Chapter 22: The Final Stretch

The battlefield was silent except for the ragged breaths of Gorrak as he struggled to push himself up from the cracked earth. His massive frame shook, his arms bloodied and trembling, his tusks glistening red. The proud warlord who once towered like an unshakable mountain now knelt in the dust, defeated before all.

His crimson eyes burned as he lifted his head toward me. Rage. Shame. Confusion. They swirled together in a storm he could not contain.

“I…” his voice cracked, rumbling low before rising into a thunderous roar. “I am Gorrak! Lord of the Ogres! How—how could I be brought low by you! What are you, boy?!” His words echoed across the battlefield, spittle flying as his voice cracked with disbelief. “No damn human could do this! You… you’re no normal man! You’re a Demon!”

Gasps rippled through the gathered armies, whispers stirring like fire through dry leaves. Demon? The word hung heavy, suspicious, fearful.

But I only smiled faintly, meeting his glare. “Remember the rules of the brawl, Gorrak. No excuses. No weapons. No magic. Just fists. You agreed. And you lost.”

The silence stretched. Gorrak’s fists clenched, his body trembling as his pride warred with the truth he could not deny. Blood ran down his chin as his lips pulled into a snarl. For a moment, it seemed he might charge me again, rules be damned.

But then, with a heavy grunt, he lowered his head.

“Tch… damn it all.” His voice was gravel, thick with humiliation. “Fine. I lost. I’ll… I’ll leave this whole forest conquest aside—for now.” He spat blood into the dirt, his tusks flashing as he growled. “But don’t think this is over, boy. I’ll be back. One day.”

A cheer erupted across the battlefield.

The Lizardmen, battered and bloodied, raised their weapons high. Their voices boomed, shaking the air as they cried out in victory. “Victory! Victory! The Ogre Lord has fallen!”

Even the Beastkin warriors and the Dark Elves joined in, relief flooding their faces as tension gave way to triumph.

But on the other side, the Ogres hung their heads low, their spirits shattered. The unshakable image of their lord had crumbled in front of their very eyes.

The Ogre Princess, who had stood trembling moments before, let out a gasp of relief as tears filled her eyes. A smile broke across her face as she fell to her knees, clutching her chest. Her retainers rushed to her side, laughter and cries of joy bursting from their throats as they embraced her.

“You did it, Princess! We’re safe!”
“Tengen-sama has won! He’s saved us all!”

Their cheers joined the rising tide of voices, a wave of celebration rolling across the battlefield.

I stood in the center of it all, breathing slowly, my body calm despite the storm of voices. My companions gathered around, their eyes fixed firmly on me.

“Tengen-sama,” Yoruha said softly, a small smile tugging her lips. “As expected of you.”

Dravel barked a laugh, sheathing his blade. “Hah! What’d I tell you? Gorrak never stood a chance.”

Shirina smirked. “Our lord has put another to shame.”

Zeril only inclined his head. “A clean victory.”

The Princess stood then, her knees still trembling, and approached me. Her eyes were wet, her voice unsteady but strong. “Tengen-sama… thank you. You saved us all. My people… we may never atone for the sins of the past, but I will never forget this day.” She bowed deeply, her retainers bowing with her, tears in their eyes.

Behind her, the Lizardman Chief stepped forward as well, scales glistening with sweat and blood. His chest heaved, but his voice rang with gratitude. “You’ve done more than I could have hoped, Tengen-sama. Though many of my people fell, countless more live because of your hand. For that, we owe you everything.”

Around us, the battlefield shook with cheers, cries of relief, and the sounds of victory. Warriors threw down broken weapons, embracing one another, raising their voices to the sky. For the first time since dawn, hope filled the forest.

And yet, beneath it all, a weight pressed against my chest.
The battle was over. But the war?
Something told me it was far from done.

The battlefield rang with cheers. Warriors of scale, fur, and dark skin raised their voices to the sky. The Lizardmen stomped their tails, their guttural cries echoing in unison. Beastkin lifted their weapons, howling in triumph. Even the Dark Elves, so often cold, let faint smiles slip as they watched the Ogres slump in defeat.

For the first time in generations, it felt as though the Forest had a future.

But then—

I froze.
A chill licked at the back of my neck. The faintest ripple of something vile slid across my senses. Not bloodlust, not anger. No, this was deeper. Wrong. Like the weight of rot pressing through the air.

“…Tch.” My eyes narrowed as I turned my gaze toward the shadows at the edge of the battlefield.

From the veil of dust and smoke, footsteps echoed. Slow. Measured.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound cut through the celebrations like a blade.

A man emerged. Tall, elegant, draped in dark robes that seemed to shimmer faintly with each step. His hair, black as midnight, fell neatly around a pale, handsome face twisted into a mocking smile.

“Well, well, well…” he said, his voice smooth, carrying effortlessly across the silent field. “What a spectacle. Truly magnificent.” He raised his hands, clapping slowly, mockingly. “I must applaud you, Tengen-sama. You’ve ruined my beautiful plan in spectacular fashion.”

A shiver rippled through the gathered armies.

The Princess gasped, her retainers stepping instinctively in front of her. “W-who is that?”

Gorrak’s eyes widened. His jaw clenched as recognition struck. “You… you’re that human from before!” His voice cracked with rage. “The one who whispered in my ear, feeding me words of conquest—!”

The man tilted his head, his smile sharp as glass. “Human?” His voice dripped with disdain. “Do not insult me, Gorrak. You were never more than a tool, a blunt weapon to amuse me.” He waved a hand dismissively. “And what a useless pawn you turned out to be.”

Gorrak’s face twisted, fury and shame colliding.

The man’s gaze slid lazily back to me. His eyes gleamed with something uncomfortably close to delight. “Ahhh, Tengen-sama. You’re quite the surprise. I did not expect a boy like you to stand in my way. Naughty, naughty.” His smile widened, his words lilting with something almost… romantic. “You’ve stolen the spotlight. Truly, I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The battlefield collectively twitched.

“…The hell?” I muttered, deadpan. “Why are you talking like that? That’s creepy.”

A few voices rose from the crowd.
“Yeah, it’s weird.”
“Does he think that sounds intimidating?”

The vampire’s smile faltered. He blinked once, twice, clearly thrown off. “…Excuse me?”

Before he could recover, Dravel swung himself down from Garfield’s back, his katana gleaming as he stepped forward. His expression was sharp, his killing intent clear.

“You,” Dravel growled, pointing his blade. “You’re the one behind all of this, aren’t you? The whispers, the schemes—were you the one who pushed Gorrak into war?”

The vampire’s lips curled upward again, his eyes narrowing. “Scary…” he crooned mockingly, before snapping his fingers. “Yes. That was me. Every drop of blood spilled here, every scream, every shattered hope—my art.” He spread his arms wide. “And you ruined it.” His face twisted into a scowl. “You disgusting little insects ruined everything.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” Dravel said, his tone calm as his body blurred forward. His blade whistled through the air, cutting straight toward the vampire’s throat.

But the man vanished.

A rush of displaced air followed as he reappeared twenty paces away, his robes fluttering, untouched.

Spatial magic.

“Tch.” My eyes narrowed. That’s going to be a problem.

The vampire wagged a finger, his smile sly once more. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. So rude. Attacking without even a conversation? Where’s the delicacy? The artistry?”

Dravel straightened, blade still raised. “If you were a man, I’d cut you down. But you’re something else. And that makes you dangerous.”

The vampire chuckled, his pale eyes glittering. “Mmm. You’ve entertained me long enough. My business here is done. But know this, Tengen-sama—” his gaze snapped to me, sharp and hungry. “You’ve stolen from me today. And I will have revenge. You’re now on my list.”

His smile spread, unnervingly wide. “Until then, enjoy your little afterparty.”

And with a snap of his fingers—

The world began to change.

The vampire’s laughter lingered in the air like a toxin, the last notes of his mocking words still crawling through the silence.

Then—

The Ogres screamed.
It began as a ripple, then a wave. Warriors dropped their weapons, clutching their bodies as veins bulged black beneath their skin. Muscles swelled grotesquely, eyes burned crimson, tusks lengthened into jagged fangs.

Bones cracked, twisting beneath flesh. Skin tore as power surged unchecked, bodies expanding, warping, mutating.
The air itself thickened with malice.

“W-what… what’s happening to them?!” a Lizardman shouted, his spear trembling in his grip.

One Ogre’s roar split the sky as his jaw unhinged unnaturally wide. Another collapsed, only to rise again with claws tearing out from his fingers.

The Princess’s scream pierced the chaos. “Father!”

All eyes snapped to Gorrak.

His massive frame convulsed, swelling further, his crimson eyes blazing brighter than ever. His aura surged violently, flooding the battlefield with suffocating force. It was no longer the strength of a warlord—it was something beyond.

A power that brushed against Demon Lords themselves.

And in that moment, he snapped.

With a guttural roar, Gorrak hefted his great axe, his twisted gaze locking onto the nearest life. His daughter.

“Die—!” His voice was a guttural snarl as the axe came down.

“Not happening.”

My katana flashed free, intercepting the strike with a metallic scream. Sparks burst as steel clashed with cursed steel, the force of the blow shaking the ground. The Princess collapsed backward, eyes wide, frozen in horror.

I held Gorrak’s gaze as our weapons locked. His face was twisted beyond recognition, veins crawling across his flesh, blood seeping from his eyes.

I clenched my jaw. Something was wrong—terribly wrong. His body was mutating beyond control, his aura spiraling into madness. It wasn’t strength born of training or will. It was forced, unnatural, as if a poison or curse had hijacked his very being.

The realization struck cold: this wasn’t just rage. This was a transformation with no return.

I shifted, pushing Gorrak back with a surge of force. He stumbled, then snarled, his aura flaring again, more vicious than before. His body was no longer that of a warrior—it was that of a beast, a weapon of destruction with no master.

Behind me, the Princess trembled, her retainers clutching her shoulders. Tears streamed down her face as her lips quivered. “No… no, Father, please—”

“Princess!” one retainer barked, snapping her from her daze. “We must protect you!”

The battlefield erupted into chaos.

The mutated Ogres turned their fangs not only on their enemies, but on their own. Allies, foes, it did not matter. Their claws ripped through flesh indiscriminately, their roars shaking the trees.

The Lizardmen Chief drew his blade, his voice sharp. “To arms! All of you! These things will slaughter us all!”

The Beastkin howled, charging into formation. The Dark Elves loosed spells and arrows in rapid fire.

The five great races had no choice.
In that instant, they stood as one.

“Tengen-sama!” Yoruha-sama called, her voice cutting through the chaos. She and the others joined the fray, their auras flaring as they struck down twisted Ogres that lunged toward them.

I glanced back once at the Princess, who sat frozen in despair, then met Gorrak’s monstrous glare.

“Princess,” I said, my voice cold, hard. “They’ve been turned into monsters. They’re in pain. They’ll fight until they die. What do you want us to do?”

Her eyes widened, tears spilling. “I… I can’t… they’re my people… my father…”

Her retainers tried to steady her, but her sobs tore through the battlefield.

I tightened my grip on my katana, my voice sharp. “Decide, Princess. Now. Every second you hesitate, more will die.”

“Insensitive fool!” one of her retainers snapped at me. “Can’t you see she’s suffering?!”

“Sorry,” I shot back, my gaze locked on Gorrak as he readied another swing. “But it’s not easy fighting someone at their peak strength when all they want is to kill.”

The Princess’s sobs quieted. She clenched her fists, her body trembling, then forced herself to stand. Tears streamed down her face as she lifted her chin.

Her voice shook, but it rang clear. “Everyone… please… help me… end their suffering.”

The battlefield stilled for a heartbeat.

Then I smiled faintly, despite the weight in my chest. “…Well said, Princess.”

And with that, the annihilation began.

The battlefield exploded into chaos.

The once-proud Ogres—warriors of flesh and honor—had become abominations. Their roars shook the trees as they tore into anything that moved, their claws carving through steel, their tusks rending flesh.

A Lizardman raised his spear—only for a mutated Ogre’s claw to shred him in half, his blood painting the soil. A Beastkin warrior leapt forward, blades flashing, only to be caught mid-air and slammed into the dirt with bone-crushing force.

“Hold the line!” the Lizardman Chief roared, his tail lashing as he slashed down one of the twisted beasts. His voice carried over the screams. “Do not falter! Fight with everything you have!”

Zeril unleashed volley after volley of magic, his power flaring bright as he targeted the monsters from a distance. But even pierced by dozens of fire arrows, the Ogres kept moving, their bodies refusing to die until completely broken.

Beastkin howls mixed with shrieks as claws met fangs, steel clashed against bone. The earth shook beneath their battle.

And in the center of it all—

“RAAAAGH!”

Gorrak roared, his monstrous form towering above the rest. His muscles bulged with grotesque power, his veins crawling black across his skin. His great axe swung in wide arcs, each strike sending shockwaves tearing across the battlefield.

He was no longer Gorrak, the proud Ogre Lord.
He was destruction given flesh.

And his eyes—those bloodshot, hateful eyes—never left his daughter.

The Princess stumbled back, tears streaming as she clutched her chest. “Father, please… stop…!”

His only answer was another swing of his axe, cleaving toward her with murderous intent.

My katana intercepted it, sparks bursting as the impact drove me back across the dirt. My heels dug trenches as I caught my balance, but my arms rattled with the sheer force.

He was stronger. Far stronger than before.

“Tch…” I steadied myself, narrowing my eyes. “Demon Lord Candidate level, huh?”

I blurred forward, blade flashing. My katana traced arcs of silver as I slashed across Gorrak’s chest, sparks and blood spraying. He staggered, but instead of falling back, his hand shot out, claws grasping for me.

I twisted, narrowly avoiding his grip, only for his knee to slam into my side with crushing force. Pain lanced through my ribs as I was thrown back, crashing into the ground with a grunt.

“Tengen-sama!” Yoruha’s voice rang, her aura flaring as she cut down two Ogres lunging at her. She moved to step in, but I raised a hand.

“Stay back! This one’s mine!” I barked, pushing myself up.

Dravel snarled, cutting down another mutated Ogre with his blade. “Hah! You think we’ll just sit back while you hog all the fun?!”

Shirina smirked, her twin daggers flashing as she dismantled another beast. “Don’t die, Tengen-sama. Wouldn’t be much point in following you then.”

Zeril crushed an Ogre’s skull with a surge of magic, his voice calm. “Focus. The Lord is yours. We will handle the rest.”

Their faith steadied me.

I turned back to Gorrak, his monstrous body heaving, his twisted grin wide as blood dripped from his tusks. His aura crackled like lightning, oppressive and violent.

He roared, charging, his axe swinging with earth-shattering force.
I met him head-on, katana flashing as sparks lit the battlefield once more.
Our clash was no longer a duel.
It was survival itself.

The battlefield had become a nightmare.
Mutated Ogres surged like a tide of flesh and rage, their roars splitting the air as they tore into anything that moved. Their strength was no longer that of warriors—it was something monstrous, unnatural, unrelenting.

The Lizardmen formed phalanxes, shields locked, spears thrusting in unison. But even in formation, each clash was a gamble. When a mutated Ogre slammed into their wall, shields cracked, scales splintered, and lines buckled.

“Hold!” the Lizardman Chief roared, driving his blade into an Ogre’s chest, black blood spraying across his scales. “Do not falter! Push them back!”

The Beastkin fought with raw ferocity, claws and fangs flashing in frenzied coordination. A wolfkin lunged, raking across an Ogre’s throat, only to be grabbed and smashed into the dirt by another. Their bravery was unquestioned, but their bodies were breaking under the strain.

Above them, my four escorts carved paths of precision through the chaos.

Yoruha’s spells lanced across the battlefield, her hands weaving arcs of green flame that seared through Ogre flesh. She moved with cold calm, eyes sharp, never wasting a movement.

Dravel fought like a storm, his sword flashing in wide arcs as he cut down one Ogre after another. His laughter rang above the din, fierce and unshaken. “Come on, beasts! You’ll have to try harder to stop me!”

Shirina danced through the battlefield, her daggers dripping black ichor as she slid between the Ogres’ swings, carving tendons, severing throats. Her smirk never faltered, though her eyes gleamed with deadly focus.

Zeril was a wall of destruction. His magic hammered down like falling stars, crushing Ogres beneath explosions of force. He moved steadily, his expression unreadable, his power measured but devastating.

Together, they moved like extensions of my will—holding the line, cutting down abominations, protecting those who faltered.

But even with all of us, the Ogres were relentless.
Every time one fell, another surged forward, stronger, more crazed, their bodies seemingly blind to pain. Even with numbers against them, they fought as if immortality burned in their veins.

The Princess huddled between her retainers, her sobs choked as she watched her people’s forms twist further, each life taken another crack in her heart.

And through it all, I stood locked against Gorrak.
His monstrous form towered before me, his axe cleaving arcs of death through the air. Each swing was heavier, faster, the ground quaking beneath every step he took.

I met him blow for blow, my katana flashing as sparks showered the battlefield. My strikes cut deep, but his flesh refused to falter, muscles twisting to compensate. Each time I landed a blow, his power only seemed to surge further.

“You’ve lost your mind, Gorrak,” I muttered through clenched teeth as I parried another crushing strike. “And now you’ve lost your people too.”

He roared in answer, spit flying, his words broken through madness. “Kill… all…! DESTROY!”

The impact of his axe against my blade shook my bones, rattling through my arms. Even now, he pressed harder, his strength eclipsing my own.

“Tch…” I spat, sliding back a pace before launching forward again. My blade slashed upward, catching Gorrak’s chin and snapping his head back. Blood sprayed, but he only roared louder, swinging blindly in fury.

The ground split beneath us as our battle raged, the clash of our blows shaking the forest.

Around us, the Alliance fought tooth and claw, blood soaking the soil as cries of pain and rage filled the night.

But even as the five races fought together, I could feel it.
The balance was slipping.
We were holding.
But only barely.

Mutated Ogres tore through the ranks with mindless fury, their bodies grotesquely swollen, tusks cracked and lengthened, veins black and crawling beneath gray-green skin. Every roar was a blade. Every stride, a quake.

And still, the Alliance held.
Not because the enemy was weak—but because five peoples refused to yield.

“Shields!” bellowed the Lizardman Chief, his voice raw. Scaled warriors locked their round shields into a jagged wall while spearheads bristled through the gaps. A hulking Ogre hurled itself into them; wood and bone shrieked, the wall bowed—then surged forward in a bristling thrust that punched half a dozen gleaming points into the monster’s chest. It didn’t fall. It screamed, ripping spears away even as blood spattered down the shield rims.

“Press!” the Chief snarled, tail lashing as he hacked into the creature’s neck.

To his left, the Beastkin fought in ragged clusters. A lionkin captain slammed twin maces into an Ogre’s knee, folding it with a wet crunch; foxkin slashed hamstrings and sprang away; a boarkin lifted a fallen comrade and charged roaring into another beast like a living battering ram. Their bravery was unquestioned, but the toll was heavy.

And anchoring the sagging center, the Orcs arrived like a thunderhead.

“Drums!” roared the Orc warleader, a massive brute with a scarred snout and braids threaded with iron rings. War drums boomed—low, rolling, relentless—until even the earth seemed to keep time. Orc shields—thicker, broader, iron-studded—pounded into place. Behind them, a second rank hefted brutal hammers and hook-axes over the shield line.

“Hold!” the warleader barked. “On my mark—break!”

A mutated Ogre slammed into the wall. The front rank absorbed it—boots digging furrows, shield edges sparking—then the warleader dropped his arm. The line opened like jaws: side-shields angled, and the rear rank drove hook-axes into the beast’s ribs, yanking it half-sideways as hammers crashed down on spine and skull. Bone popped. The Ogre folded.

“Again!”
The drums answered. The wall rolled forward.

High above the melee, the four Dark Elves cut their own paths through the storm.

Yoruha surged forward, twin swords flashing in brutal arcs. She fought with unrelenting tempo—crossed slashes to split torsos, sudden reverses that severed limbs. When the pressure mounted too heavy, she wove fire along her blades, the edge glowing bright as it carved a molten line across Ogre flesh. Magic strengthened her steel, but her true terror was in the speed and precision of her strikes.

Dravel fought like a storm, his broad sword rising and falling with crushing weight. He wove in and out of the Orc line as if it were built for him, smashing the flat into wrists to knock claws aside, then reversing to cut tendons. “Left gap!” he shouted without looking. An Orc shield slid over, locked to his shoulder; Dravel ducked beneath it and drove his blade straight up under an Ogre’s jaw. “Thanks,” he grunted to the Orc on his hip. The Orc flashed tusks in a grim smile. “Don’t die, elf.”

Shirina moved like a thread through cloth. Her daggers whispered, silver arcs too quick to follow until blood fanned behind her like ribbon. She targeted what refused to regenerate: eyes, the soft hinge beneath tusks, the tendons that turned a wrist into a dead weight. When an Ogre lunged for the Princess, Shirina was simply there, both blades crossing to catch the descending claws, boots skidding trenches as she ground the strike aside. “Breathe,” she told the Princess without looking, and vanished back into the crush.

Zeril was a wall of destruction. His magic hammered down like falling stars, crushing Ogres beneath explosions of force. He moved steadily, his expression unreadable, his power measured but devastating. When a trio boxed him in, he breathed out and gravity seemed to double around them; all three hit the ground like sacks of ore, and his heel ended them before they could rise.

They were bright knives in a dark sea. And yet the sea kept coming.

“Fall back!” someone screamed from the Beastkin line. “Left flank breaking!”

It was. The Lizardman wall held, the Orc center ground forward, but the left—where the Beastkin bled and battered—was thinning to threads. Too many dead. Too many “almost” kills that never quite finished a mutated Ogre before it surged again with redoubled madness.

“Go,” I said, parrying a murderous arc that would have split me in two. My boots slid three paces in the torn soil. “Dravel—help the left. Yoruha, cover. Shirina, keep the Princess breathing. Zeril, with the Orcs.”

“Tengen-sama,” Dravel barked, already turning, “try not to get yourself killed before I get back.”

“Who do you think you are talking to?” I shot back.

He grinned over his shoulder and vanished into the churn, blade shouldering aside claws and skulls as he cut for the failing flank. Yoruha flared forward beside him, her twin swords carving a bloody corridor so the Beastkin could regroup. Shirina ghosted back into the shadows near the Princess, and Zeril shifted toward the Orcs—his calm presence slotting into their wall like a keystone.

Which left me with the mountain.

Gorrak crashed into me again, axe howling through the air. I met it with steel-on-steel; sparks sprayed like meteors; the impact rattled my teeth and jarred my shoulders so hard the joints protested.

He was stronger. Even more than a minute ago. The daywalker’s pills were still pushing him, millimeter by millimeter, nerve by nerve.

The Princess’s voice cut through the chaos, trembling but resolute.
“Please… help me… end their suffering!”

Her words carried, sharper than steel, heavier than any command. Warriors all across the battlefield heard her plea, and something shifted. No longer was this just survival. No longer was it just a war.

It became mercy.

The five races answered as one.

“Forward!” the Lizardman Chief bellowed, his shield raised high. “End it here!”

Orc drums thundered in reply, a steady, relentless beat that drove their warriors into formation. Beastkin howls surged, a chorus of fangs and claws ready to tear for one last stand. My four Dark Elves raised their weapons, their eyes set with grim clarity.
Thus, the annihilation began.

Mutated Ogres fell one by one.
The Lizardmen pressed with spear and shield, each thrust measured, precise, pushing through the beasts’ warped defenses. The Orcs hammered down from the flanks, their hook-axes dragging monsters off balance while their hammers shattered bone. The Beastkin swarmed weak points, ripping eyes and hamstrings until the Ogres toppled.

Beside them, Yoruha’s twin swords flashed in deadly arcs, cutting down two at once in a rain of ichor. Dravel roared with the Orcs, his blade cutting deep as he fought shoulder-to-shoulder with warriors twice his size. Shirina darted between collapsing bodies, her daggers striking killing blows where others faltered. Zeril’s spells detonated with brutal efficiency, finishing what the lines could not.

Together, the five races carved the monsters down.
But even in death, the Ogres were terrible. Every kill cost blood. Every victory cost screams.

And at the heart of it—

“TENGEN!”

Gorrak’s roar was no longer that of a warlord. It was an animal’s howl, guttural and broken. His monstrous frame loomed, muscles grotesquely swollen, his great axe dripping with both enemy and ally blood. His eyes burned like twin furnaces of rage.

He charged.
The impact of his axe nearly split the ground in two. I met it, katana straining, the force rattling every bone in my body. Sparks and shards of stone burst outward as steel ground against steel.

“You’re finished, Gorrak,” I spat, shoving him back. “This ends now.”

He snarled, spittle flying. “DIE… HUMAN!”

Blow after blow rained down. His strength was overwhelming—each strike enough to cleave boulders, enough to break mountains. My arms screamed in protest, my ribs burned where his knee had struck earlier, but I held.

No—more than held.
I answered with speed, with technique honed beyond brute force. Where he swung wild, I cut clean. Where he pressed power, I slipped aside and returned with precision. His flesh tore beneath my blade; his blood spattered across the dirt.

Still he roared. Still he came.
A final clash erupted, our weapons colliding in a thunderous shockwave that tore trees from their roots. For an instant, we stood locked—eye to eye, breath to breath.

Then I pushed.
Steel rang, my katana sliding past his guard. I drove forward, cutting deep across his chest. Blood sprayed as he staggered, his monstrous bellow breaking into a choked roar.

He swung again, desperate, but slower now. Too slow.
My blade pierced through his guard, carving across his side, tearing through sinew and bone.

At last, Gorrak fell to one knee, his great axe digging into the earth for balance. His breath came ragged, his monstrous aura flickering like a dying flame.

The battlefield grew quiet around us. The mutated Ogres still shrieked, still fought—but fewer now, their roars waning as the Alliance pressed the last of them down.

I stood before Gorrak, my blade slick with blood, chest heaving. My eyes never left his.
The warlord was beaten.

And yet, in those burning crimson eyes, there was still something—faint, buried beneath the madness—struggling to surface.

The world slowed.
Gorrak knelt before me, his axe buried in the soil, his monstrous frame trembling. The veins that had bulged black across his body pulsed erratically, his breath coming in ragged, labored gasps.

And then—his eyes cleared.
The madness flickered out like a dying flame, replaced by something raw, something painfully human.

“…damn it…” His voice was hoarse, strained, but his words carried. “So… I lost.”

I tightened my grip on my sword, my chest heaving. “…You did.”

He chuckled, though blood dripped from his mouth. “Heh… to think… the one I called weak… would be the one to end me.”

The Princess broke free from her retainers, stumbling forward with tears streaking her face. “Father!”
Her voice cracked, desperate, terrified. She dropped to her knees beside him, clutching at his massive arm. “Don’t speak like that! You’re going to live—I’ll call the healers! They can fix this!”

“Pointless…” Gorrak rasped, raising a trembling hand to still her. His monstrous body was already collapsing inward, the unnatural growths fading, leaving a ravaged husk. “Too late for me, girl… much too late.”

“No! Don’t say that! Please!” Her tears fell hot against his ruined skin.

Gorrak’s gaze shifted to me. His eyes, once filled with hate and pride, now held something else—something heavy.

“You… human…” His lips curled into a faint, pained smile. “…No… Tengen. You’re no weakling. You’re the only one… I can trust with this.”

His words were a weight that pressed against me, heavier than his axe ever had.
“Protect her. Protect my daughter. Protect my village. Swear it.”

I lowered my blade, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest. “…I swear it.”

The Princess’s eyes widened, her tears blurring her vision as she turned to her father. “Father, no… please… don’t leave me…”

Gorrak’s massive hand rose, trembling, and gently rested against her cheek.
“I’m sorry… for all the trouble I caused you,” he whispered, his voice softer than it had ever been. “I love you, my daughter.”

Her sobs broke into gasps. She clutched his hand against her face, as if by sheer will she could anchor him here. “I love you too, Father. Please… stay with me…!”

His gaze softened, distant now, his strength fading. “Don’t… hate him… for this. Don’t hate Tengen. Rely on him instead…”

His chest rose once more, shuddering. His lips moved, silent words slipping away with his last breath.
And then—he was still.

The Princess’s cries tore through the silence, her hands gripping his body as if she could keep his spirit from leaving. Her retainers knelt with her, heads bowed, their faces streaked with grief.

I exhaled slowly, closing my eyes. “…Forgive me.”

Her voice broke, but her words cut clear. “Why… are you apologizing? You… you saved us. You saved him from that curse.”
Her hands trembled as she wiped her tears, forcing her gaze up at me. “I should be thanking you, Tengen-sama. I don’t… I don’t blame you.”

The battlefield lay in ruins around us. The mutated Ogres were gone, their bodies strewn across the earth. Blood soaked the soil, the air thick with smoke and silence.
No cheers. No victory cries. Only grief.

The shady man’s smirk flashed in my mind, his mocking farewell echoing. He had left us with this devastation, left us to bleed while he vanished into the shadows.

“I’ll kill him,” I muttered under my breath, my hand tightening on my blade. “Next time we meet… I’ll end him.”

The Lizardman Chief stepped forward, his scales darkened with blood, his tail dragging from exhaustion. His voice was heavy but firm. “The battle is done… but the war is not. With all five races gathered here, we must decide what comes next.”

He turned to the Princess, his gaze steady. “Will you attend, as leader of your people?”

The Princess wiped her face, her eyes swollen but unbroken. She looked at her father’s body one last time, then rose on unsteady legs.
“…Yes,” she whispered, her voice growing stronger. “I’ll be fine. For them, I have to be.”

The Lizardman Chief nodded. “Then we will meet.”

The surviving warriors bowed their heads, the Alliance bound not by triumph but by loss, by sacrifice, and by the fragile thread of hope.

And thus, the battlefield of despair closed into silence.