Chapter 34: Ash And Failure

Gorgrok stood at the edge of the arena, where the land was no land at all—only a vast, endless sea of ash. The Burnt Sea stretched for miles, a wasteland of charred ruin, its dunes shifting with the hot breath of the wind. It was a cursed place, long stripped of life, where only the strong walked freely, and the weak were buried beneath its choking weight..

High above, the massive blades turned with a slow, mechanical rhythm, cutting through the ever-present storm of drifting soot. Their ceaseless rotation, powered by the great steam engine from the platforms, kept this space clear—an artificial eye in the suffocating storm. The sound was relentless, a low metallic drone that filled the silence between the murmurs of the gathered crowd.

They stood on the ashen dunes, packed so tightly together that their shifting forms seemed like a living thing. Warriors, shamans, engineers—spectators who had come not for a fight, but for a certainty. The outcome was not in question. Gorgrok knew it. They knew it. Every scarred and calloused face watching from the ridges understood why he stood here.

Because no one else had to.

Gorgrok exhaled, his breath swallowed instantly by the heat. He flexed his fingers, the old wounds in his knuckles aching with the motion. He had survived five essence rituals. Five. A pitiful number. He had fought, bled, and clawed for every single one, but it had never been enough. Others had passed him. Gorgrok had once dreamed of greatness, but dreaming meant nothing in a world ruled by the strong.

And across from him, standing in the flattened arena of hard-packed ash, was the strong.

Drakgar Firehand.

Ten rituals survived. Ten. A number that placed him among legends, a number that made even the Chief Shaman speak his name with reverence. He stood with his people—his wife Kora, his warriors, his shamans. They moved around him like the inner workings of a great machine, adjusting, advising, preparing. He was not alone. He had never been alone.

Gorgrok was.

He stood at the edge of the ring, apart from the others. No one spoke to him. No hands adjusted his armor, no murmured prayers were given for his victory. Because no one expected victory.

No one even looked at him. No one except Kora. She stood slightly apart, arms folded, her gaze resting on Gorgrok with something that wasn’t quite amusement, but wasn’t pity either.

Gorgrok clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms. The pain steadied him. It always did.

He had long suspected that Kora was dangerous, but now, he was sure of it. She had found him, singled him out, pulled at the strings of their world to place him here. The obscure laws of their kind, twisted to her will, ensuring that her husband’s rule remained unchallenged for another season.

And if rumor was true, Drakgar had no idea how far she would go to protect his rule.

Gorgrok’s fingers twitched at his sides. He had spent the past week thinking about that moment after his last fight, when she had crouched beside his broken body, her eyes devoid of sympathy, yet filled with something else.

Interest.

She had spoken to him, whispered words that clung to him like a brand burned into his skin.

“Don’t die yet, Gorgrok.”

He should have been afraid.

But instead, something inside him had stirred.

He was tired of being nothing.

Gorgrok exhaled, rolling his shoulders, feeling the heat radiate off his skin.

If he was going to die today, he was going to make them remember it.

He took a step forward, the ash crunching beneath his boots. The crowd murmured. Not in respect, not in admiration. In the way one watches a wounded beast wander toward a predator’s den.

Drakgar noticed him now. His golden eyes, like the molten core of a dying star, locked onto him. For a moment, he saw no recognition there—no acknowledgment of the fight ahead. Just assessment. The way a smith examines a piece of metal before deciding if it’s worth forging.

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The Chief Shaman stepped between them and raised his staff, the crystal atop it dull and cracked from years of channeling power. His voice was as dry as the air.

“This is a duel.”

Silence spread like a sickness, swallowing the murmurs of the crowd.

“No titles hold sway here. No legacy matters. You stand here for one purpose alone—to determine who deserves to walk away.”

His eyes moved between them, lingering on Gorgrok for a fraction longer than they should have.

“Carrying the weight of our people on their shoulders.”

A pause.

The silence deepened.

The words festered in the air, sinking into the bones of those who heard them.

Then, with the finality of a death sentence, the shaman raised his staff.

The crystal pulsed once, a dull, throbbing heartbeat of power.

“Begin.”

The crystal’s dull pulse had barely faded when Gorgrok lunged.

His boots tore into the ashen ground, sending up a black cloud as he surged forward. The weight of his blade—a thick, brutish thing, forged more for endurance than elegance—felt heavier than ever in his grip. He swung, aiming straight for Drakgar’s neck. A killing stroke, if it landed.

It didn’t.

At the very last moment, Drakgar stepped aside.

Not with urgency. Not even with effort. He moved as if shifting from one stance to another, as if he had known exactly when and where Gorgrok’s strike would land before the blade had even left his hands.

The sword carved through empty air.

Gorgrok stumbled forward, thrown off by the sheer absence of impact. The crowd did not cheer. They did not jeer. They only watched, the weight of their indifference pressing against him like a hand around his throat.

Drakgar let him regain his footing.

Gorgrok gritted his teeth and swung again. A lower strike this time, angled at the ribs. The warlord twisted, the edge of the blade missing him by an inch. Another step back, another missed blow.

Drakgar wasn’t just dodging. He was waiting.

Gorgrok knew it then. Knew that Drakgar wasn’t simply fighting him—he was using him. Letting him flail, letting him spend his strength, drawing the fight out like a beast toying with its wounded prey.

Not for cruelty.

For spectacle.

A swift kill would be forgotten. A drawn-out fight—one that showed just how easily Drakgar could dominate his enemies—would be remembered. It was about making sure his enemies dared not stand against him for a good while.

Gorgrok growled, slashing again. A feint this time, followed by a brutal upward cut. Drakgar did not move.

Hope flared in Gorgrok’s chest.

The edge of his sword raced toward Drakgar’s throat.

Then, with the smallest tilt of his head, Drakgar let it pass.

It skimmed past his skin, close enough that Gorgrok could see the thin trail of ash swirling in its wake. But no blood. No wound. Nothing.

The crowd exhaled in unison.

Gorgrok felt his stomach knot. He had fought enough duels to recognize what was happening. Drakgar was in complete control. He was faster, stronger, and worse—he was patient.

Gorgrok’s breath came faster now, the heat of the Burnt Sea pressing in, thick as a burial shroud. His muscles burned, his grip on his sword slick with sweat. He couldn’t keep this up.

Drakgar hadn’t even drawn his weapon.

Gorgrok let out a roar and charged again, putting everything he had into the next strike. He didn’t care where it landed. As long as it did.

Drakgar moved.

A sidestep. A pivot. A shift in weight. Every motion so fluid, so practiced, that it seemed effortless.

The crowd was watching now. Not with excitement, but with fascination.

Drakgar was untouchable.

The fight stretched on, minute after agonizing minute. Gorgrok swung, Drakgar evaded. Gorgrok lunged, Drakgar stepped aside. The heat clawed at his lungs, his strength drained with each wasted attack.

And then—Drakgar struck.

A single, brutal backhand across Gorgrok’s jaw. The force of it sent him sprawling into the ash. His head cracked against the hard-packed ground, his vision swimming. The world tilted, the sound of the crowd warping into something distant, something hollow.

Pain.

Gorgrok coughed, spitting blood into the dust. His grip on his sword wavered.

Drakgar took a step forward.

“Get up,” he said, voice even. Unmoved.

Gorgrok pushed himself up, legs shaking. His arms felt like lead. His breath came ragged. But he lifted his sword again.

Drakgar gave him a nod.

Then, finally, he drew his weapon.

A war cleaver, thick as a man’s arm.

Gorgrok braced himself. He had one last chance.

Drakgar let him attack first.

Gorgrok lunged, putting everything he had left into a final, desperate strike. His sword came down, aimed squarely at Drakgar’s chest.

This time, Drakgar did not move.

The blade struck true.

Metal met flesh.

And stopped.

The impact jolted up Gorgrok’s arms, his wrists nearly snapping from the shock of it. It was like hitting solid stone.

Drakgar didn’t flinch. He didn’t bleed. He only looked down at Gorgrok, his golden eyes unreadable.

The crowd was silent.

Realization sank in, colder than any winter wind.

The essence rituals. The strength that ten survivals had forged into his body.

Drakgar was beyond him. Beyond anything he could ever hope to be.

His sword—his last hope—had failed.

Drakgar exhaled, a slow, measured breath. Then he swung.

The cleaver tore through Gorgrok’s chest in a single, effortless motion.

Pain.

Not the sharp agony of a wound, but something deeper. Something final.

Gorgrok’s body went numb before he even hit the ground.

The sky above him blurred. The sound of the crowd returned, distant, meaningless.

His fingers twitched, trying to reach for his sword. But there was no strength left.

Drakgar stood over him, cleaver resting against his shoulder. Blood dripped, sizzling against the ash.

Gorgrok tried to speak, but nothing came.

He had fought.

But in the end, he had always been nothing.

And now, he was less than that.

The Burnt Sea would take him. The ash would swallow him.

And the world would forget.