Clash of Titans

The battlefield stood still, the world holding its breath. Kyle could feel the heat of his own energy coursing through his veins, the Fallen King's Blade still humming from the force of Warborn's Wrath. The attack had devastated the Legion's ranks, throwing their commander through a stone wall, scattering the once-imposing force.

And yet, the fight was far from over.

The commander rose from the rubble, dust and shards of stone falling from his battered armor. His massive executioner's axe, cracked but still intact, dragged against the ground as he stood upright. A thin trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth, but his silver eyes remained sharp, locked onto Kyle with something far more dangerous than rage.

Recognition.

Kyle shifted his stance, rolling his shoulders. The power of Warborn's Wrath had burned through him, but he wasn't drained yet. He could keep going.

The commander wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his gauntlet and smirked. "That was impressive." His voice was calm, measured, like a man who had faced death before and had never once feared it. "You're stronger than I expected."

Kyle exhaled. "Yeah? You're still standing."

The commander chuckled. "For now." He raised his axe, gripping it with both hands, his stance shifting. Kyle saw it instantly—this was different. Before, the commander had been toying with him, testing his skills. But now?

Now, he was going to fight for real.

Kyle smirked. "Good."

Then the Legion's commander moved.

He was faster than before, closing the distance between them in a blink. His axe came down like a falling mountain, shattering the ground beneath them as Kyle barely dodged to the side.

The impact sent cracks splintering across the battlefield, debris flying from the sheer force.

Kyle countered immediately, swinging the Fallen King's Blade in a sweeping arc toward the commander's exposed flank.

But the commander read the attack perfectly.

With inhuman reflexes, he spun, bringing his axe up just in time to block. The moment their weapons clashed, Kyle felt it—pure force crashing into his arms, the shock rattling his bones.

The commander pushed back, twisting his body to bring the axe around in a second strike, faster than the first.

Kyle barely had time to react.

Instead of blocking, he dropped his weight and slid under the attack, feeling the axe's blade carve through the air just inches from his head.

He came up behind the commander and thrust his sword forward, aiming for the exposed gap beneath his arm.

The commander moved again, twisting at the last second, catching the edge of Kyle's sword on his gauntlet. Sparks screeched as steel ground against steel.

Then the commander lashed out with a brutal kick, slamming his boot into Kyle's ribs.

Pain exploded through Kyle's side as he was sent flying backward, crashing into the dirt.

A notification flickered across his vision.

---

Health Reduced by 20%. Minor Internal Damage Sustained.

---

Kyle gritted his teeth, pushing himself up, ignoring the ache in his ribs. The man hit like a warhammer.

The commander rolled his shoulders, his stance still relaxed, but his expression had shifted. He wasn't playing anymore.

"You're strong," he said. "But you're reckless. You fight with power, but no discipline."

Kyle smirked, despite the pain. "It's worked so far."

The commander's silver eyes flickered. "That won't be enough against what's coming."

Kyle's brow furrowed. "What the hell does that mean?"

The commander exhaled, tightening his grip on his axe. "You're Warborn. Whether you accept it or not. And that means The Land won't just hunt you. It will consume you."

Kyle's fingers twitched around his sword's hilt. He had heard the term before—Warborn. It had been whispered by the system, by the Watcher in the Ash, by the throne itself. But no one had explained it.

"What am I?" Kyle demanded. "What does it mean to be Warborn?"

The commander hesitated.

Then, for the first time, Kyle saw it—uncertainty.

Before he could answer, a new presence entered the battlefield.

The air shifted, a deep pressure rolling through the ruins.

Kyle felt it immediately. A cold weight sank into his chest, different from the Watcher, different from the First Marked. This was something older.

Something hungry.

A notification flared in red.

---

WARNING! Entity Detected: Herald of the Forgotten King.

Level: ???

Threat Level: LETHAL.

---

Kyle's breath hitched.

At the far end of the battlefield, stepping from the shadows of the ruined city, came a new figure.

It was tall—inhumanly tall, its body clad in tattered black robes, its face hidden beneath a hood of pure void. It did not walk—it glided, moving without disturbing the dust beneath it.

And where it moved, the world itself darkened.

The Legion froze. Even the commander tensed, his silver eyes narrowing.

Kyle's instincts screamed at him.

This wasn't a man. This wasn't a soldier or a warlord.

This was a force.

It stopped just twenty paces away, its hollow gaze settling on Kyle.

Then, it spoke.

Its voice wasn't a voice at all, but something crawling through the air, threading through Kyle's skull, wrapping around his very soul.

"The Throne calls you back, Warborn."

Kyle's blood ran cold.

The commander cursed under his breath. "Damn it."

Kyle turned to him, his pulse hammering. "You know what this is?"

The commander gritted his teeth. "A mistake. We shouldn't be here."

The Herald took a step forward.

"The King waits."

Kyle's vision swam, a brief flash of ruined halls, of a shadowed throne, of a crown that did not belong to this world.

A new notification pulsed.

---

Fallen King's Blade Reacting…

Warning: Forced Recall Attempt Detected.

Resist or Submit?

---

Kyle's breath came short. The Herald wasn't just a monster.

It was here for him.

And he had to choose.

The commander raised his axe, stepping beside Kyle. "Whatever happens next, you don't fight this thing alone."

Kyle clenched his jaw, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white.