The air hung heavy in the gutted building, thick with the promise of violence. Leto, the weight of his sword a familiar ache on his back, stood sentinel. The wound in his hand pulsed, a crimson whisper of past victories and scars unhealed. His eyes, though shadowed by war's fatigue, burned with a cold, unwavering fire.

A disembodied voice, slithering from the shadows, broke the oppressive silence. "Tell me the name of the warrior who dares walk these forbidden halls."

Leto answered calmly, knowing names held too much weight, too much history. "Names hold no power here," he rasped, the moniker like a coiled snake in his throat. "Call me Invader."

A chuckle, dry and brittle, met his reply. "The Invader, a fitting name. You've breached what others wouldn't even dream of attempting."

A figure emerged from the shadows, a statue carved from ice in the flickering sunlight filtering through broken walls. Their gazes locked, monster to monster. "You should have expected this," the figure said, its voice cold and accusing. "After all the things you've done to my people."

The voice, now tinged with curiosity, pressed on. "You fought alongside the Jutons, yet you bear none of their mark. Why engage in this bloody dance?"

Leto's gaze flickered to the ruined dams beyond, silent testaments to his purpose. "The dams speak for themselves, don't they?"

A deep sigh, heavy with perceived righteousness, answered him. "Water sustains us all. Cutting off the flow cripples the goblins, their reign of terror soon to drown in drought."

Leto scoffed, the sound harsh in the stillness. "And the humans? You haven't turned them away, but their thirst whispers of your 'greater good'."

"Sacrifice breeds progress," the voice declared, laced with a chilling conviction. "A few must suffer for the many to thrive."

"And yet," Leto countered, his voice a low growl, "you stand alone. No cheering crowds, no hymns of gratitude. Only the silence of a tyrant hoarding his prize."

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"Regardless, warrior," the figure retorted, "I cannot let you go. You have interrupted my cause, and I seek vengeance for my brothers."

Dust motes swirled like miniature soldiers in the sunbeams piercing the shattered windows. Leto, eyes narrowed to predatory slits, tracked the glint of the Watcher's spearhead, a silver serpent poised to strike. His own sword, a whisper of steel etched with forgotten runes, felt light in his grip, an extension of his will.

The Watcher shifted, a subtle dance of muscle and spear. Leto mirrored his movement, a cat mirroring the moonbeam chasing it across the floor. Then, in a blink, the Watcher lunged, his spear arcing down like a whirlwind of silver aimed for Leto's chest.

Leto twisted, sword flashing in a figure-eight parry. Steel sang against steel, a shriek that scraped across raw nerves. Sparks erupted, tiny stars born of violence, momentarily blinding them both. Leto rolled across the dusty floor, coming up under the Watcher's guard, blade a silver streak aimed for his belly.

But the Watcher was a viper, quick and unforgiving. His spear spun in a blur, deflecting the blow, the tip whistling past Leto's ear. He retaliated with a jab, the spearhead aimed for Leto's throat. The warrior stepped back, feeling the wind of the attack kiss his skin, then lunged for the Watcher's eyes.

The Watcher recoiled, his spear whipping up to block the thrust. The blades locked, a tense stalemate, their muscles straining against each other. Leto, teeth gritted, pushed down, using the leverage to angle the Watcher off balance. With a grunt, he kicked the spear away, sending it clattering across the floor.

Disarmed, the Watcher stumbled back, eyes searching for his weapon. Leto pressed his advantage, a predator closing in on its prey. He brought his sword down in a vicious arc, aiming for the Watcher's shoulder. But the warrior was no novice. He ducked, rolling into a low crouch, and swept his own leg out, catching Leto's ankle.

Leto stumbled, falling hard onto the dust. Pain flared in his knee, a searing agony that threatened to eclipse his focus. The Watcher, seizing the opportunity, lunged for the fallen blade, his eyes like chips of ice.

Adrenaline masking the pain, Leto rolled again, wrenching his leg free. He came up in a sitting position, back against the cracked wall, sword clutched in his bloodied hand. The Watcher loomed over him, spear retrieved, a dark angel of vengeance.

Each breath was a rasp in Leto's throat, each movement a dance with pain. But his eyes still burned with defiance. He wasn't finished yet. With a guttural shout, he launched himself at the Watcher, a desperate gambit fueled by rage and the unyielding hunger for survival.