Darkness

Renher rained down relentless strikes with Excalibur, each swing a blinding arc of steel. The orc chief, nearly twice his size, stood firm, his colossal frame barely budging under the onslaught. Yet, with every clash, with every ringing impact of blade against blade, Renher was pushing him back, inch by inch.

The battlefield bore the scars of their duel. The surrounding trees had been thrashed beyond hope of regrowth, their splintered remains littering the ground like the bones of fallen warriors.

Renher fought with a combination of Imperial swordsmanship and raw battle instinct, seamlessly weaving between calculated technique and sheer aggression. The orc chief wielded a meter-long greatsword, its immense weight evident in every swing. Unlike the finely crafted human weapons, his sword was crude, its surface marred with the dried blood of countless victims.

Renher pressed forward, alternating between heavy left-handed slashes and rapid, intricate maneuvers, forcing the orc chief onto the defensive. Yet, despite the pressure, the massive warrior dodged every fatal strike with unnerving precision, absorbing only the blows that caused minor wounds.

Growing frustrated, Renher felt his composure slipping.

"Damn you! Just fall already!" he spat through gritted teeth, his fury bubbling over.

Overcommitting, he swung forward with all his might.

The orc chief saw his opening. A wicked grin spread across his broad face as he shifted back, allowing Renher's blade to cut through empty space. The momentum dragged Renher forward, his sword's tip striking the earth. His balance wavered.

A deep, rumbling chuckle escaped the orc's throat. "Too eager, human."

Renher's heart pounded as he looked up—straight into the chief's gleaming eyes. His opponent had already begun his counterattack.

Time seemed to slow. The greatsword rose high, veins bulging across the orc's monstrous arms. Every muscle in his body tensed for the killing blow. The sheer force behind the incoming strike would split Renher in two.

For any onlooker, it lasted mere seconds. But for Renher, time stretched indefinitely. His mind processed every detail at an inhuman speed, assessing every escape route, every counter, every desperate measure. But the result was always the same—death.

Then, suddenly, the orc's body froze mid-swing. His muscles twitches violently, his veins bulging as if straining against an invisible force. Confusion flashed across his savage features.

Renher wasted no time. He adjusted his stance, raising Excalibur in preparation for a devastating counter.

"Imperial Sword Arts—Fourfold Execution!"

His blade became a blur. A seamless combination of four lethal strikes, each more devastating than the last. The orc chief saw the attack coming—but his body refused to respond. His eyes burned with rage, with confusion. What force had bound him?

Then, in a move that defied all logic, the chief released his grip on his weapon.

Renher hesitated for the briefest of moments, perplexed. But his hesitation cost him. Just as Excalibur was about to cleave through the orc's flesh, the chief stepped backward, his movement smooth, effortless, as though the invisible force no longer constrained him.

Renher's blade sliced through empty air. His moment of triumph—gone in an instant.

Realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. He wasn't the one who had halted the orc's movement earlier. Something else had interfered.

And now, the chief was moving again.

Before he could react, a headbutt crashed into Renher's chest. The impact sent him reeling backward, his ribs screaming in agony.

The orc chief landed with a heavy thud, casually retrieving his fallen weapon. He exhaled, flexing his fingers around the hilt.

Some distance away, the mage team leader coughed up blood. His face was pale, his breathing ragged.

"Damn it... I didn't think he'd—"

His spell—Wind Magic: Air Chain—had been meant to bind the orc chief in place, giving Renher the perfect opening. But he had underestimated the enemy's intelligence. The orc had simply stepped back, breaking the tension in the magical bindings. The sudden release had sent a powerful backlash through the mage's body, overwhelming his circuits.

Collapsing to a cross-legged position, he focused on circulating his mana, forcing his body to recover. On any other battlefield, attempting such a thing in the open would be suicidal. But for now, he was secluded. His part in this battle was over. The rest of the army would handle the remnants.

Yet, unbeknownst to him, something sinister watched from the shadows.

A crow perched in a nearby tree. But this was no ordinary crow.

Its feathers were not merely black—they were an abyss, a churning void where light seemed to be devoured. Its eyes, hollow and endless, reflected nothing, as though gazing into them meant staring into pure oblivion.

It didn't caw. The sound it emitted was something far worse—a guttural rasp that scraped against the soul. A harbinger of something ancient. Something malevolent.

Then, in an instant, it moved.

A streak of darkness plunged from the tree, silent as death itself. Just as it was about to strike the unaware mage leader, it evaporated into a wisp of black smoke and seeped into his skin.

The mage flinched. A sudden dizziness overtook him, his strength drained in an instant. He fell forward, convulsing, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then, stillness.

Moments passed. Then, as if nothing had happened, he sat back up and resumed meditating. From a distance, nothing seemed amiss—no injuries, no wounds. But his eyes... his eyes had become something inhuman.

Pitch black.

A darkness beyond mortal comprehension.

Meanwhile, the battlefield was nearing its conclusion. The army had broken the orcish ranks, cutting down the last remnants of resistance. Archers and mages provided support from the rear, ensuring no enemy escaped.

The war was nearing its end. By nightfall, the valley would be under human control.

Yet, far from the main battle, the true fight still raged.

Thymur and Alison steadily made their way toward Renher's duel, their presence shifting the tides wherever they passed.

And at the heart of it all, Renher and the orc chief stood locked in combat, the final test of strength yet to be decided.

Elsewhere on the battlefield, swordsmen and lancers were finishing off the remnants of the orc forces. Victory was within reach. Even without further intervention, the human army would secure the valley before nightfall.

Thymur and Alison, their bodies battered and bruised from the battle, were making their way toward Renher's fight.

From a distance, they spotted the mage leader meditating. He appeared mostly unscathed, save for the dust and dirt covering his robe.

Alison grinned. "King's holding his ground against the chief. Looks like he doesn't need our help."

Thymur nodded but hesitated. Something felt… off. His gaze lingered on the mage leader. An uneasy feeling churned in his gut.

They approached him cautiously and called out his name. No response.

The mage leader remained still. Only a faint ripple of movement disturbed his robes.

Then, slowly, he rose to his feet and turned toward them.

"What are you two doing here?" he asked, his voice calm yet oddly detached.

Alison frowned. "Now's not the time for questions. Our king is fighting—we need to help him."

The mage leader stared at them for a moment before responding, "Let's make our way forward."

Thymur tensed. That voice—it didn't sound right. It was hollow, discordant, as if something else spoke through him.

Then, the mage leader took the lead, speaking in an eerily loud tone. "I'll move ahead since I am less injured. Follow me."

Alison nodded, but Thymur hesitated. That feeling of unease refused to leave him.

Something was very, very wrong.

Even with his doubts , Thymur gave a nod along with Alison and proceeded to follow him.

The clang of steel on steel echoed again and again, a desperate rhythm in the fading light. Each parry, each thrust, was a testament to sheer, bone-deep exhaustion. Renher, his breath ragged, swayed on his feet, the once-sharp edge of his sword now a wavering line. 

Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the hulking form of the orc before him. The orc cheif, equally spent, snarled, its tusks bared in a grimace. Its massive frame, usually a whirlwind of brutal force, moved with a sluggish, heavy weariness. 

The two fighters circled each other, a dance of death slowed to a crawl, each movement a labored effort. 

The air hung thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of sweat and fear. It was no longer a display of skill, but a brutal test of endurance.

 a desperate struggle to see who would collapse first, who would succumb to the crushing weight of exhaustion.

By the looks of it Renher had been more exhausted and tired along with the injuries he incurred during his battle the chances of him winning as long as the fight extended any further were low.

He had been determined to use an all or nothing move. 

Renher was ready to unleash his final move aura burst; it was a last ditch effort to use it that meant a final blow as battle stretched any longer meant a loss and much more casualties.

The orc chief seeing his brethren being reduced in numbers by the humans wanted to end this fight and help others, wanted to use something similar but still different in nature to human's Aura that was Orc Cry .

This would significantly reduce the human's morale and induce fear while increasing one's own strength but the backlash from it meant a near death state .

Neither would have used this move if the situation did not call for it .