From a small hill nearby, Zola watched as the two powerhouses clashed, their battle stretching on, draining their strength.
He had been observing from the start, knowing that both fighters would soon be at their limits. His earlier attempt to aid the orcs by supplying magic scrolls had yielded little success.
Some unknown human mage had countered the spells, minimizing casualties and nullifying much of his effort.
Earlier When the orc warriors had marched to battle, leaving behind only the weak, the elderly, and the children, Zola saw his opportunity. He had slipped unnoticed into the village's armory, taking advantage of the unguarded entrance since all the sentries were at the front lines.
Though not grand, the armory housed some invaluable treasures. He rummaged quickly, searching for a particular dagger he had long sought. Time was against him, and as he scanned the shelves and crates, heavy footsteps echoed from outside.
Zola immediately ducked behind a large column as a pair of orc fighters returned from the battlefield, their armor splattered with blood and dirt. "Do you think we can win this fight?"
one warrior asked, his voice heavy with exhaustion. "As long as the chief still stands, we have a chance," the other replied grimly.
"Hurry," the first said, "grab as many arrows and scrolls as you can. The front line needs support." The second orc nodded and began gathering supplies.
As they moved, a bundle of arrows tumbled from the pile, knocking loose a small, jagged weapon.
It hit the floor with a sharp clank, drawing both orcs' attention.
They glanced at the weapon but, seeing nothing of value, ignored it and continued their task before leaving the armory.
Zola's heart pounded. From his hiding spot, he had seen the fallen blade—and his joy was immeasurable. The dagger was exactly what he had been searching for.
Though corroded and dulled with age, its jagged edge remained sinister. It was no ordinary weapon; it had been forged from the fangs of a Flaming Python, an incredibly venomous and corrosive beast. A single cut from it meant certain death, regardless of whether the victim was a mighty behemoth or a powerful human warrior.
Zola carefully retrieved the dagger and slipped it into his Earthskin Bag.
With calculated steps, he sneaked out of the armory and made his way toward the battlefield.
Now
The battle between the two champions had reached its climax. Both Renher and the orc chief prepared their final, decisive attacks.
Renher enveloped himself in a radiant golden aura, his presence exuding raw, cutting energy.
The orc chief, in turn, let loose a mighty War Cry, his voice shaking the valley as ancient magic surged through him.
Both warriors knew that a sneak attack at this moment would be futile—this battle would be decided by sheer strength and skill.
The air around them grew thick with tension. The scent of blood mixed with the damp earth as dark clouds loomed overhead.
Raindrops began to fall, drenching the valley in a cold, eerie mist.
In the distance, Renher caught sight of the Mage Leader and his two generals approaching from behind the orc chief. Their ragged appearances suggested they had endured a brutal struggle to get here.
A smirk crossed Renher's lips.
Lady Luck had blessed him.
Reinforcements had arrived at the perfect moment. Yet something felt off.
He noticed the Mage Leader wielding a black blade—a strange choice for a magic user. Moreover, the orc chief seemed completely unaware of their presence.
A flicker of doubt passed through Renher's mind, but he brushed it aside. The battle came first. Questions could wait.
Meanwhile, the orc chief spotted Zola advancing through the rain, a small dagger clutched in his grasp. The mud made his movements sluggish, but his determination was unwavering.
A flash of anger flickered through the chief's mind—Zola had entered the armory without permission and had taken the dagger. Yet, despite his irritation, the chief understood that this moment could change everything.
Renher remained oblivious to the danger creeping up behind him.
The chief's confidence grew.
The battle was about to reach its end.
Both warriors unleashed their final strikes.
Renher, his body and blade enveloped in golden energy, surged forward to cleave his opponent.
The orc chief, his War Cry amplified to its peak, retaliated with an earth-shaking roar that reverberated across the battlefield.
Even the distant armies felt its raw power.
Their weapons met in a violent clash, Excalibur colliding with the orc's greatsword.
The impact sent shockwaves through the land, uprooting debris and sending weaker soldiers tumbling.
The sheer force behind their blows shook the heavens themselves. Neither warrior relented.
They stared into each other's eyes, pushing forward with everything they had. And then—it happened.
Zola hesitated. He could still step away, still walk back into the shadows. But no. It was too late for second thoughts.
Zola's grip tightened. Then, with a quick, decisive motion, he drove the dagger forward.
At the same time, the Mage Leader appeared behind Renher, a dark blade in his grasp. His eyes were vacant, lost in an unseen trance, as though a force beyond his will guided his hand.
Blades pierced flesh. Blood painted the ground in crimson strokes.
A sudden strike from behind. Blades sank into flesh. Blood splattered against the rain-soaked ground. Renher gasped as sharp pain lanced through his back.
The orc chief's eyes widened in equal shock as a short dagger pierced his heart. For a fleeting moment, time stood still.
Weapons slipped from their hands.
Their final attacks, meant to bring victory, had instead resulted in mutual downfall.
Both warriors turned to see their betrayers.
Renher's vision blurred, but he saw the Mage Leader standing behind him—his black blade coated in blood. The betrayal registered too late.
The Mage Leader, standing before him, still held the blade. His expression was distant, as though he, too, was a mere pawn in someone else's game.
The orc chief, with his strength fading, saw Zola clutching the venomous dagger, pulling it free from his back.
His gaze landed on Zola—the frail, insignificant figure who had determined the fate of giants.
Zola could not meet his eyes.
The chief let out a small, knowing chuckle before his body gave in to the poison's embrace. He fell, never to rise again.
Silence gripped the battlefield as the two mighty figures collapsed, their lifeblood seeping into the ruined earth.
The duel between king and chief had ended—not by their own hands, but by the hands of those they had fought beside.
Victory and defeat, forever intertwined, inseparable.
And Zola, who had sought peace, now carried the weight of what he had done.
The rain continued to fall, washing away the blood, but not the guilt
Renher and Thymur stood frozen, fear tightening their chests as the events unfolded before them with terrifying speed. What had seemed like a decisive victory had twisted into an unimaginable betrayal.
The mage team leader lay lifeless beside Renher, his eyes vacant, his body unnaturally still. A thin wisp of black smoke curled from his form, dissolving into the rain like a whisper of something far more sinister.
Alison and Thymur, heedless of their own wounds, sprinted towards Renher. Their breaths came in ragged gasps, the battlefield blurring around them, their only focus the weakening king.
They paid no mind to the young orc standing solemnly beside the body of the fallen Orc Chief. The war, the enemies, the chaos—none of it mattered in that moment.
As they reached Renher's side, rain mixed with blood, soaking the mud beneath them. Alison fell to her knees, clutching Renher's cold, trembling hand.
"Renher, hold on!" Alison pleaded, voice breaking as she tightened her grip.
Renher coughed, blood flecking his lips, his once bright eyes dimming. "No… my time is done." His weak gaze shifted to Thymur. "You must protect the kingdom. The people… they need you both."
Thymur clenched his jaw, shaking his head. "No. You can't leave us like this! We can find a way—"
Renher gave a faint, weary smile. "No… the future… is in your hands now." His fingers trembled as he reached for Thymur's arm. "You must be their shield. And Alison… you must be their sword. Together… you will lead them to peace."
Alison's tears mixed with the relentless downpour. "I don't know if I can do this without you," she whispered.
Renher's grip, weak as it was, tightened for the briefest of moments. "You already have the strength. Believe… as I have believed in you."
His breathing grew shallower. "Promise me… both of you… that you will protect our people."
Thymur placed a firm hand on Renher's shoulder. "We swear it."
Alison, voice thick with grief, nodded. "We promise."
Renher let out a slow, relieved sigh. His expression softened, as if a great burden had finally been lifted. "Then the kingdom… is safe."
A sudden urgency flickered in his eyes. With the last remnants of his strength, he turned his head towards Thymur. "Call Horus… to my side."
Thymur wasted no time, his voice amplified by magic as he called for the bird. The sound carried across the field, lingering even as the rain threatened to drown it out.
From the distant sky, a shadow dove downward at incredible speed. Horus, his loyal companion, had seen the blood, the battlefield, and the stillness in Renher's form.
He had given everything, pushing his wings to their limit to reach his master in time.