-----Chapter 18: The Duel of Resolve-----
The battlefield stood frozen.
The distant echoes of steel, the dying cries of monsters, the labored breathing of knights all faded into nothingness.
Because in that moment, only two figures mattered.
Sylvian.
And the Beast.
It loomed before him—a grotesque fusion of wolf and orc, standing over three meters tall. Its body was a mass of rippled muscle, veins pulsing beneath thick, leathery skin. Its claws, each longer than a dagger, flexed with lethal precision.
Yet it was not slow.
It was not mindless.
Its movements were too calculated, too refined. Not like the monsters they had been fighting—this thing knew how to kill.
Its blurred red eyes locked onto Sylvian.
And then—
It moved.
A blur.
Sylvian barely saw it before it was already upon him.
---
Instinct alone saved him.
His sword came up just in time, the force of the Beast's claws colliding against the steel sending a shockwave through his arms.
The impact wasn't just powerful—it was suffocating.
His feet dug into the ground, trenches forming beneath his boots. His muscles screamed against the force.
Then—another attack.
The Beast spun, its leg whipping through the air like a hammer. Sylvian twisted—just barely dodging—but the sheer force of the wind ripped into his cloak, shredding it.
Too fast. Too fast.
He barely saw the next strike. A blur of claws. A flash of silver.
Sylvian ducked, dropping to one knee as the Beast's arm sliced through the space where his head had been.
He retaliated—blade flashing upward, aiming for the creature's ribs.
But the Beast moved like a shadow breaking apart.
It stepped back—so unnaturally fast that it seemed to vanish.
Sylvian's sword cut nothing but air.
Then—pain.
A blur of movement. A clawed fist crashed into his ribs.
His body rocketed backward. His vision blurred. Blood sprayed from his lips. His feet barely found balance before he collapsed.
The Beast did not charge.
It simply watched.
Waiting.
Studying.
---
The battlefield was not silent.
Knights who had been locked in their own fights stole glances toward the duel.
Aldric, his sword dripping with blood, barely dodged a tiger's swipe—his gaze locked on Sylvian. His grip tightened.
He resolved his heart, not of the war but of admiration. Distant flash of memories flew by, reminding him of the past.
Varen's greatsword sliced through a wolf's neck—his face unreadable, his sharp eyes tracking every movement. He had never seen Sylvian struggle before.
He had never seen the man who always faught in front of him struggle, bend his knees. But today the same man he admired was weakened. He cut past his enemy moving towards Sylvian, in hope of reaching before something happens.
Sofia, standing amidst her war priests, her robes streaked with dirt and blood, watched with a growing unease.
She had believed Sylvian was nothing more than a knight. A man who only knew blood.
But seeing him now—seeing him stand, fight, and bleed against something no human should withstand—
She realized.
He was more than that. He was not bleeding for survival but for those who have survived, those who have always looked at him like a leader and a person who brought them back from the darkness.
He was something else entirely.
---
Sylvian wiped the blood from his mouth.
His ribs ached—something cracked, something broken. His fingers tightened around his sword.
Pain burned through every nerve in his body. His breath was ragged. His vision swam.
But stopping was not an option.
He gritted his teeth and moved forward.
The Beast reacted instantly—a blur of motion, claws cutting through the air. Sylvian barely twisted his body in time, feeling the sharp wind rake past his face, leaving a burning sting on his cheek.
His muscles screamed. His ribs flared with agony. But he didn't stop.
His sword lashed out—a desperate, precise strike toward the Beast's ribs. But the creature was already gone—its speed unnatural, its movements sharp and merciless.
Each second was a battle. Each strike was survival.
Sylvian's hands were shaking. His legs faltered. But his will did not break.
His heart hammered.
This thing was beyond him.
He knew it. The knights watching knew it. Even the Beast knew it.
But Sylvian was not a man who knelt.
He took a deep breath. Calm. Steady.
Then, he stepped forward.
---
The Beast grinned.
Not an animal's snarl. Something worse. Something aware.
It lunged.
Sylvian met it head-on.
Steel clashed with flesh too strong, too hardened. Sparks flew. Claws scraped against metal, tearing against the edges of his armor.
Every strike was faster, heavier, deadlier.
Sylvian parried—countered—slashed—dodged. His mind forgot everything but the battle before him.
The Beast landed a hit—Sylvian's shoulder screamed in pain.
Sylvian's sword found flesh—the Beast's side split open, black blood spilling onto the ground.
A roar. A blur of movement.
They crashed against one another—two forces of nature, neither willing to yield.
Then—
A single opening.
Sylvian saw it.
The Beast lifted its claw—exposed, vulnerable.
Sylvian took his chance.
---
His boots dug into the dirt.
With everything left in his body, Sylvian launched himself into the air.
The Beast's eyes widened.
Sylvian's sword flashed downward.
A perfect, final strike—
Steel bit into flesh.
The Beast's throat split open.
But—
Not deep enough.
The Beast lunged.
Its claws ripped through Sylvian's chest.
Armor shattered.
Pain exploded through his body.
His feet hit the ground. His knees buckled. His sword almost slipped from his fingers.
His bones cracked—an awful sound that echoed across the battlefield.
Sylvian screamed.
Not in fear.
Not in weakness.
But in pure, agonized defiance.
His body was failing him.
His vision blurred.
The Beast still stood.
Sylvian's fingers tightened.
With one last, desperate swing, his blade seared across the Beast's neck.
The Beast froze.
Then—it fell.
And in the dying light, it looked at him.
Not with rage.
Not with hatred.
With glory. With hope.
And then—it was gone.
---
For a moment, the battlefield stood in stunned silence.
Then—the first cry.
A knight roared into the sky.
Then another.
Then another.
A war priest lifted his staff, crying out in triumph.
And soon, the entire battlefield erupted.
A victory cry. A declaration to the heavens that they had survived.
Sylvian stood amidst it all, sword dripping with blood.
Then—
"Commander!"
Varen's voice cut through the celebration.
Sylvian's body gave out.
He collapsed, bloodied, broken.
Aldric and Varen lunged forward.