While the battle between the Norvik army and Demon King’s army was going on.

The generals of Demon King were approaching the forest as planned.

Movok led his contingent of lizardmen deeper into the dense forest.

The air was thick with the smell of damp earth, and the faint light filtering through the canopy barely illuminated their path.

The lizardmen, with their scaly hides and sharp weapons, moved silently, their predatory instincts honed for this mission.

They were here to halt the orcs, a war-loving species known for their ferocity in battle.

As they ventured deeper, the faint sound of heavy footsteps reached their ears.

Movok raised a clawed hand, signaling his group to stop.

Then, from the shadows of the forest, they appeared.

Large, muscular figures stepped into the clearing, their green skin glistening with sweat and their sharp tusks gleaming in the faint light.

Each orc carried an imposing weapon—massive axes, heavy hammers, and greatswords—resting easily in their massive hands.

Their leather armor was crudely stitched together from the hides of beasts they had hunted.

The orcs stopped, their eyes narrowing at the sight of Movok and his lizardmen.

"So, you all are here," Movok said, his deep, gravelly voice breaking the tense silence.

He folded his arms, his scaly lips curling into a grin.

The orcs glanced at one another, confusion flickering in their expressions.

"What are they doing here?" one of the orcs growled, gripping the handle of his hammer tightly.

Despite their surprise, there was no fear in their stance.

These were orcs—creatures bred for battle, who thrived on the thrill of combat.

Each one looked ready to charge at a moment’s notice.

One orc, however, behaved differently.

His dark green skin stood out among the others, and a jagged scar ran down the side of his face.

One of his tusks was broken, giving him a slightly lopsided snarl.

His green eyes locked onto Movok with a mixture of disbelief and rage.

"You!" he roared, stepping forward.

His voice boomed, filled with raw fury.

"How are you still alive?"

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Movok tilted his head, his grin widening as he examined the orc.

"Boss! What's wrong?" one of the orcs asked, glancing nervously at the larger figure.

The dark-skinned orc didn’t respond, his entire focus on Movok.

His grip on his massive axe tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Movok chuckled, a deep rumble that echoed through the clearing.

"Do I know you?" he asked, his voice mockingly casual.

"You should’ve died that day!" the orc bellowed, his voice shaking with anger. "How are you here? How can you be alive?"

Movok’s eyes narrowed as the orc’s words sparked a memory.

A faint flicker of recognition crossed his face before his grin returned, sharper and more sinister.

"Wait… dark green skin… broken tusk," Movok muttered, his clawed finger tapping against his chin. "Ah, yes. It’s you, isn’t it?"

The orc’s breathing quickened, his rage almost tangible.

"What was your name again?" Movok continued, his tone dripping with mockery. "Umm… Giren? Yes, that’s it. Giren. How have you been?"

Giren’s fists clenched, his knuckles cracking audibly.

The orcs behind him exchanged uneasy glances, sensing the tension radiating from their leader.

Movok's sharp yellow eyes gleamed as he took a step forward, his greatsword resting casually against his shoulder.

His towering form seemed to grow even larger under the dim forest light, casting an imposing shadow over the battlefield.

His grin was wide and mocking, his voice dripping with cruel amusement.

"Look at you," Movok sneered, his deep, gravelly voice reverberating through the tense silence.

"All grown up, leading an army. You must think you're something now. But why waste lives? Since we know each other, why don’t you and your army just retreat? Save yourself the humiliation."

Giren, standing firm with his massive axe gripped tightly in both hands, glared at Movok with unyielding determination.

His muscles tensed, the veins on his neck bulging as he resisted the overwhelming urge to charge immediately.

"We won’t retreat," Giren growled, his voice steady despite the anger simmering beneath.

"And today, Movok, I’ll make sure to kill you with my own hands."

Movok tilted his head, his grin widening further.

"Say that again," he said, his voice low and mocking.

"I said," Giren growled, stepping forward, "I’ll finish you today." His grip on the axe tightened, his knuckles turning white.

For a moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath.

Then, Movok threw his head back and laughed, a sinister sound that echoed through the trees.

"Finish me?" Movok repeated, his voice dripping with derision.

"Have you forgotten how your father died? How your tribesmen fell, one by one? Have you already forgotten the monster standing before you?"

He slammed the tip of his greatsword into the ground with a resounding thud.

The ground trembled slightly, and the sound echoed like a drumbeat of war.

But Giren did not flinch. His resolve was unshakable.

"Everyone, don’t interfere!" Giren barked, his voice firm and commanding.

The orcs hesitated for a moment, glancing at one another before stepping back, forming a loose circle around their leader.

Their faces were grim, and their hands gripped their weapons tightly, but they respected Giren’s order.

Movok chuckled, raising his hand to signal his lizardmen.

"Fine then. Don’t interfere," he said.

His troops immediately stepped back, forming their own circle, their reptilian eyes watching with cold precision.

Movok stepped forward, his movements deliberate and predatory, closing the distance between him and Giren.

The two combatants now stood face to face, a tense silence enveloping the battlefield.

Movok’s towering frame loomed over Giren, his scaly skin glinting faintly in the dim light.

Though Movok was taller, Giren’s muscular build made him appear equally formidable, a mountain of strength and fury.

Without warning, Giren roared and swung his massive axe in a wide arc, aiming directly for Movok’s torso.

The blade whistled through the air with deadly intent.

Movok shifted his stance, raising his greatsword to block.

The weapons collided with a deafening clang, sparks flying as the force of the impact reverberated through the ground.

Giren didn’t relent.

He followed up with a series of quick, powerful strikes, his axe a blur of motion.

Each swing was precise, fueled by years of training.

Movok parried each attack with calculated ease, his greatsword moving with surprising speed for its size.

"You’ve improved," Movok said, his voice calm and taunting. "But you’re still not good enough."

With a sudden surge of power, Movok pushed Giren back, their blades locking momentarily before Giren was forced to step away.

Movok counterattacked with a horizontal slash, the sheer force of the swing cutting through a nearby tree trunk as Giren dodged just in time.

The forest echoed with the sounds of their battle—metal clashing against metal, the crack of wood splintering, and the heavy thud of footsteps as the two warriors danced their deadly dance.

Giren gritted his teeth, his muscles burning from the relentless assault.

Each blow from Movok felt like a battering ram, testing the limits of his endurance.

But he refused to back down.

This wasn’t just a fight; it was a reckoning.

Movok smirked, deflecting another strike with ease.

"Your are weak, just like your father," he spat. "He begged for mercy at the end. Will you do the same, Giren?"

Fueled by rage, Giren let out a battle cry and charged forward, his axe glowing faintly with a fiery aura.

He swung with all his might, the blade aimed directly at Movok’s neck.

But Movok sidestepped at the last moment, bringing his greatsword down in a punishing counterstrike.

The ground beneath them cracked from the impact, and Giren barely managed to block in time.

The force sent him skidding backward, his feet digging into the dirt to regain his balance.

Around them, the orcs and lizardmen watched in tense silence, their faces grim as the duel unfolded.

Each side silently willed their leader to emerge victorious, knowing the outcome would shape the course of the battle.

Giren’s breath came in heavy pants, but his grip on the axe remained firm.

His eyes never left Movok, burning with a fire that refused to be extinguished.

"You’ll pay for everything you’ve done," Giren said, his voice steady despite his exhaustion.

Movok chuckled, his grin widening.

"Come then," he said, raising his greatsword.

"Show me the strength of your resolve."

The two warriors charged at each other once more, their weapons clashing with a force that shook the very forest.