Khargul sat atop his monstrous steed, his war axe resting heavily in his gauntleted grip. The warlord's crimson cloak billowed behind him as he took in the battlefield—scorched earth, broken bodies, and the defiant warriors standing in his path. Then, he roared.
A sound like thunder cracking the heavens. A beast's challenge that shook the desert itself. And in answer, the horde marched forward.
Thousands of Ashblood warriors advanced like a relentless tide, weapons raised, shields locking into formation. Sandstorm banners whipped against the wind, and the ground trembled beneath their charge.
Jhon exhaled slowly. The golden aura around him surged. The lion heads beside him bared their fangs, their spectral manes flowing like wildfire. Then—he unleashed them.
The air ignited as a storm of golden energy blasted forward, roaring across the battlefield. The spectral lions charged into the Ashblood ranks with an earth-shaking impact—shattering the front lines.
The first two dozen warriors were obliterated on impact. Their bodies flung into the sky like ragdolls. Weapons splintered, shields crumbled, and the once-marching horde was suddenly reeling in disarray.
And then—a shadow moved. Khaltar. With an effortless leap, he soared into the sky, his dark cloak billowing behind him. Midair, above the battlefield, he grinned and declared—"I am Stormborn, son of Khazir!"
The heavens trembled. The air around him shifted—no longer mere darkness, but something ancient, wild, and boundless. Not shadow. Not death. But the wind itself.
A wind so black, so fierce, it carried the whispers of the dead. And in the howling storm, Khaltar's voice rang like a war drum—"The blackest wind means death."
Then—he fell. A dark meteor plummeting from the sky, his twin axes gleaming with spectral fury. He crashed into the Ashblood ranks with the force of a hurricane. The impact was cataclysmic.
A shockwave of black wind exploded outward, scattering warriors like leaves in a storm. Men were hurled into the air, torn from their mounts, sent crashing into each other as if the gods themselves had hurled a tempest upon them.
In a matter of heartbeats, an entire warband of Ashbloods lay broken at Khaltar's feet. Jhon stood amidst the swirling dust, golden light still crackling around him. He turned to Khaltar, who stood amid the bodies of the fallen, his spectral wind still howling like a ghostly storm. A smirk tugged at Jhon's lips. "So, you've mastered your Mana too?"
Khaltar chuckled, rolling his shoulders as his dark wind coiled around him like living shadows. "Took me long enough. Wouldn't want you having all the fun."
Jhon grinned. "Then let's make this count."
Without another word, they launched forward. The battlefield exploded into chaos as Jhon and Khaltar tore through the Ashblood ranks.
Jhon's lion-headed aura roared with every slash of his blade, golden shockwaves ripping through armored warriors, shattering steel and bone alike. His strikes weren't just swordplay—they were like divine judgment, each movement backed by the raw power of a war god.
Khaltar was a storm given form, his movements a blur of black wind and flashing steel. He twisted and spun through the enemy lines, his twin axes carving through Ashblood armor like parchment. Whenever a warrior tried to strike him, the wind itself seemed to whisper a warning, guiding him away before the blade could find flesh.
Then—arrows rained from the cliffs. Moving like shadows upon the dunes, Sayf's warriors loosed their arrows with inhuman precision. The Ashbloods were heavily armored—stronger than any orcish warriors—but Sayf's men were trained killers.
Their arrows did not strike randomly. They found the gaps. A slit in the helmet. A weak seam beneath the armpit. The exposed flesh of a knee joint. One by one, Ashbloods fell mid-charge, their bodies collapsing like broken puppets.
Jhon and Khaltar kept pushing forward, a golden storm and a black hurricane ripping through the battlefield. The once-mighty Ashblood horde was no longer a relentless tide. It was breaking.
Jhon's golden aura surged as his sword cut through another Ashblood warrior, the lion's spectral jaws snapping down on an armored brute and tearing him apart.
Beside him, Khaltar moved like the storm itself, his twin axes carving through flesh and steel with effortless brutality. They fought as one—back to back, a golden inferno and a black hurricane, unstoppable. Yet more Ashblood warriors poured in.
A second wave—bigger, meaner. Khargul's warhorn bellowed across the battlefield, summoning fresh killers to the slaughter. The Ashblood Legion was endless, a crimson tide that refused to break. Jhon exhaled, sweat running down his brow. They needed more blades in the fight.
And that's when they came. Gorim, Grumli, and Varnic—the Dwarves—charged first. Gorim's warhammer crashed into an Ashblood shield wall,shattering it like brittle glass. His laughter boomed as he swung again, sending warriors flying.
Grumli was a whirlwind of steel, his twin daggers slicing throats and finding weak spots like a master butcher.
Varnic? He didn't waste time with weapons. He reached into his belt, uncorked a vial of alchemist's fire, and hurled it into the enemy ranks. A second later, an explosion ripped through the battlefield, sending burning Ashblood warriors screaming into the sand.
Then came the Silver Axes. Nadra, the youngest, moved first. She sprinted through the chaos, an arrow already nocked, her sharp eyes spotting a weak point in a towering Ashblood brute's armor. Thwip.
The arrow buried itself in his neck. The warrior gurgled, clutching at the wound, but Nadra had already loosed another shot, then another—each one finding its mark.
Arianne, the huntress, danced through the battlefield like a wraith. She vaulted over a fallen body, her twin blades flashing in the sunlight as she cut down two warriors in a single, fluid motion. Her strikes were swift, merciless—death given shape.
Rahotep, the veteran captain, fought like a man with nothing left to lose. His sword cleaved through Ashblood flesh, his shield absorbing brutal blows that would have shattered lesser men.
Hadeefa, the elder Silver Axe, planted her feet and held the line. When an Ashblood champion twice her size swung down at her with a war axe, she met the blow with her shield—and did not move an inch. Then she countered, her axe finding the soft flesh beneath his ribs.
And at the center of it all—Khaltar. His voice rang across the battlefield, a battle cry as he leapt back into the fight. "You call yourselves warriors? You fight for Khargul? Then bleed for him!"
His axes tore through the next wave of Ashbloods, the wind itself screaming as he carved a path of pure devastation. Together, they fought like demons unleashed. The golden lion, the black storm, the mad dwarves, and the Silver Axes.
The battlefield was a storm of blood and fury, but one pair of eyes burned brighter than the rest. Khargul. The Warlord of the Ashbloods. He stood atop the wreckage of his fallen warriors, his crimson cloak whipping in the desert wind. His armor was dark iron, battle-scarred yet unbroken. His war axe—a monstrous slab of obsidian and steel—rested upon his shoulder, pulsing with raw power.
Locked onto Khaltar. The son of Khazir. The Stormborn. The warrior who had shattered his vanguard. Khargul bared his fangs, then launched himself forward. The ground cracked beneath his feet as he exploded through the battlefield, closing the distance in an instant. His axe came down—Khaltar dodged, barely.
But the shockwave hit him like a battering ram. The force sent him flying, his body crashing through broken spears and corpses before skidding across the bloodstained sand. His breath caught in his chest, ribs screaming from the impact.
Khargul didn't hesitate. He turned, charging at Khaltar like a bull. But then—A golden blaze erupted between them. Jhon.
The lion's aura roared as Jhon met Khargul head-on, their blades clashing in a shockwave that split the earth beneath them. The sheer impact sent a ripple of force through the battlefield, kicking up dust and knocking nearby warriors off their feet.
Khargul snarled, pushing forward with brute strength. His axe screamed against Jhon's sword, sparks flying as raw power met unyielding might.
Jhon grinned, his golden aura flaring. "You hit hard, warlord. Let's see if you can take a hit."
Then—Jhon twisted his blade and struck. A golden arc of energy blasted Khargul backward, the warlord digging his heels into the sand, carving trenches as he skidded to a halt. His axe trembled in his grip, but he only smiled.
"Good." Khargul cracked his neck, his muscles coiling like a beast preparing to pounce. "I was hoping you wouldn't die too fast."
Jhon rolled his shoulders, his lion aura prowling around him. Khaltar staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. His eyes burned with defiance.
Jhon glanced at him. "Ready for round two?"
Khaltar spat to the side, gripping his axes. "Let's kill this bastard."
And then—They charged. The battlefield was a maelstrom of blood and steel. Ashblood warriors clashed against Sayf's assassins and the Silver Axes, their battle cries mixing with the dying screams of the fallen. Rahotep's blade was drenched in crimson as he rallied a counterattack, leading their battered forces into the chaos.
But not without cost. Hadeefa, the elder Silver Axe, fought on despite a deep gash across her shoulder. Nadra's bowstring snapped, forcing her to pick up a fallen warrior's sword, her young hands gripping the unfamiliar weapon tightly. Grumli, the dwarven rogue, was limping, an arrow embedded in his thigh. Even Sayf, with all his precision, had taken a slash across his cheek, blood dripping onto the sand.
The Ashbloods were relentless. And at the center of it all—Jhon and Khaltar vs. Khargul. The Warlord stood tall, a beast of a man wrapped in iron and death. His axe, slick with gore, swung with the weight of an avalanche, forcing Jhon and Khaltar onto the defensive.
He wasn't just strong. He was enhanced. Mana pulsed through his body, his muscles glowing with an eerie crimson light. His skin was as tough as steel, each strike barely leaving a mark. He fought like a juggernaut, a walking fortress of rage and brutality.
But Jhon and Khaltar—They were warriors, too. And they refused to fall. Jhon darted in, his golden aura flaring as he struck. His sword met Khargul's axe in a violent explosion of sparks. He twisted, dodging the retaliatory swing, and slammed his fist into Khargul's ribs.
A lion's roar echoed through the battlefield. For a moment, Jhon froze—his fists weren't just fists anymore. His knuckles burned, shifting—morphing into golden, spectral lion heads, massive like cesti forged by the gods themselves. The energy pulsed through his arms, each movement now carrying the raw power of a beast unleashed.
Khargul staggered. The first real hit. Jhon didn't waste it. He pressed forward, fists crashing into Khargul's chest like war hammers, each impact sending out shockwaves. Then—Khaltar caught up. His black wind, once chaotic and wild, turned silver-blue. Refined. Sharper. Quicker.
His eyes glowed as he became the storm itself, his body now flickering between reality and the cutting gales of a hurricane. "This is what it means to be Stormborn!" Khaltar roared, his voice merging with the wind.
Khargul swung wildly, but Khaltar was too fast now. He ducked, weaved, twisted—his twin axes flashing like lightning as he carved deep into Khargul's flesh, his newly refined wind aura slicing through even the warlord's enchanted skin.
Together, they attacked. Jhon's golden lion fists struck high, battering Khargul's chest and head. Khaltar's silver-blue wind sliced low, cutting through muscle and tendon. Khargul roared, stumbling—for the first time, the unbreakable warlord was breaking.
The battlefield seemed to slow. Sayf saw it and shouted a command. The assassins, the dwarves, the Silver Axes—they all fought harder, inspired by their leaders' struggle.
Rahotep smashed his shield into an Ashblood's skull. Arianne twirled through the enemy ranks, her silver axe severing limbs. Nadra, bleeding from a shallow cut, thrust her stolen sword into an Ashblood's throat.
But casualties mounted, too. Hadeefa collapsed to her knees, her wounds too deep to keep fighting. Grumli fell, his injured leg finally giving out as an Ashblood blade sank into his shoulder—only for Gorim to tackle the enemy, crushing the warrior beneath his hammer. It was hell.
And at the heart of it, Khargul refused to die. He swung wildly, his rage turning desperate. His axe caught Khaltar's side, sending him tumbling. Jhon caught Khaltar before he hit the ground, shielding him with his golden aura.
Khargul grinned through bloodied teeth. "You think you've won?" He spat, staggering back to his feet. "I am Khargul! I do not fall to weaklings!"
Jhon exhaled, his breath misting in the desert heat. He looked at Khaltar, who clutched his ribs but still smirked.
"Weaklings?" Khaltar scoffed, wiping blood from his lips. "I think your eyes are failing you, warlord."
Jhon cracked his knuckles, the lion heads on his fists snarling with raw power. Khaltar twirled his axes, the silver-blue wind howling like an unstoppable storm. They stepped forward—one last charge. And then—They struck together.