Kuro clung to the Crown Horn King's back, Mosvmora buried deep between the creature's shoulder blades, aimed for the heart.

  The King laughed—a sound like boulders grinding in an avalanche. He rose to his full height, a mountain given terrible purpose, and turned his head at an angle no living thing should manage. His pitch-black eyes found Kuro.

  "LET'S PLAY."

  Kuro's jaw tightened. This was supposed to end. The realization cut deeper than any blade—the fight was only beginning.

  "Shit." He wrenched at Mosvmora's hilt, muscles screaming as he tried to free the blade before whatever came next arrived. The sword shifted, almost loose—

  A massive hand closed around his leg.

  The King's right arm had snaked beneath and around, moving with impossible speed for something so enormous. The granite fingers tightened. The King smiled, tusks gleaming, and whipped Kuro upward like a child's doll.

  The world spun. Sky. Ground. Sky.

  BAM.

  The earth exploded beneath Kuro's back. Wind rushed from his lungs. Pain detonated through his spine, his ribs, his skull. The impact cratered the ground, sending tremors rippling outward through stone and soil.

  Kuro lay motionless. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

  The King didn't wait. He lifted his right leg, a pillar of weathered stone and corded muscle, positioning it directly above Kuro's chest. About to crush him like an insect.

  WHOOOOOSH.

  A storm-wind tore across the battlefield—sudden, violent, carrying the scent of ozone and magic. The gale struck the King's flank with enough force to make even that geological frame falter. Just for a moment. Just a heartbeat.

  It was enough.

  Kuro's eyes snapped open. The suspended leg hung there for one precious second—

  Then crashed down like a meteor.

  The ground bucked and heaved, splitting under the impact, shock waves rolling out in concentric circles. But Kuro had already rolled clear, his body moving on pure instinct while his mind still struggled to catch up.

  The King's head turned, dissatisfaction etched into those inhuman features. He looked toward the source of the wind.

  Ella stood among the scattered bodies of Horned Orcs, her combat coat billowing, one hand extended. The civilians had fled. No more obstacles. She'd finally used her magic crystals.

  Their eyes met across the devastated battlefield and held.

  Then Ella moved. She paid no attention to the fallen orcs at her feet, her focus locked entirely on the King as she broke into a sprint.

  "DON'T INTERFERE."

  The King's command rolled across the battlefield like thunder, each syllable a physical presence. Ella's eyes widened—surprised but not deterred. Her stride didn't falter.

  The King raised one massive hand and whispered something in a language older than stone. An incantation. He let his hand fall in a gesture of finality.

  "NOW, WHERE WERE WE?"

  He turned back to Kuro, who was crawling away through rubble and ash, one arm clutching his ribs.

  What was that? Ella's mind raced even as her legs carried her forward, closing the distance.

  The King retrieved his tri-sword, the tripartite blade scraping against stone as he lifted it high. A tower about to fall. Thunder about to strike.

  He swung.

  Kuro rolled. The blade carved through earth where he'd been a heartbeat before.

  Again. The sword came seeking blood.

  Kuro dodged, his body screaming protest.

  Again. And again. And again.

  The strikes came in a cascading sequence—irregular, unpredictable, like lightning dancing across a storm-mad sky. Each impact erupted smoke and debris, destroying the pathway, obliterating surrounding houses, turning the world into a choking hellscape of dust and destruction.

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  Ella saw it unfold and pushed harder, her body blurring with speed—

  An arm shot up from the side.

  One of the fallen Horned Orcs. Its hand closed around her ankle with crushing force and impossible speed—speed it hadn't possessed before.

  Terror flashed across Ella's face. Not fear of being caught, but shock at how fast it had moved.

  She swung her blade in a practiced arc, the same motion that had cleaved through orc flesh dozens of times already. The edge bit into the creature's wrist and—

  Stopped.

  Stuck. Buried halfway through bone and sinew but unable to complete the cut.

  The orc hurled her.

  Ella yanked her sword free mid-flight, twisted her body in the air to control the trajectory, and triggered the wind crystal embedded in her crossguard. Air burst from the weapon like invisible blades, cushioning her landing and sending her sliding across broken cobblestones rather than crashing.

  She came up in a crouch and immediately sent another gale toward the orcs. The wind-blades carved through their ranks—but they didn't fall. Didn't die. They endured, bracing against the assault with newfound resilience.

  What's going on? How did they get this strong? The king, did he do something?

  Fenric had almost finished herding the last civilians into the tree line.

  Some cursed him as he guided them to safety.

  "Don't touch me, you filthy beast!"

  "I'll smell disgusting for months—"

  A child screamed, "He's going to eat me!" The mother clutched her daughter tighter—not from the orcs behind them, but from Fenric's hands.

  Others accepted his help in silence, too frightened to care about his bloodline.

  One old man even whispered, "Thank you," before disappearing into the trees.

  Anger and irritation warred in Fenric's chest, but beneath it, something else stirred. A question. Why be like them? Why mirror their hatred? And mostly, he was helping his friends. That was enough. That had to be enough.

  "Hey, Ella!" he shouted.

  She spun toward his voice.

  "Deal with them already! My partner needs you!"

  Partner? The word caught her off-guard. Like I'm not trying! She gritted her teeth. Just kill them and think later.

  The wind crystal in her crossguard shattered from overuse. Ella pulled another from her belt—red this time—and slotted it into place.

  The remaining eight orcs moved with coordinated precision now. They retrieved weapons from their fallen brothers and hurled them in unison—massive clubs, iron rods, spiked maces, all spinning through the air in a deadly barrage.

  Ella's sword ignited crimson.

  She leapt, blade trailing fire as she sliced through the projectiles mid-flight. Metal melted where her edge kissed it. Wood charred and split. She kicked off a falling, half-molten club, redirecting it with her boot straight into one orc's skull. The improvised projectile punched through bone and brain, metal still glowing as it melted through flesh.

  The orc groaned and collapsed.

  Still airborne, Ella positioned herself above the center of their formation and struck on the ground. Fire exploded outward in a perfect circle, flames washing over the orcs, tumbling them backward—but not killing them.

  She landed and immediately moved to capitalize, but the orcs began hammering the ground in synchronized rhythm. Dust and smoke erupted, a massive screen obscuring vision in every direction.

  Ella stopped mid-charge, one arm raised to shield her face. Damn it. They're showing their true intelligence now. She glanced at her sword. Did they realize I'm out of wind crystals? That I've only got one more major attack with the fire crystal?

  She peered into the churning smoke, trying to locate them by movement, by sound, by anything.

  The orcs began to dance.

  That's what it looked like—thunder moving through clouds. They attacked from the smoke, massive weapons swinging, then vanished before she could counter. Again and again. Seven of them in rotation, using smell and hearing to navigate the blind terrain while she struggled with human senses.

  Block. Evade. Block. Dodge.

  No time to kill. Only react.

  They struck simultaneously from different angles, creating more smoke with each impact, deepening the screen. Ella felt exhaustion creeping into her limbs. Magic crystals didn't drain the body directly, but they still took their toll—and she'd been fighting since before Kuro even arrived.

  She forced herself to focus. To watch. To learn. There had to be a pattern in how the smoke moved, how they—

  "To your left."

  She reacted on pure instinct, blade swinging left without thought. Her sword cleaved through an orc's weapon and leg in a single stroke. She gasped for air, peering through the haze. "Fenric?"

  "To your back."

  She sidestepped. Her blade found flesh—an orc's hand separated from its wrist. It fled groaning into the smoke.

  Ella moved forward and finished the one with the severed leg, her sword taking its head.

  Far from the smoke, Fenric stood with eyes closed and ears pricked forward, using the same tactics as the orcs—scent and sound—to guide Ella through the chaos she couldn't see.

  In the main battle, the Crown Horn King lowered his tri-sword after the relentless barrage, resting the massive blade across his shoulder. He waited patiently for the smoke to clear.

  Kuro stood in the settling dust.

  He looked like a corpse on its feet. Drenched in sweat and blood, trembling, using Mosvmora as a cane to keep himself upright. His dark eyes had gone pale—empty windows with no thought behind them. His breathing came in ragged, desperate pulls.

  The King watched, patient as stone, waiting for his prey to lift his sword for one final, glorious, disappointing death.

  Minutes crawled by.

  The smoke thinned.

  Kuro's breathing slowed. Steadied. His eyes regained a spark of life. He took one final, deliberate breath—and straightened. His weakened legs locked into place. His posture corrected. He lifted Mosvmora from the ground and held it at his side, ready.

  The King leaned forward, trying to see Kuro's face beneath the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat.

  "GIVEN UP, ARE WE? NOT EVEN TRYING TO GUARD? WHAT A DISAPPOINTMENT YOU HAVE BECOME."

  He lifted the tri-sword high. Sunlight caught the edge, three blades gleaming like the promise of annihilation.

  "NOW DIE."

  Ella burst from the smoke cloud into the open field and felt terror—pure, visceral terror—seize her heart. She looked toward Kuro's fight just in time to see the King's sword rising.

  He's going to die. No. No, no, no—not after I finally found him.

  She sprinted, but the orcs emerged from the smoke behind her, weapons raised, blocking her path.

  These annoying—

  Fenric stood on the ridge, trembling, watching it all unfold. His claws dug into his palms.

  He whispered, voice shaking but certain: "Kuro... I believe in you."