The streets of Galdor twisted like veins, pulsing with the restless energy of the city. Cries of vendors hawking their wares clashed with the distant clang of blacksmiths' hammers. Children darted between market stalls, laughter ringing in the air, while beggars sat hunched in the cold shadows. But Ragnar paid them no mind. His boots struck the cobbled path with purpose, the bounty clutched firmly in his hand. The name Vorrick Greaves was scrawled in dark ink, the faded parchment a grim reminder of justice long abandoned. Ragnar's jaw clenched. A man like that, one who thrived on the misery of others, deserved no luxury. Yet, as he neared the city's heart, the stench of greed thickened. Towering stone manors flanked the streets, their gilded gates gleaming in the midday sun. The laughter of the wealthy drifted from open balconies, while servants scurried through the shadows, unseen and unheard.
Then, Ragnar saw it.
Vorrick's estate loomed at the end of the lane — a mansion of polished marble, its arching windows framed in gold. Thick ivy crawled up the pristine white walls, almost daring to defile its splendour. The black iron gate stood ajar, as though inviting guests to marvel at the obscene display of wealth within. Statues of snarling beasts lined the path, their stone eyes watching, unblinking.
Ragnar slipped through the gate without hesitation. Every muscle in his body tensed beneath his cloak. He moved with the deliberate stride of a predator, each step silent against the polished stone. His gaze flicked upward.
Through the second-story window, behind sheer silk curtains, he saw him.
Vorrick Greaves stood in a sunlit chamber, his bloated figure draped in fine silk robes. Gold rings glinted on his stubby fingers as he lazily sipped from an ornate goblet. He was laughing, though no sound escaped the glass barrier. At his feet knelt a frail servant, trembling as she poured more wine. The disdain on Vorrick's face was unmistakable.
Ragnar's grip on the hilt of his great axe tightened.
This was it.
He coiled his legs, his heart pounding with anticipation. The world around him faded, the pulse of the city nothing but a distant thrum. He would bring Vorrick's reign to an end. One leap, one swing, that was all it would take.
But as he launched himself toward the window, a sudden force tore him from his path. A monstrous hand seized him mid-air, its fingers like iron bars. Ragnar barely had time to react before he was flung backward, crashing through a wooden cart with a deafening splinter. The air was knocked from his lungs as he rolled to a stop, dust and debris clouding his vision. Coughing, he struggled to his feet.
And then he saw him.
Drogul the Thunderfist.
The orc stood like a fortress, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the cobblestones. Jagged scars lined his green skin, each mark telling a story of battles fought and won. His bare chest heaved with slow, deliberate breaths, muscles coiling beneath flesh like steel cables. But it was his arms that drew Ragnar's gaze, thick and scarred, covered from shoulder to wrist in glowing runes. The symbols pulsed with faint, crackling light, etched directly into his skin like ancient wounds that never healed.
His hands, enormous and calloused, bore no weapons. He needed none. Along his knuckles, the flesh was twisted and gnarled, hardened from years of brutal combat. Where others carried steel, Drogul wielded only the force of his own strength and the crackling power that surged through his veins.
A deep, guttural laugh rumbled from Drogul's chest. His crimson eyes burned with wild delight, and his grin split wide, revealing thick, yellowed tusks. He didn't step forward to block Ragnar's path, no, he stood there. Waiting.
"You thought this would be easy, didn't you?" Devil's voice dropped with amusement, rough and thunderous. "Break down a door. Cut down a coward and leave with a small victory"
He spread his arms, the runes glowing a bright yellow as the air crackled around them.
"There will be no such victory for you here"
Ragnar spat dust from his mouth, his fingers curling into fists. The sting of his bruises was nothing compared to the rage burning in his chest. He straightened, meeting Drogul's glare with one of his own.
"Guess I'll just have to go though you"
"I would like to see you try small human" He slammed his fists together, the sound like distant thunder. "You came for blood? Then bleed!"
The ground beneath Drogul's feet seemed to tremble as the magic within him surged.
Drogul charged forward, the ground trembling beneath his colossal frame. Each step pounded the cobblestones like distant thunder, his bare fists clenched tightly and crackling with latent energy. The air itself seemed to hum with the force of his presence, the runes on his arms pulsing brighter as he closed the distance.
Ragnar braced himself. He had fought men before, killers, thieves, mercenaries, but nothing like this. The raw, unrelenting power that Drogul wielded was something primal. No armour. No weapons. Just flesh and force.
The orc's crimson eyes gleamed with savage joy as he swung his right fist in a devastating arc. The air whistled, the sheer speed and strength of the blow sending a rush of wind screaming past Ragnar's face. Even though the punch missed by mere inches, the force alone nearly knocked him off balance.
Too close.
But Ragnar didn't waste a moment. The instant Drogul's fist flew past, Ragnar's instincts took over. He twisted his body, his muscles surging as he brought his great axe down in a powerful, sweeping motion. The polished steel gleamed under the pale light, a blur of silver as it met flesh.
The axe struck true.
With a sickening thud, the blade bit deep into Drogul's forearm, sinking into the thick, scarred muscle. Blood burst forth, dark and rich, staining the runes that twisted along his skin. The impact reverberated through Ragnar's arms, the force of the blow enough to make even him stumble.
But Drogul didn't cry out.
No. He smiled.
A wicked grin spread across the orc's face, his tusks glinting in the sunlight. His crimson eyes burned brighter, wild and euphoric. Blood trickled down his arm in thick rivulets, but he didn't pull away. He held his ground, the axe still lodged within him. And as the pain coursed through his body, the runes etched into his flesh began to flicker.
Sparks danced along the intricate markings, bright as lightning against his green skin. The symbols pulsed faster, crackling with power as though feeding off his pain. The scent of ozone filled the air, sharp and biting. A low, guttural laugh rumbled from Drogul's chest, the sound laced with exhilaration.
"Yes…" he growled "That's it I want more"
Ragnar's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the axe. Whatever twisted power coursed through Drogul, it was waking now. And if the orc welcomed the pain, if it only made him stronger, then the real fight was only beginning.
A crackle split the air.
Electricity burst from Drogul's flesh, violent and erratic. The bright arcs of energy crawled along his engraved runes, surging up his arm and leaping toward the embedded axe. The polished steel acted as a conduit, the lightning racing through its shaft and straight into Ragnar's hands.
Agony struck him.
A searing jolt ripped through his muscles, locking his joints and forcing a ragged gasp from his throat. Every nerve screamed as the electricity coursed through his body, his vision flashing white with the sheer intensity. His legs buckled, and for a moment, the only sound he could register was the incessant crackling of raw power.
With a guttural cry, Ragnar tore his hands free. The axe remained lodged in Drogul's arm, blood mingling with the glowing sparks that danced across his skin. His palms smoked, the lingering sting of the current causing his fingers to twitch involuntarily.
But Drogul?
The orc stood tall, his chest heaving in satisfaction. He barely acknowledged the pain. The grin carved into his face grew wider, the runes along his arms pulsing with renewed energy. Droplets of blood sizzled as they met the currents still rippling from his flesh. With deliberate ease, he reached for the embedded weapon.
"Not bad," Drogul rumbled, his voice thick with pleasure. "But you'll have to do better than that."
He wrenched the axe free from his own flesh, the blade slick with his blood. Yet the moment it left his skin, a surge of lightning erupted along its edge, the weapon now charged with crackling blue energy. Sparks licked at the air around it, illuminating the darkened street in pulses of electric light.
Without hesitation, Drogul extended the axe back toward Ragnar.
"Here," hegrowled,hisgrintwistingintosomethingwild. "You'll need it."
Ragnar's chest rose and fell, his breaths laboured as he stared at the weapon. He could still feel the residual charge dancing across his fingertips. The air itself seemed to vibrate with static, and the hairs along his arms stood on end. Every instinct screamed at him to refuse, to back away from whatever twisted challenge Drogul was presenting.
But retreat wasn't an option.
Ragnar snatched the axe from Drogul's grasp, the steel humming beneath his fingers. The charged weapon pulsed with unnatural power, its weight somehow heavier — as though it carried the storm itself.
Drogul's laughter rang through the street. "Good. Now we play."
Without warning, the orc lunged.
His fists moved with terrifying speed, far faster than before. Each punch tore through the air like a hammer, but it wasn't the physical force Ragnar feared. With every swing, arcs of lightning leapt from Drogul's arms, streaking through the air like serpents. Even as Ragnar twisted and ducked, the bolts followed — striking him with violent bursts of energy.
A blast seared across his shoulder. Pain erupted, forcing a growl from his throat. He staggered, the lingering electricity burning beneath his skin. But there was no time to recover. Another punch, another bolt. It cracked past him, striking the cobblestones with a deafening boom, leaving blackened scorch marks in its wake.
He doesn't need to land a hit.
The realization struck Ragnar like a second blow. Drogul wasn't fighting to crush him with brute strength alone. The lightning made every swing deadly, forcing Ragnar to remain in constant motion. Even a near miss brought pain. Every step, every dodge, every moment of hesitation threatened to bring another surge of agony.
And through it all, Drogul laughed.
"Run, little warrior man!" The orc's voice boomed, his joy unrestrained. "Dance with the storm! Lets see how long you last!"
Drogul's grin never faltered. His scarred fists gleamed with surging electricity as he stalked forward, savouring every moment of the battle. Ragnar's muscles burned, the static lingering from each strike making his limbs heavy. But he kept moving — he had no choice. The orc's relentless assault gave him no room to breathe.
Then it came.
With terrifying speed, Drogul's arm twisted low, his monstrous frame coiling like a spring. The ground beneath his feet cracked, cobblestones splintering beneath the pressure of his shifting stance. Before Ragnar could react, the orc launched upward in a devastating uppercut.
The blow struck home.
A sickening crack echoed through the street as Drogul's fist connected with Ragnar's jaw. The force lifted him clean off the ground, his body twisting violently through the air. Blood spurted from his mouth, droplets scattering like crimson rain. For an agonizing moment, he hung suspended, the world spinning in a blur. His ears rang, the distant sounds of the city swallowed by the echo of the impact.
Then, he crashed.
Ragnar's body slammed into the cobblestones with a bone-rattling thud, the impact forcing the air from his lungs. Dust and debris erupted around him, the fractured stones beneath him now smeared with his blood. His vision blurred, his chest heaving as he desperately tried to pull in air. But before he could even attempt to rise, Drogul moved once more.
The orc's fists came down.
With a guttural roar, Drogul slammed both hands into the shattered ground. The runes along his arms burned brighter, pulsing with untamed power. The impact rippled through the earth, sending a shockwave of pure lightning racing across the cobblestones. The air itself crackled, glowing tendrils of energy twisting through the street like serpents unleashed.
The shockwave struck Ragnar.
A deafening crack exploded in his ears as the current tore through his body. Every nerve screamed in protest, his muscles convulsing uncontrollably. White-hot pain consumed him. He arched his back, writhing on the ruined ground, gasping as his lungs struggled to obey. The scent of scorched stone and burning hair filled the air.
But Drogul was not done.
Slowly, Ragnar forced his body to respond. His arms shook as he pressed his hands to the ground, each movement agonizing. His chest burned, his breathing ragged. Yet, as he lifted his gaze, he saw something unexpected.
Drogul wasn't advancing.
The orc stood tall, his crimson eyes gleaming with satisfaction. His massive chest heaved, but he showed no sign of exhaustion — only exhilaration. He lifted his scarred hands high above his head, the runes now glowing like molten veins. The storm answered his call. Thunder rumbled overhead, the air thick with anticipation.
And then, with a wicked grin, Drogul sliced through the air.
From the tip of his hand erupted a jagged blade of pure lightning. The crackling mass of energy surged forward, cutting through the air like a flash of light. The ground hissed where it passed, scorching everything in its wake.
Ragnar rolled to the side, the electric blade narrowly missing him. It crashed into the cobblestone with a violent explosion, sending shattered stone and dust flying. The impact left a glowing scar upon the earth, the charge lingering in the air.
But Drogul was already preparing another.
With a second motion, the orc sent another thunderous blade slicing toward him. Then another. And another. Each swing of his arm birthed a streak of lightning, relentless and unyielding. The air became a battlefield of electric fury.
Ragnar dodged the first with a desperate dive, the searing heat from the blade licking at his skin. The second forced him to stumble backward, shards of stone pelting his legs. The third nearly caught him, the force alone enough to send him skidding across the debris-strewn ground.
He barely had a moment to rise before another. Ragnar's body screamed for respite. His legs burned, his vision swam, and the taste of blood lingered on his tongue. But still, he moved. Dodging. Enduring. Waiting for the storm to pass.
The world around Ragnar was nothing but a blur of light and agony. His body screamed for him to stop, to collapse and surrender, but his will refused to yield. His chest heaved with every strained breath, and blood continued to stain his clothes and skin. Yet, despite the pain, a fire burned within him. The storm raged, and so did he.
His eyes locked onto Drogul, who stood like a towering figure in the midst of it all, crackling with power. The orc raised both hands high, the glow from his runes intensifying. The air itself seemed to twist in anticipation, the electric hum vibrating through Ragnar's bones.
"You want to see strength?" Drogul'svoice thundered. "Then witness the storm's wrath!"
With a mighty roar, Drogul brought both hands down in a sweeping motion. The sky darkened, and with a crack that shook the earth, a massive blade of lightning descended from above, cleaving through the air. It crackled with pure energy, streaking toward Ragnar like a bolt from the heavens, its jagged edge radiating with destructive power.
Time seemed to slow.
Ragnar stood firm, the weight of his axe heavy in his hands. His knuckles turned white, his grip tightening as he braced himself. Every instinct told him to retreat, but he couldn't. Not now.
He steeled himself, focusing on the oncoming storm. His eyes never left the blade of lightning as it descended with terrifying speed. The hairs on his arms stood on end, his muscles quivering under the sheer power of it.
Now.
With a roar of his own, Ragnar surged forward, his axe raised high. As the electric blade rushed toward him, he swung his axe with every ounce of strength he had left. The moment his weapon made contact, a deafening crack echoed through the air as Ragnar's axe cleaved through the blade of lightning with a precision that took even him by surprise. Sparks and fragments of lightning scattered in all directions, the remnants of the blade fizzling out as it shattered like glass.
Ragnar did not stop.
He was already moving, his feet pounding the ground, the familiar rhythm of battle pulsing through his veins. He could see Drogul now, the orc charging toward him with the same unrelenting intensity, his massive fists already poised to strike.
The first swing came fast, a blur of raw strength aimed to tear Ragnar in half. But Ragnar was ready. He ducked beneath the punch, feeling the wind of Drogul's fist rush over his head. The orc's follow-up came immediately, an elbow descending from above, crushing and brutal. Ragnar's instincts took over, and as Drogul's elbow neared, Ragnar swung his axe upward with a roar.
The blade met Drogul's arm in a violent clash, and Ragnar's strength was enough to do what seemed impossible. The great axe sliced through Drogul's flesh with a sickening sound, cleaving straight through the orc's hand. The blow was clean, cutting through bone and sinew, and the severed hand dropped to the ground with a thud, twitching and sparking with remnants of lightning.
Drogul howled in pain, but the orc was far from done. Despite the loss of his hand, his eyes blazed with fury. His remaining arm whipped toward Ragnar, but the orc was slower now, his movements more erratic as he struggled with the loss of his powerful weapon.
Ragnar's breath came in heavy gasps, his heart pounding in his chest, but he knew this was his chance. The orc was wounded, but he was not defeated. Ragnar had no intention of letting him recover.
The severed hand still flickered with energy, its runes glowing faintly as the electricity continued to leap from its edges. Ragnar's eyes flicked down at it briefly, before locking onto Drogul's face. There was no time to waste.
The battle had reached a fever pitch, both warriors locked in a brutal, desperate struggle. Drogul, his fury building like an unstoppable storm, launched himself at Ragnar with a roar, his outstretched hand aiming to seize him and crush him in his grip. But Ragnar, ever the warrior, swung his axe in a desperate arc to intercept the orc's attack.
Drogul, however, was faster. With an unnatural strength and speed, he caught the blade of Ragnar's axe in mid-swing, the steel grinding against his bare hands. The orc grinned through the bloodied teeth, twisting the axe out of Ragnar's hands with a savage strength. In a single fluid motion, he threw it aside, sending it skittering across the cobblestones, far out of Ragnar's reach.
Now weapon less, Ragnar found himself face to face with Drogul's monstrous form, towering over him. The orc's hand shot out like a sledgehammer, aiming to crush Ragnar beneath its weight. Ragnar's heart raced as he rolled to the side, barely evading the crushing blow. His body thudded against the cold stone as he scrambled to his feet.
His gaze shot across the battlefield, desperate for anything that could help him. His eyes fell on Drogul's severed hand, still twitching with a faint pulse of life, the runes glowing faintly on its palm. With no time to think, Ragnar dove for the hand, his fingers closing around the blood-soaked mass of flesh just as Drogul's massive body surged toward him.
Ragnar jumped, grasping the severed hand tightly. In one swift motion, he launched himself onto Drogul's back, clinging to the orc's flesh with the tenacity of a predator. Drogul roared in rage, thrashing violently, trying to scrape Ragnar off his back like an annoying flea. The orc slammed his body into walls, trying to crush Ragnar between his massive frame and the stone, but Ragnar held firm. His legs wrapped around Drogul's body, his arms locked onto the orc's back, refusing to be shaken off.
Desperation fuelled Ragnar's movements, and he used every ounce of his strength to strike Drogul's ears, slamming his palms hard against the orc's skull with a deafening crack. Drogul stumbled, his head ringing from the force of the blows. The orc's eyes glazed over, momentarily disoriented from the blinding pain.
That was when Ragnar saw it, the perfect opening. He reached forward, his fingers wrapping around Drogul's severed hand, and with a wild cry, he forced it against the orc's face. The runes on the severed hand flared to life, glowing with an intense brightness. Ragnar, with all his strength, squeezed the hand tight, activating the latent power within the runes.
A crackling, explosive burst of lightning erupted from the severed hand, coursing through the orc's face like a lightning storm unleashed. Drogul screamed in agony, his entire body writhing as the electricity crackled across his skin. The once powerful orc shook violently, his body seizing as the lightning fried the flesh, searing it from the inside out. Ragnar held the hand in place, feeding the power into Drogul, unwilling to let up.
The orc's muscles twitched uncontrollably, his face beginning to contort and blacken from the electrical burns. His mouth opened in a silent scream, but no sound came out, only the crackling of electricity. His eyes bulged as the power surged through him, his once-proud features becoming a charred mess of burnt flesh and bone.
Ragnar's muscles burned with the effort, but he didn't relent. He pressed harder, forcing Drogul to endure the full force of the thunder magic. Sparks of electricity arced across Drogul's ruined face, frying the skin and muscle beneath. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, and still, Ragnar held on, his hands steady, his focus unwavering.
Eventually, the runes on Drogul's severed hand began to dim, their energy fading as the orc's body convulsed one final time. The crackling lightning stopped, leaving only the sound of ragged breathing in the tense silence. Ragnar pulled the hand away, his fingers trembling from the exertion.
When he finally peeled the burnt, greenish skin from Drogul's face, what remained was a grotesque, charred mass of flesh. The orc's once-mighty visage was barely recognizable, his face a twisted ruin of blackened skin, scorched beyond recognition. The smell of charred remains was thick in the air, and the once-feared warrior now lay motionless, his body still.
Ragnar stood above him, panting heavily, blood trickling down his body. His heart raced, but his victory was palpable. He had faced down a beast, an unstoppable force, and emerged victorious. With Drogul finally defeated, the only sound was the crackling of the runes' faint glow as they flickered one last time before dying out.
The storm had passed.