Steven stood at the base of the wall, chest heaving as the steady, metallic tang of goblin blood filled the air.

He pushed back the exhaustion creeping into his limbs, forcing himself to remain sharp.

The relentless tide of goblins had been momentarily stemmed, their broken bodies scattered like autumn leaves across the battlefield.

For the first time since the onslaught began, there was a glimmer of hope reflected in the eyes of the soldiers above.

But that hope was soon shadowed by a deep, rumbling voice.

"Movok," the Demon King called, his tone calm and unyielding, as if summoning a storm.

A hulking figure stepped forward from the ranks.

Movok, the lizardman general, stood taller than any beast Steven had faced before.

His scaled body shimmered in hues of deep green and black, each scale edged with a metallic gleam that caught the dying light.

He gripped a sword so massive it looked more like a slab of raw iron, its weight pressing into the earth as he moved.

His eyes, slit-pupiled and cold, locked onto Steven, promising nothing short of death.

The goblins around Movok parted, their shrill cries silencing as they retreated to form a wide, jagged circle around the two combatants.

The tension was palpable, seeping into the marrow of every soldier watching from the fortress walls.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Steven's fingers tightened around his sword hilt until his knuckles blanched.

The blue tendrils of thunder that crackled along its edge hissed and sparked, a stark contrast to the calm, predatory grace of Movok.

He knew instinctively that this was no ordinary foe; the lizardman exuded a power that felt ancient and unwavering, as if he had crawled out of the deepest, darkest parts of the world.

Without waiting for pleasantries or battle cries, Steven lunged.

His blade sliced through the air, trailing arcs of blue lightning that crackled and snarled.

The sound was sharp, almost deafening, and the light momentarily illuminated the fear-stricken faces on the walls above.

But Movok met the attack without a flinch.

He raised his scaled arm, not even bothering to lift his sword, and caught Steven’s blade with the hardened plates covering his forearm.

The clash sent a shudder through Steven's entire frame.

Sparks leapt wildly as the thunder's energy ricocheted off Movok's scales, scattering harmlessly into the dirt.

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The shock jolted Steven back, disbelief flashing across his face as he staggered a step.

Movok’s eyes narrowed, a faint curl of what could have been amusement tugging at his scaled lips.

He moved so fast it was almost impossible to follow, his free arm lashing out and slamming into Steven’s chest with the force of a battering ram.

Steven flew backward, the world a blur of colors and motion, before he crashed to the ground.

Pain splintered across his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs.

He coughed, tasting copper as blood spattered against the inside of his helmet.

Above him, the soldiers gasped, their newfound hope wavered by the sheer power of the lizardman.

Pushing himself up, Steven’s vision swam, but he forced himself to focus on the figure now striding toward him.

Movok's heavy steps pressed deep imprints into the earth, his sword dragging behind him, carving a cruel path.

The sound it made—a low, resonant scrape—sent a chill up the spines of those watching.

Steven rose shakily to his feet, his sword still sparking with defiant energy, but the weight of realization settled on his shoulders: this was not a battle he could win with mere skill alone.

Movok’s scales shimmered ominously, reflecting the storm that raged in Steven's eyes, but for the first time, doubt coiled tightly in his gut.

The fortress wall above was silent, the soldiers too stunned to cheer or shout.

Count Marcus clenched his fists, his expression twisted in anguish.

He wanted to call out, to tell Steven to fall back, but he knew the young swordsman wouldn’t listen.

Steven's resolve was iron, forged by a legacy that would rather die than retreat.

The battlefield waited, holding its collective breath as the two warriors stood facing each other.

One, a young man wielding a storm, and the other, a monster that seemed immune to it.

Steven’s breath came in ragged, shallow gasps as he faced Movok.

The world around him shrank to just the towering figure before him.

Every sound—the distant clash of steel, the cries of wounded soldiers, even the crackling thunder still sparking around his blade—faded into the background.

It was just him and the lizardman general now.

Movok’s eyes glinted with a cruel curiosity as he gripped the hilt of his monstrous sword.

His muscles tensed, veins bulging beneath the dark green scales.

With a swift, powerful movement, he raised the blade high, the edge gleaming ominously in the dim light.

Time seemed to slow as the massive weapon began its descent, cutting through the air with a whistle that seemed to slice into the very soul of those watching.

“Steven!” Count Marcus’s voice roared from the wall, panic thick in his tone.

But Steven didn’t flinch.

His eyes burned with a fierce determination, even as his body trembled under the weight of exhaustion and pain.

Gritting his teeth until they ached, Steven thrust his sword upward.

The clash resounded like a thunderclap, a shockwave rippling outwards.

Sparks flew as thunder met steel, and for a heart-stopping moment, Steven’s knees buckled under the force.

But he held.

He held because there was no other choice.

The thunder wrapped around him was wild and erratic, arcs of blue lightning licking at his skin and singeing his flesh.

It seared through his veins, a double-edged gift that both fueled his strength and scorched his insides.

Blood trickled from cuts and burns, dripping down his face and arms, yet Steven’s grip on his sword never wavered.

With a grunt of raw effort, he pushed Movok’s blade aside, deflecting the attack.

A murmur of disbelief rippled through the soldiers above.

Movok’s eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing his reptilian features.

But it lasted only a second.

The lizardman’s lips curled into a grin that split his scaled face, and then came a sound that chilled everyone to their core—a deep, guttural laugh, guttural and mocking.

“Heh… Hehehe! HAHA!” The laughter erupted from Movok’s chest, reverberating through the battlefield.

"Interesting!"

He said and started to swing his sword in rapid, punishing arcs, each strike an avalanche of power.

Steven moved to block, his blade meeting Movok’s again and again, each collision jarring his bones and shredding what little strength he had left.

The force of each swing pushed Steven back step by agonizing step, his boots dragging through the blood-soaked earth.

His arms screamed in pain, muscles straining and tendons threatening to snap.

Each deflection sent lightning streaking wildly into the air, illuminating the battlefield in flashes of electric blue.

Despite the brutality, Steven stood his ground, eyes blazing with an unyielding resolve.

He wouldn’t fall here—not before reinforcements arrived, not before he bought his comrades a chance at survival.

But Movok, now openly smirking, was only toying with him.

The lizardman’s strikes were quick but calculated, a predator’s playful swipes before the kill.

And then it happened. Movok’s eyes narrowed, and his movements shifted—no longer playful.

With a sudden burst of speed that belied his massive frame, he brought his sword crashing down in a blow that rattled the earth itself.

Steven braced, but the weight was too much, the pain too searing.

His sword held for a breath, and then his vision exploded with white-hot agony as Movok’s scaled hand moved with a speed that caught him off guard.

A sharp, blinding pain shot through his neck, and his entire body went numb.

The world spun around him, the chaos of the battlefield twisting into a blur of muted sounds and smudged colors.

Movok had struck him with a precise, brutal chop to the side of the neck.

The force was enough to make his vision falter, and his legs gave out beneath him.

The last thing Steven saw before darkness claimed him was Movok’s golden eyes, glinting with a mixture of respect and something darker.

Movok’s words, deep and almost reverent, echoed in his fading consciousness: “Let’s fight another time, young human.”

Steven’s sword slipped from his fingers as he collapsed into the churned earth, unconscious, leaving the field in stunned silence.

For a moment, even the goblins halted, their gleeful shrieks and movements frozen as if in tribute to their fallen foe.

Above, the soldiers’ collective gasp mirrored the collective thud in their hearts.

Hope flickered and wavered like a dying flame.