Asael moved slowly toward his friends, his golden eyes hollow, his grip on his blood-drenched greatsword tightening with every step.

His breaths were deep, controlled—too controlled.

The battlefield around him was eerily silent, save for the soft squelch of his boots sinking into blood-soaked earth.

The air reeked of iron, death, and something else—something dark, something wrong.

"Stop, Asael! Get a hold of yourself!"

Anne’s voice rang through the empty field, desperate, pleading.

But Asael did not stop.

His pace remained calm, yet terrifying—the slow, deliberate movement of a predator stalking its prey.

His friends watched, paralyzed, bound not just by the ropes cutting into their skin but by the unshakable terror creeping into their hearts.

He was right in front of them now.

He raised his sword.

The blade gleamed under the blood-red sunset, its jagged edges glistening with fresh gore.

It was poised to cleave through flesh, to end the lives of those he once called companions—

"Stop! You shouldn’t do this."

A deep, gravelly voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.

Asael’s body twitched.

Slowly, mechanically, he turned his head.

And saw him.

A massive orc stood at the edge of the battlefield.

He was larger than any orc they had ever seen, his presence commanding, undeniable.

His dark, battle-worn skin bore the marks of countless wars, and a jagged scar ran down his chest like a wound that refused to fade.

His left tusk was broken, a warrior’s mark of pain and survival.

He gripped a colossal battle-axe, its edges chipped and dented from years of bloodshed.

His yellowed eyes swept across the carnage.

The lifeless bodies of his kin, the severed limbs, the rivers of crimson pooling at his feet—

And for a fleeting moment, his expression wavered.

Not with rage.

But with grief.

"You shouldn’t hurt your friends." His voice was deep, steady, but not unkind.

Asael did not respond.

His muscles tensed.

Then—

He vanished.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

A gust of wind exploded from where he stood, scattering dust and blood into the air.

The orc’s eyes barely had time to widen before Asael reappeared, his blade already descending in a single, merciless stroke—

A slash meant to kill.

CLANG!

The earth beneath them trembled.

The orc had raised his axe, catching the greatsword mid-swing.

Sparks burst from the impact, the sheer force cracking the ground beneath his feet.

Asael’s body was thrown back slightly, his boots skidding against the dirt, but his grip on the sword never faltered.

The orc narrowed his eyes.

Then, with a powerful shove, he sent Asael staggering backward.

The golden-eyed warrior dug his heels into the bloodied soil, barely managing to keep his balance.

Anne and others looked at them.

From behind, a booming voice shattered the standoff.

"Are you all alright?"

An older man rode in on horseback, his grizzled features hardened by experience, his muscular frame betraying the years that should have weighed him down.

Behind him, several riders followed—among them, a hooded girl, her presence quiet yet commanding.

Anne’s breath hitched as recognition dawned upon her.

"Marquis Hector?" she whispered, eyes wide.

The old knight dismounted, his sharp gaze scanning the battlefield.

"Yes. And you must be the Saintess… and Duke Driesell’s son, Steven, correct?"

Anne nodded, the tension in her chest loosening ever so slightly.

"You're alive, Marquis Hector!" Relief flooded her voice.

Hector chuckled, though his expression remained grim. "Alive, yes. But I see Steven has been poisoned."

He turned to a man at his side. "Sam, check on him."

"Yes, sir." Sam dismounted and hurried toward Steven, who lay barely conscious, his breathing shallow.

Anne, however, could not tear her eyes away from Asael.

Her voice trembled. "Marquis… that man…he is—"

"I know. The Hero, right?" Hector sighed. "Don’t worry. Giren will handle it."

Anne blinked. "Giren?"

"Oh! That orc name is Giren. Finish this quickly, Giren."

Hector said.

Giren exhaled deeply, rolling his shoulders.

"Hard to defeat him without killing him, old man."

Hector’s smirk widened. "I know you can do it."

The orc cracked his neck, adjusting his grip on the axe.

His muscles tensed, his stance shifted.

Then, without another word—

He took his first step toward the raging Hero.

The air crackled with tension as Asael and Giren locked eyes.

No words were exchanged.

Just the silent, primal understanding between two warriors.

Then—

They charged.

The ground split beneath their feet as they collided, steel against steel.

Sparks erupted, blinding in the blood-soaked twilight, as Asael’s golden greatsword clashed against Giren’s colossal battle-axe.

The force of their impact sent a shockwave rippling across the battlefield, kicking up dust, blood, and the broken remnants of fallen soldiers.

Giren, a towering mass of scars and muscle, wielded sheer power like a force of nature.

Every swing of his axe came down like an avalanche, forcing Asael back with each crushing blow.

Yet—

Asael never faltered.

No matter how much his body bled, no matter how many bones cracked beneath Giren’s might, he kept moving forward.

His body—battered, broken—would not stop.

Because the Hero had no hesitation, no fear, no doubt.

And that made him more terrifying than anything Giren had ever faced.

The orc gritted his teeth.

This was bad.

He had fought monsters, warlords, and men who wielded magic beyond reckoning.

But this man—

This thing—

Fought like a beast that refused to die.

Giren made his decision.

With an unexpected move, he suddenly let go of his battle-axe.

The massive weapon fell, embedding itself deep into the earth with a resounding thud.

"Come!" Giren roared, his voice shaking the battlefield.

Challenge accepted.

Asael lunged, his greatsword a blur of death, descending with enough force to cleave a mountain.

But—

A boulder-sized fist slammed into Asael’s stomach.

A sickening crunch echoed as ribs shattered, and blood burst from Asael’s lips like a crimson fountain.

Before he could even react—

Giren seized him by the legs.

"You’re not going anywhere!"

With a savage snarl, Giren lifted Asael like a ragdoll and slammed him into the ground.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

The earth cracked beneath each impact, tremors rippling through the battlefield as Asael’s broken body bounced lifelessly, leaving streaks of blood in his wake.

Then—

With one final roar, Giren hurled him like a meteor.

Asael’s mangled form crashed into the dirt, skidding across the blood-soaked ground, carving a deep scar into the battlefield.

Yet—

He still moved.

His fingers twitched.

His head lifted, golden eyes glowing like molten fire, unbroken.

He forced himself to stand.

Giren’s breath hitched.

The man should not be standing.

But he was.

Bleeding. Dying. Yet standing.

The orc narrowed his eyes. If that was how it was going to be—

With a snarl, Giren leaped into the air, both fists clenched together, ready to drive them down like a hammer upon Asael’s skull.

At the last moment, Asael rolled aside.

Giren struck the ground with a deafening boom, the force of his landing sending debris flying like shrapnel.

Asael didn’t waste a second.

With a flick of his bloodied fingers—

His greatsword soared back into his hand.

And without hesitation, he swung.

The golden blade gleamed under the blood-red sky, slicing toward Giren’s neck.

But—

A thunderous kick smashed into Asael’s ribs, sending him flying before his sword could connect.

Giren rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply.

Asael staggered, coughing blood, yet still standing.

His body had long surpassed its limit.

Yet he lifted his sword once more.

Ready to charge.

So was Giren.

But then—

Before Asael could take a step—

A sharp whistling cut through the air.

A single arrow.

It embedded itself right at Asael’s feet.

And then—

The ground trembled.

Thick, black vines erupted like serpents, twisting, coiling, wrapping around Asael’s legs, his arms, his torso.

In an instant, he was bound.

No matter how he struggled, the vines tightened, locking his movements in place.

Asael let out a guttural growl, his golden eyes burning with fury as he tried to break free.

But it was useless.

"Why did you interfere?!"

Giren’s voice boomed with frustration as he turned toward the source.

The hooded girl on the horse didn't care.

She lowered her bow, her voice calm, steady, unfazed.

"Because you were taking too long."

She reached up, fingers grasping the edge of her hood.

With a single motion—

She pulled it back.

The battlefield fell silent.

Her golden hair cascaded in soft waves, framing her delicate features.

Her green eyes, bright and piercing like polished emeralds, cold and uncaring.

And her pointed ears peeked out from beneath her golden locks.

"An elf...?" Anne whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Good shot, Lily."

Marquis Hector grinned.