The Mana Spring at Greyfell was a place of natural beauty. A stark contrast to the brutal purpose it was about to serve. A wide, circular basin.
The ground was covered in a carpet of soft, glowing, pale blue moss. In the center, a pool of water shimmered with a soft, internal luminescence.
The air hummed with a quiet, palpable energy. A place of life. Of magic. Of tranquility.
And standing on the far side of the pool, turning the sacred ground into a profane dueling arena, was Korgan.
He was a mountain. A walking, breathing mountain of scarred, battle-hardened muscle and grim, pragmatic intent. He stood at least seven feet tall. His bare, tattooed arms were as thick as tree trunks.
He wore a simple, functional suit of heavy, blackened plate armor. Dented and scarred, but never broken. Resting on his shoulder was his legendary weapon.
A two-handed greatsword so massive it looked more like a sharpened slab of iron than a blade. The Meteor-Forged Greatsword.
He was not alone. At the edge of the basin, a silent, menacing line of fifty of his elite Iron Vulture guards stood at attention. They were the witnesses. The honor guard. And the executioners.
Edward walked into the basin alone. He was a stark, almost laughable contrast to the mercenary king. A slender, shadowy figure. His dark, functional gear was designed for speed and silence. He held his own twin blades, the longsword, Regret, and the dagger, Resolve, in a low, ready stance.
The two leaders stood on opposite sides of the shimmering, magical pool.
Korgan let out a low, rumbling laugh. A sound like grinding stones. "So, the little ghost finally decides to show his face," he boomed. His voice was a gravelly, contemptuous roar. "I was beginning to think you were nothing but a bedtime story. I’m disappointed. I expected someone... bigger."
Edward didn’t reply. He just watched. His eyes were cold and analytical. His Soul Gaze was active. He saw the immense, overwhelming aura of Korgan’s life force.
A raging, crimson inferno of pure, physical power. He saw the man’s stats. Not as numbers. A qualitative, terrifying assessment.
[Strength: Overwhelming]
[Vitality: Unbreakable]
This was a battle of absolutes. An unstoppable force versus an uncatchable object.
Korgan, with a roar that shook the ground, charged. He was not a creature of subtlety. A living avalanche. His massive greatsword held high. He brought the blade down in a simple, vertical chop. A blow meant to cleave Edward in two.
Edward was a whisper on the wind. He was gone before the blade even began its descent. He took a single, explosive side-step. The massive greatsword slammed into the ground where he had just been.
Korgan was fast for a man his size. The speed of a charging bull. Edward’s was the speed of a striking viper.
Edward flowed around the mercenary lord. His twin blades were a blur. He was too close for the massive greatsword to be effective. He unleashed a flurry of a dozen lightning-fast strikes. A syncopated, deadly rhythm against the weak points of Korgan’s armor.
Sparks flew. The screech of his blades on Korgan’s blackened plate was a high-pitched, grating sound. But his attacks seemed to have no effect. The armor was too thick. The man inside it too resilient. Korgan simply grunted. More in annoyance than in pain. He spun. The sheer, explosive force of his turn was a weapon in itself.
Edward was forced to disengage. Leaping backward to avoid the wild, horizontal sweep. The fight became a deadly, repeating dance.
Korgan would unleash a devastating, earth-shattering blow. Edward would evade it with a hair’s breadth. Responding with a flurry of shallow, ineffective cuts before being forced to retreat.
It was a war of attrition. Korgan was trying to land a single, decisive, killing blow. Edward was trying to wear the mountain down, one tiny pebble at a time.
The minutes stretched on. A tense, brutal ballet of speed versus strength. Edward was landing dozens of blows. His blades left a web of shallow scars on Korgan’s armor. He had drawn blood. Minor cuts. Nothing. Paper cuts to a giant.
Korgan, in contrast, had not touched him. But the sheer, concussive force of his near-misses was a weapon in itself. The wind from his swings was a physical buffet.
"Stand still and fight me, you little gnat!" Korgan roared. His face was slick with sweat. His initial amusement had boiled away. Leaving a core of pure, frustrated rage. "Is this how you fight? By running and hiding like a coward?"
Edward, his own breathing now ragged, his muscles beginning to burn, finally spoke. His voice was a low, breathless, but utterly steady whisper. "No. This is how I hunt."
His words seemed to enrage Korgan further. The mercenary lord let out a final, furious roar. He changed his tactics. He was no longer just swinging his sword. He was using the environment.
He stomped his massive boot on the ground. The shockwave was a localized earthquake. He deliberately swung at rock formations. Sending showers of sharp, deadly shrapnel flying.
He was turning the dueling circle into a chaotic, unpredictable kill box. Trying to limit Edward’s one overwhelming advantage. His freedom of movement.
Edward was forced into a smaller and smaller area. The battlefield was now a treacherous landscape of broken stone. He dodged a swing. The rock beside him exploded. A sharp, fist-sized piece of crystal shrapnel caught him in the thigh. A deep, tearing gash.
He stumbled. His perfect, fluid rhythm was broken for a single, fatal second.
Korgan saw it. His eyes, which had been burning with a wild, unfocused rage, now sharpened. A cold, killer’s instinct.
He didn’t go for a sword strike. He moved with a shocking speed. He closed the distance in two, ground-shaking strides. And kicked. His massive, steel-shod boot slammed into Edward’s sword arm.
The sound was a sickening, wet snap. The pain was a supernova. Edward’s longsword flew from his numb, useless fingers. He was disarmed. He was wounded.
Korgan followed through with a powerful low-kick. It took out Edward’s injured leg. Edward cried out. He crashed to the ground. His world was a dizzying, pain-filled blur.
He was down. He was broken.
Korgan stood over him. A massive, triumphant silhouette against the shimmering light. He planted a heavy boot on Edward’s chest. Pinning him. He raised his colossal greatsword. Its tip aimed directly at Edward’s throat.
"You’re fast, boy," Korgan grunted. His voice was a low, victorious rumble. "I’ll give you that. You made me work for it."
He savored the moment. The look of absolute, final victory in his eyes.
"But in the end," he concluded, the words a final, brutal lesson, "strength is all that matters."
He began to bring the massive, meteor-forged blade down.
Edward looked up. His vision swam with pain. His arm was a useless, broken thing. He had no weapon. No escape. No options left.
And in that final, desperate moment, with the shadow of his own death falling over him, the last, tattered remnants of the man, the strategist, the duelist, were burned away. Leaving only the pure, undiluted, and utterly savage instinct of the predator. Nᴇw ɴovel chaptᴇrs are published on 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝⚑𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖⚑𝕟𝕖𝕥
His free left hand, which had been lying limp at his side, shot forward. His fingers, which had been human, elongated. The nails hardened and sharpened into the black, vicious, monstrous claws of his corrupted form.
He did not aim for the sword. He did not aim for the chest. He aimed for the one, soft, vulnerable piece of the mountain that was still, after all, just a man.
He aimed for his throat.