Giren’s charred body trembled, his breath shallow and uneven.


    His skin, once thick and unyielding, was now blackened and cracked, each wound a testament to the battle he had barely survived.


    The scent of scorched flesh clung to him, mingling with the iron tang of blood in the air.


    Anne knelt beside him, her trembling hands glowing with divine light.


    A faint golden aura wrapped around his broken form, flickering like a dying candle.


    She pressed her palms against his ruined chest, sweat forming on her brow as she poured every ounce of magic she had into him.


    But the wounds were too deep, the burns too severe.


    Asael crouched nearby, his voice tight with barely restrained panic. "How is he?"


    Anne’s face twisted with frustration, her jaw clenched as she fought against the inevitable.


    "He’s alive. But barely. I can only slow his death. We need proper healing—fast."


    Asael cursed under his breath, his fists clenching so hard his nails bit into his palms.


    He turned sharply.


    "Lily, go to Sam. Tell him we need help now!"


    Lily didn''t hesitate.


    Without a word, she spun on her heel and sprinted across the blood-soaked battlefield, her boots splashing in the crimson-stained mud.


    Anne gritted her teeth, pressing harder, desperately trying to keep Giren’s life from slipping through her fingers.


    Every second counted.


    But it was then—they heard it.


    A faint, scraping noise.


    Like something dragging against stone.


    Their heads snapped toward the source.


    And there—Movok moved.


    His massive, broken body twitched, his limbs shaking violently.


    Burned and beaten, his scales cracked and bleeding, he lay in a pool of his own lifeblood.


    And yet, his fingers grasped at the dirt, claws digging into the earth as he dragged himself forward, inch by agonizing inch.


    His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest rising and falling unevenly.


    But still, he reached for his greatsword—his lifeblood, his pride.


    With one final, defiant heave, he planted the blade into the ground and pulled himself up.


    His legs trembled, barely able to support his weight.


    His body screamed in protest, but he ignored it.


    He stood.


    Even at death’s door—he stood.


    His flesh was ruined. His body failing.


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    But in his eyes, there was no fear.


    No pain.


    Only the unshaken confidence of a predator.


    Asael’s fury boiled over.


    His hands shook as he gritted his teeth, anger mixing with disbelief.


    "Why…?!" he shouted, his voice raw. "Why won’t you just fall?!"


    Movok chuckled weakly, the sound rasping from his burned throat.


    It was a hollow, weary thing, yet carried the weight of unwavering pride.


    "You know, hero..." his voice, hoarse but steady, carried across the battlefield. "I was the strongest in my tribe."


    His glowing red eyes locked onto Asael, burning with something deeper than rage—something ancient, primal.


    "It was my duty to protect them. I killed anyone who threatened them."


    He staggered, blood dripping from his lips, but his stance did not waver.


    "But one day... they all died."


    His voice did not shake.


    Asael and Steven stood in stunned silence.


    "Not because the enemy was strong," Movok continued, his breath heavy, "but because my tribe... was weak."


    He took another step forward, defying death itself with every motion.


    "Only I was strong. So I survived."


    His fingers tightened around the hilt of his greatsword, his knuckles turning white.


    The ground beneath him cracked as he steadied himself, his broken body barely holding together.


    "In this world, being weak is a sin, hero."


    His voice was laced with conviction, with an unshakable belief carved into him through years of blood and war.


    "The law is one and only one—"


    His smoldering red eyes bore into them.


    "The strong survive."


    Blood pooled beneath him, his steps leaving crimson trails, yet he never faltered.


    His body was failing. His life was slipping away.


    Yet—he moved forward.


    "So even if I die today…" He raised his sword, though his muscles screamed in agony.


    His teeth, stained with his own blood, bared in a savage grin.


    "I will die as a strong one should—giving my all."


    Steven and Asael gripped their weapons, their muscles taut as they braced themselves.


    They knew.


    This was it.


    The final clash.


    A battle not just of strength, but of will.


    A dying beast’s last stand.


    And they would honor it.


    Movok exhaled, his breath heavy with finality.


    Then, with one last, defiant roar—he charged.


    And they rushed to meet him.


    ----


    Lily had vanished into the distance, sprinting toward Sam, her figure swallowed by the battlefield’s swirling smoke and dust.


    Anne knelt beside Giren, her hands trembling as golden divine light seeped into his ruined body, desperately trying to keep him tethered to life.


    His breathing was shallow, barely more than a whisper against the chaos around them.


    His charred flesh barely stirred with each fading breath.


    But there was no time to linger, no time to grieve.


    Because Movok was still standing.


    Only Asael and Steven remained capable of fighting.


    Althought, Steven had already expended most of his strength, his body swaying, his breath ragged.


    The exhaustion clung to him like a heavy chain, but his grip on his sword remained firm.


    He would not fall—not yet.


    Movok’s condition was far worse.


    His once-impenetrable scales were shattered, his flesh torn, blood seeping from countless gashes.


    His massive frame was slumped, yet he moved forward—slow, methodical, unyielding.


    One step.


    Then another.


    The battlefield trembled beneath him, each footfall a defiance against the death clawing at his heels.


    Asael’s golden eyes narrowed, his sword cutting through the air in a deadly arc.


    The blade whistled, a streak of silver slicing toward Movok’s exposed chest.


    But Movok reacted.


    A metallic clash rang out as their weapons met, sparks dancing in the smoke-filled air.


    His greatsword, chipped and splattered with blood—his own and that of countless foes—still held its ground.


    Then pain.


    A white-hot agony tore through Movok’s stomach as Steven’s blade found its mark.


    A blue spark flared as steel carved through muscle and scale, sinking deep.


    Blood erupted from the wound, painting the ground in sickly green.


    Movok’s arm shot forward, clawed fingers clamping around Steven’s skull in a vice-like grip.


    Steven choked, breath hitching as his exhausted body failed to react in time.


    Movok roared.


    The battlefield shook beneath the sheer force of his voice, a sound that rumbled through the bones of the living and the dead alike.


    With a single, monstrous motion, he hurled Asael away, sending the swordsman crashing into the dirt.


    Then he swung.


    His greatsword descended in a brutal arc, aiming for Steven’s throat.


    But Asael struck.


    A piercing pain erupted in Movok’s side as Asael’s sword drove into his stomach, the steel tearing through vital organs.


    More blood spilled, thick and heavy.


    Movok’s fingers loosened, his grip on Steven faltering.


    The warrior dropped to his knees, gasping for breath.


    Steven’s eyes burned with renewed resolve.


    He grasped a fallen blade—not his own, but the weapon of a slain soldier.


    And without hesitation—


    He drove it deep into Movok’s arm.


    A sickening crunch echoed as steel met bone.


    Movok gritted his teeth, refusing to let out a sound.


    Then another strike.


    And another.


    Asael’s blade cut deep into his shoulder, slicing through muscle.


    Steven tore another weapon from the battlefield, plunging it into Movok’s ribs.


    Blood pooled beneath him, his once-unbreakable form reduced to a canvas of ruin.


    Yet—he did not fall.


    Even as his body betrayed him, even as pain overwhelmed his senses, he stood.


    Like the unstoppable beast he had always been.


    Steven staggered back, steadying his breath.


    His sword began to glow, golden light swirling around the steel, forming a divine radiance.


    He raised it, his stance unwavering, his expression grim.


    Energy condensed at the tip, a searing force so sharp it cut through the air itself.


    Movok watched.


    His chest heaved. His vision swam.


    He knew.


    This was the end.


    He had seen countless warriors die.


    Now, it was his turn.


    But he did not step away.


    He did not cower.


    He accepted the strike.


    Steven let it loose.


    A golden beam erupted from his sword, cutting through the battlefield like judgment itself.


    It pierced straight through Movok’s heart.


    His body jolted.


    His vision darkened.


    He could no longer feel his legs.


    The monstrous strength he had always relied upon was gone.


    Yet he did not collapse.


    His knees buckled, his body swayed.


    But he did not fall.


    His greatsword slammed into the ground, his fingers tightening around the hilt like a lifeline.


    Even in death, he clung to his pride.


    His vision blurred, but his mind swam with memories.


    His tribe. His home. The battles that defined him.


    The warriors he had slaughtered.


    The warriors who had died before him.


    The law of the strong.


    His lips curled—not in sorrow.


    But in satisfaction.


    Even in his final breath, he did not kneel.


    His grip loosened.


    His eyes dimmed.


    And then—silence.


    Movok was dead.