All hope had drained from Sareth.
More than fear, more than anger or resistance, all he wanted now was for death to come swiftly. Not like last time. Not with the slow, creeping cruelty of delay and powerlessness.
He closed his eyes, resigned, and braced himself.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
The creature's jagged arm was poised above him, the horn angled perfectly toward his chest. All that remained was the downward strike.
But then—
"DON'T YOU DARE!"
The voice boomed like a hammer shattering stone.
The horn stopped inches from Sareth's heart.
Even the forest trembled.
The monster's head jerked toward the voice—and Sareth opened his eyes, stunned.
Standing at the forest's edge was Zoran, fury radiating off him like heat from an inferno. His blood-red hair whipped around him—not wild, but strangely pristine, flowing in a wind that didn't touch the trees.
His eyes were bloodshot, glowing, burning.
He didn't just look angry.
He looked possessed.
"He looks like someone just tried to steal his soul and his lunch in the same breath," Sareth thought groggily.
The creature—no, the monster—hesitated. It could sense Zoran's aura. Powerful. Commanding. Dangerous.
It looked down at the broken human in its hand, now seemingly unworthy of attention, and made its choice.
With a casual, effortless toss, the monster hurled Sareth aside. His body tumbled through the air and hit the forest floor with a grunt. He coughed, rolled, and didn't move—half-conscious, bleeding, but alive.
Zoran stepped forward.
He recognized what this thing was. It wasn't a common beast. Not a goblin, not a troll, not some woodland spawn.
It was a Velkorrath.
One of the Wyrdborne.
Born not of nature—but of its death.
Long ago, in the heart of the Mother Forest, Syl-theerra, there grew the sacred Elarune Tree, said to be the source of divine life—the beating heart of the gods' first garden.
But one day, the gods turned their eyes elsewhere. Something terrible happened. The Elarune Tree was wounded—some say poisoned, others say betrayed. Its death rippled across the forest like a scream, and from the corpse of paradise, Velkorrath was born.
It was not summoned.
It was forged—from shattered guardian spirits, from the bones of druids who perished in defense, from the final, agonized breath of a dying forest.
Velkorrath was supposed to judge trespassers of impure intent.
But over time, its judgment became corruption.
It no longer listened.
It fed.
On pain.
On terror.
On the suffering of those foolish enough to step into the roots of its grave.
Zoran narrowed his eyes.
"So it wasn't just a myth."
He knew this thing could kill him if he wasn't careful.
But the fury in his chest outweighed his caution. No one touched his prey.
Without hesitation, he dove forward.
Two daggers flew from behind him, slicing through the air like shadows. Sareth hadn't even seen Zoran move—only felt the burst of wind as the blades flew.
But Velkorrath didn't even flinch.
Its arms shifted again, the horned limbs reshaping into hollow cylinders, like the ends of some ancient siege weapon. It raised them—and without moving its body, fired.
A branch.
A black, barbed projectile streaked through the air, red at the tip like it had been dipped in fresh blood. The same kind that pierced Sareth earlier.
But Zoran was ready.
He threw his arms forward—and from the thin air, a shield snapped into place. It gleamed with metallic luster, though its grain revealed it was not made of metal but a dense, enchanted wood. It shimmered faintly with arcane glyphs.
The branch struck it dead-on with a resounding THUNK. The shield rattled, but held. No cracks.
"That would've pierced my lungs if I wasn't careful," Zoran muttered, grinding his teeth.
The daggers he'd sent earlier had left only scratches on Velkorrath. That alone was enough to make him cautious.
They circled each other.
This was no skirmish. It was a test.
Probing.
Measuring.
The real battle was just beginning.
Velkorrath struck first.
It lunged, transforming its arms once more into long, spear-like appendages. It jabbed both forward, trying to impale Zoran through the chest.
But Zoran moved like water, dashing back just in time. His shield came up again, absorbing the force of the strike. The impact shaved thin lines off the outer edges, splinters flying—but it held.
Then came Zoran's response.
He raised his hand, and the air rippled.
From nothing, dozens of new daggers emerged—this time glowing deep purple, underlined with black veins that pulsed with a hungry light. They didn't just look magical.
They looked cursed.
They fired.
Faster than sound, they homed in on Velkorrath's chest. The monster reacted—finally.
Its bark-like skin twisted, morphing. Its chest split open like a tree hollow in reverse, revealing a dense network of sap-veins and twisted root-flesh beneath.
From its back, spiny, wooden plates grew outward and clamped over its vulnerable chest, forming an organic shield.
Most daggers were deflected—ricocheting into the forest floor with explosive force.
But one slipped through a gap.
It pierced deep into Velkorrath's left shoulder.
A hiss like cracking wood and a guttural roar echoed through the forest.
Velkorrath reeled.
It had been hurt.
That… had never happened. Not here. Not in its domain.
It raged.
Roots burst from the monster's feet, shooting into the ground. The bark across its torso twisted, and from its center a large root bulb grew—wrapping around its form like a dome.
Silence.
Then—
The ground erupted.
From every direction, thick roots shot out of the earth. They came not as single strikes but in waves, dozens upon dozens—sharp, serpentine, lashing out with incredible force.
Zoran cursed and jumped back, weaving, dodging, cutting with twin blades.
But he couldn't dodge everything.
Several slashes tore through his side, arms, and shoulder—shallow, but stinging. At first, he thought nothing of them.
Until the burning began.
The tips of the roots were coated in a dark red sap—poisonous, yes, but more than that. It carried a psychic toxin.
Zoran's eyes widened as his vision fractured.
Whispers.
Laughter.
His old master's voice screaming at him. The jeering faces of noble children who once looked down on him. The humiliations he endured. The betrayal. The loneliness.
He tried to shake it off—but the illusions sank deeper.
A loop of his worst moments playing on repeat.
He gritted his teeth, swaying on his feet, blood trickling from his nose.
Meanwhile, Sareth watched from behind a crumbled tree stump, jaw slack.
"What the hell am I watching…?"
This wasn't just a fight. It was a war between monsters.
The elegance, the brutality, the precision—each move, each turn, each reaction—it was all too calculated, too practiced. This wasn't rage.
It was experience.
Even through the fear, Sareth's eyes narrowed.
He paid special attention to Zoran—not just his attacks, but his control. The way he launched daggers mid-motion, always pointing before each throw, subtly adjusting the arc.
"He always gestures before activation," Sareth thought. "Always needs his hands. That's the first weakness I knew. But there's more…"
"Wait… he's only ever summoned daggers within a certain distance—like a radius. Never too far. Could that be the field's range?"
"And… he can't use Axis Field while actively shielding? Or is that a concentration issue? There's a pattern…"
He was thinking like a tactician now—driven not by survival, but strategy.
But before he could finish that thought, both combatants—
froze.
As if the world had pressed pause.
Zoran, mid-step, breathless, bloodied but standing.
Velkorrath, mid-lunge, its roots half-buried in the soil, frozen in place.
Time… had stopped.