The battle between Giren and Movok raged on, the air thick with tension and the metallic scent of blood.
Every strike, every movement carried the weight of vengeance and dominance.
Giren, the orc leader, fought with unrelenting fury, his muscles straining as he swung his massive axe with all the strength his battle-worn body could muster.
On the other hand, Movok, the hulking lizardman general, appeared calm and composed, almost as if the battle was a mere game to him.
He dodged and deflected Giren's strikes with calculated ease, a mocking grin never leaving his reptilian face.
Giren let out a guttural roar and slashed downward, his axe glinting in the sunlight as it came down with deadly intent.
But Movok caught the attack mid-air with his clawed hand, gripping Giren’s wrist like a vice.
Before Giren could react, Movok drove the hilt of his greatsword into Giren’s other shoulder, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his body.
Giren gritted his teeth, his legs trembling as he wrenched his arm free from Movok’s grasp. Ignoring the pain, he attempted a swift kick aimed at Movok’s side.
The blow landed, but Movok barely moved, his towering frame absorbing the impact as if it were nothing more than a breeze.
Giren charged again, his axe raised high.
But before he could land his strike, Movok’s sword intercepted the attack with a resounding clash of steel.
With a twist of his wrist, Movok disarmed Giren, sending the axe flying from his hands and crashing to the ground.
Giren’s eyes widened in disbelief, but before he could retrieve his weapon, Movok casually tossed his own sword aside, the massive blade embedding itself into the dirt.
"Let’s finish this properly," Movok said, motioning for Giren to come at him with his clawed hand.
Giren roared in defiance, his pride refusing to let him back down.
He charged forward, his fists clenched tightly. He swung a powerful punch aimed at Movok’s jaw, but the lizardman sidestepped with uncanny speed, his movements fluid and precise.
Movok retaliated with a sharp jab to Giren’s shoulder, targeting the same spot he had already weakened.
Giren winced but didn’t falter.
He threw another punch, followed by a flurry of strikes, but Movok’s sheer agility and experience allowed him to dodge and counter effortlessly.
A low growl escaped Movok’s throat as he delivered a crushing blow to Giren’s legs, forcing the orc to stumble.
He then attacked his waist immediately followed by shoulder again.
Giren was unable to defend himself.
The duel continued.
Giren’s movements grew sluggish, his fatigue evident in the way his punches became slower and less coordinated.
Movok, on the other hand, remained relentless, each of his strikes precise and calculated.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.
Eventually, Giren dropped to one knee, his breathing ragged and blood dripping from numerous wounds.
Movok seized the opportunity, his clawed hand darting forward to grab Giren by the neck.
He lifted the orc effortlessly, holding him aloft as Giren’s legs dangled helplessly.
Movok stared into Giren’s defiant eyes, his grip tightening just enough to make his dominance clear.
"Do you remember that day, Giren?" he said, his voice low and dripping with contempt.
"The day I stood over your father’s lifeless body? I took your tooth instead of your life because you weren’t worth killing."
Giren snarled, his hands clawing at Movok’s arm in vain.
"You... bastard," he choked out.
Movok’s grin widened, his sharp teeth glinting in the dim light of the forest.
"And you’re not worth killing now, either," he said, his tone mocking as he slowly loosened his grip, letting Giren collapse to the ground in a heap.
"You’re weak, Giren. Pathetic. But you have something I want." Movok leaned down, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper.
"Your brother—he must be the king of your pathetic little kingdom by now. Go to him. Tell him about me. Tell him I’ll be soon coming there to hunt him."
Movok straightened, his imposing figure towering over the battered and bloodied Giren.
Turning to the orcs who had been watching the fight in stunned silence, he barked his command.
"Take your leader and get out of my sight. I’ll let you live this time, but if any of you linger, I won’t be so merciful."
The orcs hesitated for only a moment before rushing forward to lift Giren’s broken form.
They carried him away, their retreat marked by their leader’s labored breaths and the shame that hung heavily in the air.
Movok watched them disappear into the forest, his golden eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
He turned to his lizardmen, a triumphant grin spreading across his face.
"We’re done here," he declared, his voice booming.
The lizardmen roared in response, their morale bolstered by their leader’s dominance, as they followed Movok deeper into the forest.
----
The forest was alive with whispers of nature, a serene haven of tall, ancient trees and a soft canopy of light filtering through golden leaves.
Among the gentle hum of birdsong and rustling leaves, a group of seven elves moved silently, their fair skin and golden hair blending seamlessly with their surroundings.
Their long, pointed ears twitched at every sound, their sharp eyes scanning the dense underbrush as they leaped from branch to branch with effortless grace.
These elves, were among the elites sent by the Elven Kingdom, carried an air of calm confidence.
There were only seven because of the limitations of warp gates.
They were the protectors of their people, gifted with natural agility and strength, blessed with the ability to communicate with nature and spirits.
Yet, as they ventured deeper into the forest, the atmosphere changed.
The light seemed dimmer, the air heavier, and the once-familiar sounds of the forest grew faint.
Beneath a towering tree, in a small clearing, sat a figure in a lotus position.
His face was hidden behind a bone-white mask, his body covered in tattoos.
An eerie aura emanated from him, a sinister energy that made the elves pause.
Tores, the general of the Demon King’s army, sat in silence, his hands resting on his knees, a slender wooden flute resting in his lap as he muttered incantations under his breath.
The elves, sensitive to the harmony of nature, felt the disturbance like a jarring dissonance in a familiar tune.
Their leader, Lily, a tall elf with piercing green eyes, signaled to the group.
Without hesitation, one elf drew her bow, the string taut as she aimed an arrow directly at the masked figure.
The arrow soared through the air with a soft whistle, but before it could reach Tores, it struck an invisible barrier with a sharp clang, falling harmlessly to the ground.
Tores remained motionless, his incantations uninterrupted, as if the attack hadn’t even registered.
Slowly, his hand reached for the flute, bringing it to his masked face.
A haunting melody filled the air, its notes low and eerie, weaving a sinister symphony that seemed to resonate with the very ground beneath him.
The elves stiffened; the music wasn’t merely sound—it carried an oppressive weight, as if the forest itself recoiled in discomfort.
The elves exchanged wary glances.
Another arrow was nocked, but this time, it glowed faintly with the energy of the spirits.
The archer released it, and the enchanted arrow streaked toward Tores.
When it struck the barrier, the shield around him shattered like glass, emitting a low hum as its protective energy dissipated.
Tores slowly raised his head, his masked face tilting toward the canopy where the elves hid.
The melody from the flute shifted, its notes sharper, more menacing.
Though his features were obscured, they could feel his gaze, cold and calculating, piercing through the foliage.
The ground around Tores began to tremble, and the air grew heavy with malevolent energy.
The elves could feel it—a dark, unnatural power surging from him, tainting the very essence of the forest.
The haunting flute music grew louder, its notes rising and falling in an unnatural rhythm, as if commanding the forest to bend to his will.
Thick, gnarled vines erupted from the ground, coiling protectively around Tores, their movements synchronized with the melody.
The elves acted quickly, releasing a volley of arrows toward him.
Yet the vines, swaying and twisting to the tune of the flute, intercepted the arrows with unnerving precision, splintering them mid-air.
Adjusting their positions, the elves leaped to different branches to avoid being detected.
But as Tores’s incantation reached its climax, the ground split open, and more vines surged upward, lashing out violently.
The elves moved with practiced precision, their natural agility allowing them to evade the lashing vines.
One elf, a younger warrior, was caught mid-leap, the vines coiling around her legs and pulling her down.
She let out a sharp cry, but with a flick of her wrist, her dagger—imbued with the energy of the spirits—sliced through the vines with ease.
Another elf raised his hand, calling upon the spirits.
A glowing green orb of energy formed in his palm, and with a swift motion, he hurled it toward the vines.
The orb exploded on contact, burning through the dark magic and clearing a path.
Tores, however, remained unfazed, his fingers dancing over the flute with an almost hypnotic grace.
The vines responded to his music, twisting and turning with renewed vigor, striking with the precision of a predator.
The forest itself seemed caught in a battle of wills.
The elves, connected to nature through the spirits, channeled their energy to resist the corruption spreading through the ground.
Tores, on the other hand, bent nature to his will, manipulating it with his dark magic.
The vines pulsed with his power, their movements growing more erratic yet purposeful, as if the forest itself obeyed the sinister melody of his flute.