Fate Calls

Thymur and the orc shaman faced each other amidst the carnage, their eyes locked in an unspoken challenge. One wielded the disciplined might of refined sorcery; the other, the raw, untamed force of nature's fury. 

Around them, the air shimmered and pulsed with magic, unseen forces colliding in an invisible struggle before the first spell was even cast.

The shaman struck first.

Dark tendrils slithered from his staff, twisting like hungry serpents as they shot toward Thymur. The very air trembled with the weight of the spell, the earth beneath them cracking open as shadowy roots clawed their way to the surface. 

Thymur reacted instantly, raising his staff as a dome of searing blue flames erupted around him, consuming the writhing darkness before it could reach him.

But the orc was relentless.

A guttural incantation rolled from his lips, deep and guttural like the growl of an ancient beast. The sky overhead churned violently, black clouds swirling into existence as emerald lightning crackled within. 

The heavens answered his call—a bolt of wild, green energy lanced downward, tearing through the battlefield like an angry god's wrath.

Thymur countered, thrusting his staff skyward. In a split second, arcs of lightning gathered around him, condensing into a single, blinding streak. 

With a flick of his wrist, he unleashed his spell—a brilliant spear of white-hot electricity surged forth, colliding with the shaman's attack in a cataclysmic explosion of light and sound. 

The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, flattening anything unfortunate enough to stand too close.

The dust had barely settled when the shaman struck again.

Across the battlefield, the war raged on. Human lancers clashed with orcish berserkers, their gleaming spears piercing through thick, green hides before being shattered by brutal counterattacks.

 Swordsmen and archers weaved through the chaos, arrows whistling through the air while war cries drowned in the cacophony of metal meeting flesh. 

The leaders of both armies barked orders, rallying their soldiers even as blood soaked the earth beneath them.

 Meanwhile, the archers, led by their sharp-eyed captain, took aim at the orcish warlords trying to reinforce the shaman. Their arrows, enchanted with piercing runes, cut through even the thickest armor, dropping key figures before they could shift the tide of battle.

 Lancers pushed forward, their formation unwavering despite the carnage, driving back the orc front lines one spear thrust at a time.

The ground beneath Thymur's feet trembled violently, then erupted as jagged stone pillars burst upward in an attempt to skewer him.

 With a swift chant, Thymur leaped into the air, propelled by a gust of wind, and landed gracefully on a floating platform of glowing runes. 

With a flick of his hand, the air around him shimmered, forming an array of golden sigils that spun and rotated in intricate patterns.

"You fight with chaos," Thymur murmured, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "I answer with order."

He extended his fingers, and the runes blazed brighter before discharging a cascade of radiant shards—each one a miniature comet of condensed magic. 

They tore through the battlefield, homing in on the orc shaman with unerring accuracy.

The shaman roared, slamming his staff into the ground. A barrier of ethereal bones rose around him, forming a skeletal dome that absorbed the first barrage of attacks.

But Thymur did not stop. With another flick of his wrist, the runes realigned, forming a single, massive glyph in the air.

 A brilliant pillar of frost-blue light shot down, shattering the bone shield into a thousand fragments.

The shaman staggered back, his defenses crumbling. Yet, in his eyes burned a wild, unrelenting fury. He spat a curse, the ground beneath Thymur turning black as veins of necrotic energy spread outward. 

The air grew heavy, thick with decay.

The mage barely had time to react before tendrils of shadow shot up, binding his limbs with cold, unholy energy.

The shaman grinned.

But Thymur's lips curled into a smirk of his own.

With a whisper, a surge of arcane fire exploded outward from his body, obliterating the dark tendrils in a storm of embers. He landed on the ground, eyes burning like twin suns.

 Raising both hands, he uttered a single, final incantation—a spell that made the battlefield itself hold its breath.

A sphere of pure, white-hot energy began forming above his palms, growing in size until it dwarfed the combatants below.

It pulsed with immeasurable power, the very air warping around it. The shaman, realizing the scale of what was coming, attempted to retreat.

Too late.

Thymur brought his hands down.

The sphere detonated, a cascading explosion of raw magic engulfing everything in its path. 

A blinding wave of energy swept through the battlefield, erasing the darkness, purging the corrupted land, and reducing the orc shaman to nothing more than a fleeting whisper in the wind.

When the light faded, Thymur stood alone, staff planted in the scorched earth, his breathing heavy but victorious.

The battlefield still raged, but the balance had shifted. Inspired by their mages and warriors, the human forces surged forward, swords flashing, arrows raining, and spells thundering across the war-torn land. 

The battle was far from over, but with each clash, they inched closer to victory. The battle was won. But the war was far from over.

The human side was gradually gaining foothold in the battle they were winning and advancing forward but there was a barrage of magic from the orcs over the hill.

With their shaman down humans were not able to find the reason for this continuous barrage of magic coming out of nowhere.

Thymur, exhausted from the battle, was overlooking that he had understood from just the sight of this magic that this was not the work of any shaman.

Alison, exhausted and injured, somehow managed to come over to Thymur , he looked over at him .

The dignified look which was present before the battle was nowhere to be found and blood flowing from some parts of body made him look like a beggar rather than a general .

But whatever the case both Thymur and Alison had managed to eliminate a certain threat that could have changed the tide of the battle.

Alsion looked over to Thymur and asked , " where is this magic coming from"

Thymur closed his eyes as if sensing something in the air

He spoke to Alison , " this is scroll magic".

Alison was confused as to how Thymur had reached this conclusion.

Thymur not wanting to explain but still did so , " any normal magic casted by any magician be it human or not would cause the flow or mana to be disrupted"

But right now the flow in the mana present in the surroundings is the same as it was after my battle , so only one thing can come over my mind : they had used scrolls.

Thymur not willing to admit but had certainly in his mind raised the standing of the shaman he fought , to make so many scrolls was a worthy feat .

Both of them were still far away from the place where Renher was fighting the orc chief , both the generals had long exhausted their strength and were slowly and gradually making their way towards Renher to provide any assistance .

At the heart of the battlefield, where warriors clashed in a frenzy of steel and blood, two figures loomed over the chaos, standing at the precipice of a clash that would decide the war's course.

Renher stood firm, his cloak billowing in the winds of battle, his sword gleaming under the crimson sky. Before him, the orc chief loomed like an unshakable mountain, his muscles rippling beneath crude iron plating, his jagged tusks curled in a feral grin. 

The chieftain's war axe, massive and stained with years of conquest, rested heavily in his grip, its edge thirsting for blood.

For a moment, the war seemed to blur into the background. Lancers and swordsmen surged against orcish brutes, their cries a distant echo. 

Arrows and spells painted streaks of fire and lightning across the sky. But between Renher and the orc chief, the world shrank to the space between them, the air thick with unspoken challenge.

The ground trembled as the orc chief took his first step forward. Power radiated from his very being, a force so primal it seemed to shake the fabric of the battlefield itself. 

Renher felt the pressure in the air shift, as if the world itself recoiled from the sheer might the orc exuded. He tightened his grip on his blade, his own aura swelling in response.

The heavens darkened, storm clouds coiling above like a beast stirred from slumber. The battlefield, once alight with fire and steel, now seemed overshadowed by the impending clash of two titans. Warriors on both sides unconsciously drew back, their battles faltering as their gazes turned toward the impending duel. 

The wind howled, carrying embers and dust in its wake, as if nature itself braced for the impact.

With a guttural roar, the orc chief launched forward, his axe cleaving through the air with the weight of a falling star. Renher met him head-on, steel flashing as their weapons collided. 

The sheer force sent a shockwave rippling through the battlefield, knocking lesser warriors off their feet. The ground beneath them cracked, the sheer weight of their power leaving scars upon the land itself.

They moved like storms given form. The orc chief swung wide, each blow enough to shatter boulders, but Renher wove through the attacks with practiced precision, his blade a streak of silver in the darkening battlefield. Sparks flew, metal screeched, and the very air around them became charged with the ferocity of their duel.

As they clashed, the environment twisted in response. The winds roared in tandem with their strikes, the earth quaked beneath their feet. Fire flickered in the distance, casting their figures in an eerie glow. Rain began to fall, steaming as it met the blood-soaked ground, turning the battlefield into a theater of god's warring in mortal flesh.

Every strike, every movement, sent ripples through the battlefield, marking this as not just a fight, but a moment that would be remembered in legend.