The two burly women, shoulders like fortress walls, walked beside Jaxon. Their eyes, locked on the horizon, glinted with ferocity and a sort of battle lust.

"Zhose Zholik horns," one grunted, her voice a low rumble, "We would like zhem all."

Jaxon snorted, a sneer twisting his chiseled features. "Sure," he barked, "but we take the beast cores, broskis."

They nodded, a silent pact sealed as they approached the grim theater of war.

Meanwhile, Elena's violet gaze flickered to Cal, a whisper. "Don't underestimate them. Zholiks move fast and strike harder. Jaxon did you a favor just now, you got yourself a sweet deal."

“Why?”

“They’re strength / dexterity, you weirdo. Stage-twos, most likely.”

Cal's muscles tensed. He gave a curt nod, the warning and opportunity etching itself his body.

Jabor's hoof clicked against the stone as he sidled up next to the burly women, his antlers casting long shadows in the bioluminescent blue. "How many of these beasts we talking?" His voice carried the mock-casual tone of a man trying to measure the size of the storm on the horizon.

"Seven," one woman replied, her eyes scanning the terrain ahead as if she could already see the outlines of their prey. "Big ones. Zheir horde must have been wiped out in zhe shuffle."

Jabor looked back at Cal with worry.

The second woman cracked her neck, the sound like snapping twigs. "We'll handle four," she said, a smirk dancing on her lips. "You lot can mop up zhe rest."

Jaxon nodded, a feral grin spreading across his face. "Sounds fair," he agreed, his gaze flickering with an unspoken challenge.

The ground beneath Cal's boots quivered. A direhog's snort cut through the air, a foggy breath mingling with the stench of the battleground. Eyes flicked toward the commotion, locking onto the group as they breached a crater rim. The zholiks loomed, grotesque and grandiose, horns like twisted spires on their heads.

They stood on two feet covered in eyes from head to toe – the only area not covered was their horns, a deep blood red.

Cal sighed, “So much for poking their eyes.”

“Zhat’s the spirit, just poke zhem in the eyes!”

"Here we go," one of the women muttered, steel singing as she drew her blade, giant and gleaming. Beside her, the other woman echoed the motion, her shield hoisted, a wall of iron resolve.

"Watchful," Cal's voice barely above a murmur.

"Always," Jaxon replied through clenched teeth, readying himself beside them.

The two women stepped forward in unison, swords poised high, shields braced against forearms. With a practiced swing, metal clashed against metal, a resonant clang shattering the quiet. It rippled across the field, a clarion call that could not be ignored.

Heads turned, eyes—too many to count—fixed on the source of the challenge. The zholiks roared, a sound dredged from nightmare, answering the war cry with one of their own.

"Come on, you ugly bastards!" one of the women roared back, defiance etched into every line of her towering frame.

"Show zhem no mercy," the other added, her gaze cold as the steel she wielded.

The zholiks charged, monstrous bodies barreling forward, a tide of flesh and fury. Dust rose in their wake, a storm summoned by the beat of their approach.

The two women surged forth, their movements a prelude to destruction. Cal's gaze darted between them, tracking the precision in their strikes, the way their muscles coiled and released with lethal intent. One spun, her sword an arc of death; it met eyes with a spray of dark ichor. The other roared, her shield slamming into a zholik's side, bones audibly crunching under the impact.

Cal could sense a similar profoundness coming form the two women. The power was unmistakable and felt like a rising tide, unending and inevitable. Instead of his companions’ abilities that worked as attacks, theirs seemed to be innate and buffed themselves – and perhaps each other. Their attacks, counterattacks, parries and blocks were all in tune with each other. They felt more like one warrior, than two.

"Their teamwork is…," Cal muttered, a grudging respect threading through his tone. They were power incarnate, each blow testament to their ferocity. They could hold off four zholiks, with ease.

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"They are the paleosaxons, and likely high on the ranking." Jaxon said, his eyes alight with the fever of battle. “Charge with me brothers!”

On the periphery, Elena nocked an arrow charged with electricity, her form a silhouette against the chaos. The string sang, the arrow flew—a streak of vengeance. It found an eye, burrowing deep. The beast reeled, a guttural cry tearing from its throat from the discharge.

The cervidians— also horned shadows—darted in. A zholik lunged, its maw gaping, only to be met by a parry by Jaxon and flurry of counterstrikes by Joe and Jabor, swift and sure.

"Right," he focused, the reality of the fray snapping back with clarity. He braced, ready for what was to come, amidst the symphony of battle that played all around him.

His hand tightened around the spear as it materialized out of his spatial treasure, the familiar weight a promise of violence yet to come.

Cal's grip on his spear tightened, the weapon an extension of his will. Memories kindled — he remembered the bloodlust channel, honed into a razor's edge during his past meditation. He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the towering zholik ahead, its multitude of eyes glinting with feral intelligence.

"Cal," Temp's voice, cool and collected, echoed in his mind, "I will be practicing my new skills by augmenting your intelligence. I do not wish to break your rhythm by altering strength or dexterity."

"Understood," he replied, his focus narrowing to the creature before him.

The zholik bellowed, a sound that rumbled through the earth, vibrating in Cal's chest. He shifted, feet steady upon the torn ground, every sense alert. The beast charged, horns aimed to skewer, death on swift legs.

He darted forward, spear poised. The zholik's eyes tracked him, but Cal was no slouch. He also was a whisper of movement, a ghost borne on the winds of battle.

Cal dodged the horns and struck, thrusting the spear with precision born of enhanced intellect and primal instinct combined, but it deflected off a somehow resilient eyeball.

Instead, using the opportunity, the zholik smashed one of its arms into Cal, throwing him to the side.

Cal rolled and regained his balance, somehow keeping a firm grip on the spear.

Bloodlust surged through Cal like a coursing river, his spear an extension of his will.

The zholik loomed closer, its many eyes reflecting death, but Cal was already a step ahead. He sank his weight into his back foot, spearhead gleaming with lethal intent as he channeled his bloodlust like he remembered.

"Focus," he whispered to himself, the battlefield noise fading until there was only him and the beast.

The zholik lunged, monstrous horns slicing air, seeking flesh. Cal braced, letting the creature's momentum become his ally. He thrust forward, spear-tip morphing into a projection of his bloodlust—a spectral blade reaching out beyond the physical shaft.

He attempted to use the same bloodlust channel to pierce the beast with the power of the Primal. It was fuzzy and ethereal, not quite real. Hitting the beast once more, it managed to pop one eyeball, and left scratches on the surface of many others.

It was progress.

Cal focused further. His spear a direct application of the bloodlust that was able to once pierce realms. In this focus, Cal’s headache returned. Pounding greater and greater as he focused further.

Each blow that Cal dodged left greater and greater impacts on the zholik, as Cal’s counteracts grew stronger and stronger.

Impact. The ethereal edge finally cleaved through an eyeball and nicked something important. A shudder rippled across the beast's form, its charge faltering, as it reeled from the impact. It was not felled, but the damage was real.

His heart hammered against his ribs, not from fear, but from the thrill of combat honed to perfection. This was something new and he would have to hone this power.

He approached the creature closer, movements wary, and continued the assault. After the beast had been mortally wounded, the battle shifted as the cornered beast changed tactics into sheer aggression.

Cal was used to such final struggles. These reckless charges gave him the opportunity to keep poking eyes, until there was only one left.

The zholik paused and looked around with its one eye, a sudden awareness emerging. It was a stark contrast to the frenzy it once held. It looked at its fallen brothers and sisters and then back at Cal. Then it charged for the final time.

Cal watched the limp body, senses alert for any sign of life. None came. The zholik lay still, its massive body deflated of menace and awareness. From the center of its forehead, between the formidable horns, Cal cut through to a beast core—a pulsating organ of energy, rich with power.

Cal reached out to extract the core with practiced ease. It thrummed against his skin, the temptation to absorb its strength immediate and compelling.

"Save it for later," Temp called out.

Cal hesitated, knowing that he would have to be discreet. He wrapped the core in a cloth before tucking it securely within his spatial treasure.

"Prudent," Temp confirmed.

Cal wiped the sweat from his brow as the dust settled, the battlefield quieting. Around him, Elena had been assisting the cervidians. Their group finally converged, their breaths heavy with exertion and adrenaline.

The two women were the last to appear, one limped forward, a gash across her arm, while the other sported a fresh bruise swelling beneath her eye.

"Ha!" Her voice echoed with both pain and pride. "You lot fight like you've got demon's fire in your veins!"

"Zrue warriors," the other agreed, nodding toward Cal and the others. Her gaze held respect, a warrior acknowledging another's mettle.

"Your strength is matched by your courage," Elena responded, clapping a hand on one of the women’s broad shoulder. The gesture spoke volumes of the camaraderie forged in the heat of battle.

"Let's clean up the mess," Jaxon suggested, his grin barely concealing the blood that stained his teeth.

"Feast awaits," the woman chimed in, seemingly only eager to fight and eat.

"Right," Jabor said, scanning the area where direhogs foraged. "let's catch dinner, bros."

The group fanned out, each member trailing after their chosen quarries.

"Let's make it quick," one of the women advised, her voice steady, “I’m hungry.”

"Quick it shall be," Cal murmured, determination etched on his face as he pulled out his spear once more.

Cal advanced, spear poised, his first target a large direhog rooting near a thicket. He moved silently, predator to prey. In one swift motion, he struck, the spear finding its mark. The direhog toppled, a brief squeal escaping its lips before silence reigned once more.