The first five orcs were just a warm-up. Nero's ominous red eyes glowed with a cold fire. He could feel it—the barrier inside him, the wall holding back his second star. It needed more. It needed battle. With a thought, his great wings of fire exploded from his back once more. He shot into the sky, a red streak against the sun. The hunt was on.
His prana sense tingled. Below, in a narrow, rocky gully, three Red Orcs were resting by a small stream. A perfect chance for a surprise attack. Nero didn't just dive. He became a meteor. He pulled his wings in, his body falling like a stone. At the last second, he flared his wings, stopping his fall with a thunderous WHOOSH that kicked up a storm of dust and leaves.
The orcs jumped up, grabbing their clubs.
Nero's sword was already moving.
"Flame Slash!" He didn't swing at them. He swung at the ground in front of them. A wave of fire rolled forward, not to burn, but to blind and separate them. As they stumbled back, shouting, he moved.
