but he refused to stagger.
His mind screamed at him to retreat, to breathe, but instead, he grabbed onto Movok’s arm, his grip like iron shackles tightening around his enemy’s flesh.
With a furious roar, he yanked Movok forward.
Then came the impact.
His knuckles slammed into Movok’s jaw with the force of a collapsing mountain.
Movok’s head snapped sideways, a spray of blood and spittle flung into the air.
Yet, even as the pain rattled through his skull, he did not fall. Neither did Giren.
They fought like beasts.
A flurry of fists, kicks, and clawed swipes turned the ground beneath them into a storm of dirt and blood.
Each blow sent shockwaves through the earth. Each kick could have shattered stone.
But still, they endured.
Giren swung, but Movok blocked. Movok slashed, but Giren dodged.
Neither could afford to make a mistake.
The first to falter would not rise again.
Then it happened.
Giren lashed out with a powerful kick, his foot connecting with Movok’s stomach, driving the breath from his lungs.
But Movok was faster than pain.
His hand shot forward, claws curling around Giren’s leg mid-air.
Giren’s eyes widened.
Then the counter came.
Movok’s elbow crashed into Giren’s other knee.
The joint buckled under the force, and the world tilted sideways as Giren collapsed, his back slamming into the blood-drenched earth.
The impact sent white-hot agony tearing through his body.
Movok was upon him in an instant.
His claws gleamed like polished steel as he raised them high.
Then, with a single, vicious movement—
They sank deep into Giren’s stomach.
A strangled gasp tore from Giren’s lips, his body arching as fire exploded through his core.
His blood, hot and thick, coated Movok’s fingers as they burrowed deeper, tearing through muscle and sinew.
A cruel grin twisted across Movok’s lips, his teeth glistening with the hunger of a predator about to deliver the final strike.
His free hand rose, claws poised over Giren’s heart.
The killing blow.
But before they could fall, Giren’s hand shot up, latching onto Movok’s wrist with an unrelenting grip.
His fingers dug deep, nails tearing into flesh, but he did not let go.
Movok snarled, pressing down, his claws carving through Giren’s skin, parting flesh like parchment.
Blood poured from the wounds in thin, crimson rivers, pooling beneath them.
Pain screamed through Giren’s nerves, but he held on.
He had only one chance.
He twisted his body with all his remaining strength, forcing Movok’s balance to shift.
It was a desperate gamble, but one born of sheer instinct and will.
And it worked.
With a sudden, brutal heave, Giren flipped Movok over. In an instant, he was the one on top.
There was no hesitation.
His fist came crashing down.
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Once—
A sickening crack as Movok’s jaw fractured.
Twice—
A spray of blood erupted from his lips.
Again, and again, and again—
Each punch stronger, more desperate, fueled by fury and survival.
Movok’s once-mighty frame shuddered under the relentless assault.
His lips split open, blood trickling down his chin, his reptilian eyes flashing with something he had never felt before—
Fear.
And that was when Giren saw it.
A wound.
A damaged scale on Movok’s left shoulder, barely clinging to his flesh.
Without thinking, he lunged, his fingers curling around the loose scale.
Movok’s eyes widened.
He thrashed wildly beneath Giren, his claws scraping against Giren’s sides, but it was too late.
Giren gritted his teeth, braced himself against the pain, and pulled.
Movok screamed.
Agony like he had never known tore through his body as the scale ripped free.
Flesh came with it, tearing open a raw, gaping wound that bled freely.
His body convulsed, every muscle seizing, his voice breaking into a primal, tortured howl.
His scales had always been his armor. His greatest defense.
Now, he was vulnerable.
Giren staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands slick with Movok’s blood.
His vision blurred from pain and exhaustion, but through the haze, a grin stretched across his face.
Because now—
Movok could finally be killed.
----
The battlefield was a slaughterhouse.
The ground, once firm and unyielding, had turned into a morass of blood and filth.
The air hung heavy with the coppery scent of spilled life, mingled with the acrid stench of burning flesh.
Yet, the battle was not over.
And Giren refused to fall.
---
Movok’s hulking form trembled, his breath ragged as he clutched his torn scales, thick rivulets of blood oozing from the gaping wound in his side.
His once-impenetrable armor was shattered, leaving his flesh exposed, vulnerable.
But Giren condition was worse.
The prv warrior barely stood, his legs shaking beneath him.
His body, once a testament to power, was now a canvas of wounds and crimson streaks.
A deep wound in his stomach oozed thick, dark green blood, each drop falling onto the trampled earth like sand slipping through an hourglass—his time was running out.
Pain gnawed at him, threatening to pull him into the abyss, but he clenched his fists.
He gritted his teeth.
And he held on.
Movok saw it—the weakness, the dwindling fire.
A snarl tore from his throat as he lunged forward, his bloodstained claws extended, the battlefield trembling beneath his charge.
He was aiming straight for Giren’s heart.
A killing blow.
One strike—one death.
Giren did not move.
He let it happen.
A sickening crunch.
Agony tore through Giren’s chest as the claws ripped through flesh, puncturing deep.
His ribs cracked, muscles shredded, and a burning, unnatural cold flooded his body.
Blood gushed from his mouth, warm and thick, painting his chin red.
His vision blurred.
His heartbeat slowed.
But his hands never wavered.
With the last of his strength, he latched onto Movok’s arm, his grip tightening like a steel vice.
Movok snarled, struggling, but Giren held firm.
His voice, hoarse and weak, ripped through the battlefield.
“Now!”
Asael’s eyes widened.
This was the moment—their only chance.
Yet his hands shook.
If they struck now, Giren would die.
Was it worth it?
Could he live with that choice?
His heart hesitated.
But Steven did not.
Lightning crackled around his body, sparks leaping from his fingertips, illuminating his face with an eerie glow.
His eyes burned with cold, unyielding resolve.
There was no time for doubt.
Raising his sword high, he called upon the storm.
Thunder howled in response.
Movok’s eyes, once filled with rage, flickered with something else—fear.
He struggled, muscles bulging, trying to rip his arm free.
But Giren’s bloodied grip held him in place.
The executioner’s blade fell.
And the storm answered.
A deafening roar split the heavens as lightning struck.
A blinding flash of blue and white engulfed the battlefield, illuminating the carnage for the briefest of moments.
Electricity coursed through the air, setting flesh ablaze, twisting the scent of blood with the acrid stench of charred meat.
The shockwave hurled Movok into the air like a broken marionette.
His body twisted, flipped, and slammed into the ground with a force that sent cracks racing through the earth.
Smoke curled from his charred form, his flesh sizzling, his agonized roar echoing through the wasteland.
And Giren—
His body convulsed violently as the electricity surged through his veins.
Every nerve burned, muscles locking in searing agony.
But he did not scream.
He simply collapsed.
His body hit the blood-soaked ground with a lifeless thud.
His breathing, faint.
His eyes, dim.
"Giren!"
Asael and the others rushed to his side.
Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the earth, staining their hands as they reached for him.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, each one weaker than the last.
His skin was marred with burns, the wound in his stomach still leaking life.
His fingers twitched, as if still holding onto Movok in his final act of defiance.
StevThe air between them was thick with tension, heavy enough to crush the breath from their lungs.
Blood mingled in the battlefield, twisting into a suffocating haze, but in this moment, nothing else existed.
Just the two of them.
Movok, the monstrous lizard warrior, loomed like an unshaken monolith, his scaled body carved with the scars of countless battles.
And Giren, the battle-worn orc, standing firm, his heart a furnace of fury and vengeance.
They had fought before.
Three times.
And each time, Giren had fallen.
Movok had shattered him, humiliated him, stripped him of everything.
His father died in front of him.
His tusk—crushed beneath an unrelenting grip.
His pride—trampled into the dirt.
His brother—slain before his eyes.
But not this time.
This time, he would not fall.
He would win.
Or he would die trying.
----
The battlefield was a graveyard of bodies, soaked in blood, the scent of iron and death suffocating the air.
Crows circled overhead, their hungry cries mingling with the distant echoes of dying men.
Only two figures remained standing amidst the carnage, locked in a battle that had long surpassed the limits of their endurance.
Their bodies were broken, their limbs trembling, their breaths reduced to ragged gasps.
Yet neither warrior would yield.
Giren moved first.
His fist coiled with raw, untamed power.
Muscles screamed, veins bulging under his skin as he lunged, driving his fist straight toward Movok’s face, a strike meant to shatter bone and end it all.
Movok reacted at the last possible moment, twisting his head, the wind from the blow slicing across his cheek like a blade.
His claws, sharp as obsidian, lashed out.
They struck Giren’s stomach with brutal precision.
A sickening crack tore through the air.
Pain erupted inside Giren’s gut like wildfire.
His ribs groaned under the pressure, maybe even cracked, but he refused to stagger.
His mind screamed at him to retreat, to breathe, but instead, he grabbed onto Movok’s arm, his grip like iron shackles tightening around his enemy’s flesh.
With a furious roar, he yanked Movok forward.
Then came the impact.
His knuckles slammed into Movok’s jaw with the force of a collapsing mountain.
Movok’s head snapped sideways, a spray of blood and spittle flung into the air.
Yet, even as the pain rattled through his skull, he did not fall. Neither did Giren.
They fought like beasts.
A flurry of fists, kicks, and clawed swipes turned the ground beneath them into a storm of dirt and blood.
Each blow sent shockwaves through the earth. Each kick could have shattered stone.
But still, they endured.
Giren swung, but Movok blocked. Movok slashed, but Giren dodged.
Neither could afford to make a mistake.
The first to falter would not rise again.
Then it happened.
Giren lashed out with a powerful kick, his foot connecting with Movok’s stomach, driving the breath from his lungs.
But Movok was faster than pain.
His hand shot forward, claws curling around Giren’s leg mid-air.
Giren’s eyes widened.
Then the counter came.
Movok’s elbow crashed into Giren’s other knee.
The joint buckled under the force, and the world tilted sideways as Giren collapsed, his back slamming into the blood-drenched earth.
The impact sent white-hot agony tearing through his body.
Movok was upon him in an instant.
His claws gleamed like polished steel as he raised them high.
Then, with a single, vicious movement—
They sank deep into Giren’s stomach.
A strangled gasp tore from Giren’s lips, his body arching as fire exploded through his core.
His blood, hot and thick, coated Movok’s fingers as they burrowed deeper, tearing through muscle and sinew.
A cruel grin twisted across Movok’s lips, his teeth glistening with the hunger of a predator about to deliver the final strike.
His free hand rose, claws poised over Giren’s heart.
The killing blow.
But before they could fall, Giren’s hand shot up, latching onto Movok’s wrist with an unrelenting grip.
His fingers dug deep, nails tearing into flesh, but he did not let go.
Movok snarled, pressing down, his claws carving through Giren’s skin, parting flesh like parchment.
Blood poured from the wounds in thin, crimson rivers, pooling beneath them.
Pain screamed through Giren’s nerves, but he held on.
He had only one chance.
He twisted his body with all his remaining strength, forcing Movok’s balance to shift.
It was a desperate gamble, but one born of sheer instinct and will.
And it worked.
With a sudden, brutal heave, Giren flipped Movok over. In an instant, he was the one on top.
There was no hesitation.
His fist came crashing down.
Once—
A sickening crack as Movok’s jaw fractured.
Twice—
A spray of blood erupted from his lips.
Again, and again, and again—
Each punch stronger, more desperate, fueled by fury and survival.
Movok’s once-mighty frame shuddered under the relentless assault.
His lips split open, blood trickling down his chin, his reptilian eyes flashing with something he had never felt before—
Fear.
And that was when Giren saw it.
A wound.
A damaged scale on Movok’s left shoulder, barely clinging to his flesh.
Without thinking, he lunged, his fingers curling around the loose scale.
Movok’s eyes widened.
He thrashed wildly beneath Giren, his claws scraping against Giren’s sides, but it was too late.
Giren gritted his teeth, braced himself against the pain, and pulled.
Movok screamed.
Agony like he had never known tore through his body as the scale ripped free.
Flesh came with it, tearing open a raw, gaping wound that bled freely.
His body convulsed, every muscle seizing, his voice breaking into a primal, tortured howl.
His scales had always been his armor. His greatest defense.
Now, he was vulnerable.
Giren staggered back, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands slick with Movok’s blood.
His vision blurred from pain and exhaustion, but through the haze, a grin stretched across his face.
Because now—
Movok could finally be killed.
----
The battlefield was a slaughterhouse.
The ground, once firm and unyielding, had turned into a morass of blood and filth.
The air hung heavy with the coppery scent of spilled life, mingled with the acrid stench of burning flesh.
Yet, the battle was not over.
And Giren refused to fall.
---
Movok’s hulking form trembled, his breath ragged as he clutched his torn scales, thick rivulets of blood oozing from the gaping wound in his side.
His once-impenetrable armor was shattered, leaving his flesh exposed, vulnerable.
But Giren condition was worse.
The prv warrior barely stood, his legs shaking beneath him.
His body, once a testament to power, was now a canvas of wounds and crimson streaks.
A deep wound in his stomach oozed thick, dark green blood, each drop falling onto the trampled earth like sand slipping through an hourglass—his time was running out.
Pain gnawed at him, threatening to pull him into the abyss, but he clenched his fists.
He gritted his teeth.
And he held on.
Movok saw it—the weakness, the dwindling fire.
A snarl tore from his throat as he lunged forward, his bloodstained claws extended, the battlefield trembling beneath his charge.
He was aiming straight for Giren’s heart.
A killing blow.
One strike—one death.
Giren did not move.
He let it happen.
A sickening crunch.
Agony tore through Giren’s chest as the claws ripped through flesh, puncturing deep.
His ribs cracked, muscles shredded, and a burning, unnatural cold flooded his body.
Blood gushed from his mouth, warm and thick, painting his chin red.
His vision blurred.
His heartbeat slowed.
But his hands never wavered.
With the last of his strength, he latched onto Movok’s arm, his grip tightening like a steel vice.
Movok snarled, struggling, but Giren held firm.
His voice, hoarse and weak, ripped through the battlefield.
“Now!”
Asael’s eyes widened.
This was the moment—their only chance.
Yet his hands shook.
If they struck now, Giren would die.
Was it worth it?
Could he live with that choice?
His heart hesitated.
But Steven did not.
Lightning crackled around his body, sparks leaping from his fingertips, illuminating his face with an eerie glow.
His eyes burned with cold, unyielding resolve.
There was no time for doubt.
Raising his sword high, he called upon the storm.
Thunder howled in response.
Movok’s eyes, once filled with rage, flickered with something else—fear.
He struggled, muscles bulging, trying to rip his arm free.
But Giren’s bloodied grip held him in place.
The executioner’s blade fell.
And the storm answered.
A deafening roar split the heavens as lightning struck.
A blinding flash of blue and white engulfed the battlefield, illuminating the carnage for the briefest of moments.
Electricity coursed through the air, setting flesh ablaze, twisting the scent of blood with the acrid stench of charred meat.
The shockwave hurled Movok into the air like a broken marionette.
His body twisted, flipped, and slammed into the ground with a force that sent cracks racing through the earth.
Smoke curled from his charred form, his flesh sizzling, his agonized roar echoing through the wasteland.
And Giren—
His body convulsed violently as the electricity surged through his veins.
Every nerve burned, muscles locking in searing agony.
But he did not scream.
He simply collapsed.
His body hit the blood-soaked ground with a lifeless thud.
His breathing, faint.
His eyes, dim.
"Giren!"
Asael and the others rushed to his side.
Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the earth, staining their hands as they reached for him.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, each one weaker than the last.
His skin was marred with burns, the wound in his stomach still leaking life.
His fingers twitched, as if still holding onto Movok in his final act of defiance.
Steven clenched his fists, his jaw tight as he stared at his fallen comrade.
Was this victory?
Or had they just sacrificed one of their own?
Movok lay motionless in the distance, his hulking form barely stirring.
Was he dead?
They didn’t care.
Because right now—
There was only one thought in their minds.
Would Giren survive?en clenched his fists, his jaw tight as he stared at his fallen comrade.
Was this victory?
Or had they just sacrificed one of their own?
Movok lay motionless in the distance, his hulking form barely stirring.
Was he dead?
They didn’t care.
Because right now—
There was only one thought in their minds.
Would Giren survive?