Garrick raised an eyebrow, a subtle smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. "And why is that?"
Vel'Grothar, standing firm with arms crossed, answered calmly but with cold certainty.
"A sneaky Creation plus a sneaky man?" He tilted his head.
"Doesn't end well for the other side. So, you gotta be the first to go… before you try anything funny."
Garrick sighed, shaking his head. "So I can't even negotiate to join your little party, huh?"
His voice dropped a tone, calm yet ominous. "Then I guess there's no choice left but to fight."
Without another word, he unsheathed his blade in one fluid motion, lunging toward Vel'Grothar, aiming straight for his eyes.
The slash came fast—sharp, ruthless—but Vel'Grothar leaned back, narrowly dodging it.
He retaliated immediately with a heavy swing of his fist, but Garrick vanished just as quickly, slipping from the strike like mist.
But Vel'Grothar wasn't finished.
Using the momentum, he grabbed a massive rock with his free hand and hurled it with astonishing speed.
The boulder soared like a cannonball, slamming directly into Garrick's body—and for a brief moment, it seemed like the illusionist was down.
Then the image shimmered.
A smirk flashed across Vel'Grothar's face before being wiped clean with rage. "You mother—" he snarled. "This is the last time you trick me!"
His eyes narrowed as he caught a glimpse of the real Garrick darting through the trees in the distance.
Vel'Grothar gave chase.
Within moments, he caught up, slamming Garrick to the ground. The force rattled the dirt, and Vel'Grothar raised his fist, ready to finish it.
But just before the strike could land, everything seemed to freeze—at least, for Garrick.
Flashes of memory hit him like lightning.
He was twelve again. Just a boy, sword in hand, standing among his so-called "brothers"
in a clearing, facing down a magic tiger—a feral beast with glowing horns.
They were supposed to ambush it, working together. But the tiger sensed them, turned with a roar, and pounced.
The others ran. Cowards.
But not Garrick.
He stood his ground. With nothing but a simple blade, he fought the beast alone.
Hours later, the others returned with the leader of the Hunters' Guild.
What they found was Garrick, bloodied but alive, sitting in silence with the severed head of the tiger beside him.
Three years later, when he turned fifteen, his Creation manifested.
Illusion.
While many envied it—thought of it as powerful, clever—Garrick didn't. It wasn't his style. Tricks.
Deception. Cowardly tactics. He wanted to win battles head-on, like he had that day in the clearing.
But as time passed, he adapted. Trained. Mastered it.
Became the very thing he once despised.
Now, as Vel'Grothar's fist came crashing down, Garrick thought of those boys again. Of Zayne. Of the moments that shaped him.
And then—blackness.
The fight was over.
Vel'Grothar exhaled, rising from Garrick's motionless form. His eyes drifted toward the witches. "Now… it's your turn."
He stepped forward, eyes locked on the group of guardians who had, in the meantime, downed several healing potions.
Sybil, Sylvara, and Saphyra stood tall, their wounds sealed, breathing steady. But Vel'Grothar remained unimpressed.
Sybil stepped forward, hands already working with quick precision. She tossed several small vials at him, each one glowing with a reddish hue.
Vel'Grothar didn't even flinch.
"We've been through this," he said, shrugging as the potions burst against his body. "Damage potions don't work on me."
Sybil gave a faint smile. "Are you sure those are all damage potions?"
A sharp hiss echoed through the air.
Vel'Grothar looked down in mild surprise as pieces of his armor began to corrode and fall away, eaten away by some unseen force.
"It's an acid potion," Sybil said, stepping back. "Doesn't hurt your body… but it sure makes your armor useless."
Still, Vel'Grothar didn't look fazed. "I've evolved past the need for armor."
In a blink, he appeared in front of her and sent her flying with a brutal kick.
She slammed into the dirt, groaning.
He raised his arm, preparing to finish her off—but before he could strike again, the other witches leapt in, grabbing Sybil and pulling her away.
They scattered with remarkable speed.
Vel'Grothar tried to give chase, but couldn't reach them in time.
Their speed was unnatural—enhanced by numerous speed potions.
They whirled around him like ghosts, launching weaponized potions and enchanted blades from every direction.
Frustration boiled within him.
With a roar, he slammed his fists into the ground.
The shockwave rippled across the battlefield, the tremor so intense that its vibrations could be felt by Menma, Annie, and Lunara miles away.
The earth cracked, throwing the witches off balance and slamming them to the ground.
Vel'Grothar didn't hesitate. He charged toward the closest group, aiming to crush them under his weight.
But just as he was about to strike—
Sylvara and Saphyra emerged from the smoke behind him, blades drawn, cutting through the air.
He blocked both attacks with his bare hands, sparks flying on impact, then hurled them away like ragdolls.
He began walking—slow, methodical—toward them as they struggled to stand.
And then the rampage began.
Vel'Grothar's fists moved like a storm, punching without pause, battering both Sylvara and Saphyra to the edge of unconsciousness.
Every blow sent shockwaves through the air. Their bodies trembled. They could barely stay upright.
The rest of the witches wanted to help—but the battlefield was consumed in thick smoke and rubble. They couldn't get through.
Meanwhile, Sybil stirred weakly from where she'd fallen.
Blood dripped from her temple. She clenched her teeth, trying to stand. "How… how are we supposed to beat a monster like this?"
Her mind flashed back—ten months ago, when they weren't just training their bodies, fighting with weapons, or mastering potions.
They had also been tasked with something else—something greater.
Innovation.
They had worked on developing new tools, new technology, something that could shift the odds. And they had succeeded.
Now… it was time to use it.
Back on the battlefield, the witches continued to hurl damage potions. Vel'Grothar remained unfazed, walking through them like they were raindrops.
Sybil gritted her teeth, looked to Sylvara and Saphyra, and said quietly, "It's time."
They nodded.
She raised her voice. "Lunara, Annie, all of you—get ready!"
Their voices crackled through the comms they had set up during training.
From across the battlefield, Lunara replied. "I'm still fighting the Skeleton Queen—but I'm winning. Borrow what you need."
That was all they needed to hear.
The dust settled. The smoke thinned.
Vel'Grothar stood in the center, panting slightly, muscles tense, fists bloodied.
But from the ashes—one figure slowly began to rise.
Something was coming.
Something that might finally bring the beast down.