The deeper they ventured, the darker the forest grew—until it seemed that even the sun had bowed to the dominion of the towering trees. Beneath their feet, the soil was thick with mud and tangled roots, as though the earth itself sought to hinder their passage. Among those ancient tendrils, strange fungi sprouted, glowing with a soft, pulsing light. Tiny insects with crystalline wings danced through the air, their flickers like distant stars, flitting between colossal flowers that throbbed with ever-shifting hues, as if each blossom beat with a heart of its own.
"It's a living forest," murmured Azaros, her gaze fixed on a tree that resembled a slumbering beast of legend, its massive trunk clad in bark so thick it looked like the hide of a dragon. Above them, clusters of vines dangled like intrusive eyes, silently observing their passage. The birds here were no less strange—draped in dazzling reds, iridescent blues, and radiant greens, as if painted by a mad god's hand.
"This land is steeped in ancient magic," said Nentu. "A forest untouched by mankind—preserved in its purest form, whispering stories no soul has ever heard."
With every step, the forest changed. Transparent leaves shimmered as though feeding on an unseen light, and whispering shrubs shifted subtly, inching closer—as if drawn to their presence. It felt as though everything here possessed a sentient awareness, as though the forest itself were a single, vast mind watching them in silence.
Then... came the sound.
A low growl tore through the stillness, and Azaros froze. Her eyes locked on a creature slinking from the shadows—six legs ending in gleaming talons, an obsidian exoskeleton striped with venomous green, and mandibles twitching with a rhythmic menace.
"Do not provoke it," came Nentu's voice within her mind, sharp and deliberate. "It won't harm you unless it feels threatened."
Azaros watched, breath held, as the beast sniffed the air around her—then retreated into the shadows with the same ghostlike grace with which it had come. She let out a slow breath.
"I thought it was going to attack us."
They moved on in silence, surrounded by the heartbeat of the forest—a low, rhythmic pulse that seemed to rise from the roots themselves.
After a long march through the thicket, the forest suddenly opened into a strange, sacred clearing. There stood a single tree, vast beyond reckoning. Its trunk gleamed like silver beneath the muted light, and its deep violet leaves whispered like the breath of ancient spirits. Its roots stretched in every direction—some arching above ground like twisted bridges, others diving deep into the earth, cradling glowing fungi nestled in hollow crevices. The entire scene pulsed with a quiet vitality, as if the tree were breathing with the rhythm of a hidden river.
Azaros stepped forward, her hand brushing against the weathered bark. She whispered, afraid to disturb the stillness,
"This tree... it's not like the others."
Nentu's reply came deep and reverent.
"This is one of the Heart Trees—older than the earth itself. Sacred to the forest's guardians, it serves as a bridge between the land and the sky. It overflows with mana, feeding life into everything around it. Its luminous leaves and ancient roots maintain the forest's delicate balance. Each Heart Tree is a pulse—beating life into the world below."
Azaros spoke in a hushed tone.
"It reminds me of the Tree of Life from my homeland... though this one feels different. That tree was revered as a symbol of creation, the source of all beginnings."
Nentu nodded.
"Yes, they are alike. Both pulse with the energy that sustains life."
Azaros slowly withdrew her hand, casting a final glance at the sacred tree before turning to continue on.
The forest began to shift again. The dense trees gave way to scattered rocky hills, their slopes draped with creeping roots and trailing vines. The atmosphere changed—lighter, but filled with an unseen tension.
A whisper stirred within her mind.
"Something... is watching us."
Azaros halted, her eyes sweeping the rocks and ridges with wary precision.
"Nentu... are you certain?"
"Yes, Azaros," came the answer, unwavering and calm. The silence stretched, taut as a bowstring. Then Nentu's voice dropped, a whisper laced with warning.
"We are not alone. Be careful."
Azaros's voice rang out, slicing through the hush like a blade.
"Show yourselves! I know you're there. Face me—if you dare."
Nentu's reply was a cold breath within her mind.
"What are you doing? Yelling in this place is an invitation to disaster."
Azaros's answer was resolute.
"I'd rather see them in the light... than be stabbed in the back."
For a heartbeat, there was only stillness.
Then—movement.
From the shadows emerged towering shapes, silent as death, cloaked in a power that defied words.
With each step, they became clearer. Massive, lupine forms draped in coarse fur, their limbs corded with muscle. Their pelts were chaos made flesh—interwoven shades of gray, black, and deep brown. They moved with deliberate grace, like predators savoring the moment before the strike... or guardians testing the worth of those who had entered their domain.
Their faces were carved with savagery—long noses, yellowed fangs glinting beneath eyes ablaze with hatred. Their ears, elongated and alert, twitched at the faintest sound, as though even the breath of strangers could betray their presence. Armor made of leather and metal clung to their chests and shoulders, laced with jagged spikes—silent threats forged into their very attire. They bore blades as sharp as vengeance, hooked spears, and axes forged not for mercy but for finality. Each weapon bore its own scars, silent witnesses to battles waged and lives claimed without pause.
Nentu's voice came low and heavy with warning.
"The Wolfarians... they dwell within this forest. Those who trespass upon their soil uninvited... never leave as they came."
Azaros didn't blink. She met their stares with cold composure, her mind racing through a dozen outcomes at once. She showed no fear—because she couldn't afford its cost.
Then one of them stepped forward. He needed no words to declare his rank; his presence alone calmed the wind, as though the forest itself bowed to him. His fur was a deep, raven black, streaked with silver like trapped lightning, barely contained within his form. His eyes, golden and sharp, were not merely gazes—but judgments rendered before guilt was spoken. His armor was a masterpiece of blackened iron, etched with ancient runes. And in his hand, he carried a nightmare—an enormous black blade, longer than Azaros herself, its edges jagged as if its maker had not only wished it to kill, but to tear souls from flesh. Its hilt, wrapped in worn leather, ended in the snarling head of a wolf.
He stood before her, drawing in a slow breath, as if the air itself whispered her secrets to him. His nose twitched slightly, as though the scent he caught unraveled a story yet untold.
Nentu's voice slithered into her thoughts.
"Do not show fear."
Azaros inhaled deeply, eyes locked on his, her voice as steady as ice.
"I seek no quarrel, nor do I come to provoke. I ask only passage, nothing more. If you are guardians of this land, then let me cross without hindrance."
Some of the Wolfarians stirred at her words. One growled softly, another's fingers tightened on the hilt of his weapon. The leader, however, watched her in silence, as though trying to unearth whatever she dared to hide.
Above them, the clouds turned a dull gray, and the sky itself seemed to mourn what was about to unfold.
At last, in a voice like wind carving stone, he said,
"You seek to pass? Humans always seek to pass... and all they leave behind is ruin. The spirits of this earth still weep from your footsteps, and the blood spilled here has not yet dried."
He raised his eyes to hers, and his tone bore the weight of centuries steeped in pain and wrath.
"Our ancestors died defending this soil. Their screams still echo in the wind. Do you think I'll let another human defile it?"
The heaviness of his words pressed upon her, but her gaze did not waver.
"I am not like the others. I do not come bearing fire, nor do I wish to see your land undone. I'm merely a traveler, and safe passage is all I seek. If you believe I came here to fight, you are mistaken."
She stepped forward, a single measured stride. Her breath was calm, deliberate. This was no threat—only certainty.
"But if you force my hand... I will not run."
A low, rumbling laughter rippled among the pack, not joyous, but hungry—mocking.
The chieftain drew closer, his voice low and heavy as stone.
"Not like the others?"
He rolled the words around his tongue as though savoring them, then added, with bitter mockery,
"They all say that. Every human who's ever crossed this path has whispered the same—before loosing their arrows and lighting their fires."
His gaze lingered on her a moment longer, then he spoke slowly, as though uttering a truth carved into the marrow of the world.
"Humans never change... Even if you seem different now, you're merely a spark waiting for the wind—to become a blaze."
Azaros didn't answer right away. She looked at him in silence, as though peering through him into something deeper, something within.
"Beneath it all, humans remain... human," she whispered, bitterly.
She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and raised her head. Her voice rang out—an alloy of acceptance and sorrow.
"Perhaps you're right... Humans do err. They burn. They destroy. They take more than they give. They act out of greed... or fear... or hunger for power. But..."
Her voice softened, almost like a prayer offered into wind.
"Some build instead of break. Some sow hope, not ruin. Some seek peace—not conquest."
The chieftain tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, as though trying to see beyond her words.
"You carry their scent..." he said slowly, as though the truth itself curdled on his tongue.
"Their lies are in your blood. Do you think I cannot feel them? See them seep from your skin like a poisonous perfume?"
One of the Wolfarians stepped forward then, pointing his spear at her like a sentence not yet spoken.
"Can't you see, Commander?" he said, voice dripping with disdain.
"Look at her armor... She's dressed like a warrior. And warriors don't come here seeking peace."
He leaned in slightly, studying her as a predator studies prey, then added with a sly sneer,
"I'm certain she came to scout. Perhaps to search our lands for treasures. And once she finds them..."
He raised a brow, his tone vibrating with certainty.
"She'll return with an army of her kind—to bring ruin to our forest, just as her ancestors did. It always starts with one... A spy draped in peace."
The chieftain raised his hand slowly—a silent command that stilled the other. His eyes, however, never left Azaros. He didn't speak. He didn't move. His words, it seemed, were being forged within the furnace of his chest.
At last, with a voice deep and laced with danger, he said,
"You are no ordinary woman. That armor of yours speaks louder than the honeyed lies you wrap in your tongue."
Azaros exhaled slowly, as if measuring the moment. She lifted her chin just slightly, locking eyes with him.
"Speaking with you feels utterly pointless," said Azaros, her voice cold as the blade of a sword. "Your words are nothing but an attempt to stall what you all know is already coming. You won't let me walk out of here alive, will you?"
Her tone sharpened—like a challenge hurled into the heart of the coming storm.
"If you've already decided I'm your enemy, then let's be done with it. Spare me the drivel. Show me if you truly have the courage to follow through with your threats."
She stood tall, shoulders squared.
"This is what you wanted. Don't expect mercy from me."
Mocking laughter burst from the pack like wildfire, echoing through the hills and trees. The idea that a lone woman might defy them seemed too absurd to entertain—more a bad joke than a threat. Even their leader couldn't suppress a crooked grin as he slowly shook his head.
"And what will the little girl do?" he asked, his voice heavy with scorn.
But Azaros said nothing. Her silence was heavier than any insult—more suffocating than fear.
The wolfarian who had stepped forward earlier took a bold stride.
"I'll deal with her," he said, his voice decisive, then added with a hunger he didn't bother to hide, "Let me have the honor of killing her."
The leader glanced at him without a word, then gave a slow, frigid nod. "She's yours."
The wolfarian advanced with deliberate confidence, as if the earth itself parted before him. He stopped, then cast aside his spear with a theatrical gesture—less an insult than a taunt. His grin was no smile, but a shadow curling back to reveal fangs like pale ruin—mockery cloaked in menace.
"I won't need this… to end your life," he said lazily, like a predator toying with its prey before the kill.
Azaros stepped forward—an instinctive movement that surged from within her like a pulse of something too ancient to suppress. It wasn't a choice. It was nature.
Then came the voice—sharp as a slap of winter wind.
"Do not engage."
She froze, as if she'd collided with an invisible wall.
"Why?" she whispered, her words not a question but a protest clawing against a chain she never chose to wear. "Do I not have the right to defend myself?"
Nentu's voice was low and weighty with unspoken dread.
"This isn't about self-defense. I fear they may be… connected to someone who must never know we exist."
Azaros clenched her fists so tightly, she felt her joints grind.
"Are you serious, Nentu?" she hissed through gritted teeth. "You want me to just stand here… and let him drive his claws into my body?"
There was a brief hesitation—just a breath—but it was enough to carve a new hollow in her chest.
"Or perhaps… they'll torture you. Some monsters don't need to kill to enjoy themselves."
Azaros closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them again, burning.
"And you want me to endure that?" she laughed—a sharp, bitter sound. "No… not in this fragile human body. I suspect the first strike would shatter my bones."
Nentu's reply came gentler now.
"You'll survive it… if it comes. I'm here," she whispered, a vow sewn into the space between ribs. "I'll mend you afterward. I won't let you break… no matter the cost."
Azaros bit her lip, hard. Her mouth twisted in the shape of a confession she refused to speak.
"Easy for you to say," she murmured bitterly. "You're not the one who'll feel it. I'm the one who'll take the hits."
Her words fell like small stones into a bottomless well. She paused again, as if fighting off a bleeding inside her no one could see. Then, in a quiet, fractured voice, she added,
"I'm the one who'll suffer… alone."
Nentu's voice returned like a heavy night pressing down upon itself.
"I know. And I hate it more than you could ever imagine… but the world forces us to make choices we never wanted."
Azaros held her breath, then let it go like she was unshackling a chain wrapped tight around her throat.
"Fine… have it your way."
She stepped back once.
The wolfarian noticed—and smirked, head tilting slightly like a wolf studying prey that thinks it clever enough to escape.
"What's this? Planning to flee? Or waiting for someone to swoop in and save you?" he asked with mocking amusement.
She gave no answer.
Azaros whispered to herself, slowly, as if carving the words into her heart.
"If this goes badly… no force on this earth will stop me from striking back."
And Nentu replied,
"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."
The wolfarian snarled and took another step forward, his voice thick with cruelty and contempt.
"What's wrong? Cat got your tongue, little one?"
Azaros remained still—ice in human shape. Her gaze locked on him, unblinking and cold, as sharp as steel.
The fury began to creep, slow and venomous, across his savage features. His voice dipped deeper, roughened by rage, until it gained a tone that reeked of looming violence.
"I'll make the whole forest hear your screams," he growled, then lunged—his leg snapped sideways in a sudden kick aimed at her ribs, swift and sharp as a loosed arrow.
But Azaros moved before thought could catch up. Her body twisted, just half a step out of the strike's path. Her arm rose by instinct, intercepting the blow with a supple, fluid motion. The impact drove her back, just slightly, but she stood her ground. The pain was real—but so was the triumph of not falling.
"What are you doing?!" Nentu's voice cracked like a whip.
Azaros exhaled through clenched teeth, her voice defensive, as if apologizing for a reflex she could not suppress.
"My body moved on its own... to block the strike."
"Let him hit you!" Nentu's voice thundered through her, like a war drum before the charge.
"End this quickly. Or… do you enjoy the pain?"
Azaros bit down hard, forcing herself to cage the storm rising within her—rage warring against bitter wisdom.
"Fine. I'll try," she muttered.
Across from her, the wolfarian stood still, eyes fixed on her, astonishment barely veiled behind a wary gleam. He hadn't expected her to parry his blow. He hadn't expected her to remain standing.
Even the others had frozen in place, exchanging puzzled, silent glances.
The wolfarian let out a coarse breath, his tone stripped of mockery, heavy now with caution.
"Just as I thought… You're no wandering stray. You're a fighter."
Azaros lifted her shoulders slowly and tilted her head ever so slightly, as if selecting her words with care.
"Or maybe," she said, pausing—then added with a faint smirk that made no effort to hide the insult,
"Your kick… was weak."
Her words struck him like an open palm across a fevered cheek. The wolfarian's growl deepened, darker than before.
"Well done," came Nentu's voice, sharp as a drawn blade, laced with dry amusement.
"Your foolish tongue just made him eager to tear you apart. Prepare for the cost."
He charged. His fist drawn back, every muscle taut like the string of a bow stretched to the edge of snapping. His eyes didn't shine with thrill—they burned with blind hunger.
This time, Azaros didn't move. She stood like a wall.
The blow landed straight into her ribs, with the force to fell a tree. Pain detonated inside her like wildfire—snatching the air from her lungs, forcing a sharp gasp to her lips, choked by the warmth of blood. Her feet slipped back in the dirt, her shoulder trembled beneath the weight of agony. But she did not scream.
She wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand—defiant, clinging to life, though her body teetered on the brink. Slowly, she raised her head.
He didn't like that.
He had expected something else—collapse, tears, the groveling submission he'd seen so many times before. But she didn't give him any of that.
And so, with a snarl, he rushed again—his fist slammed into her face, snapping her head sideways. Her body tumbled across the earth like a broken doll flung by the wind.
Azaros remained sprawled on the ground, her limbs heavy as stone. Then, slowly, her fingers clawed at the soil—as if searching for unseen roots to anchor her. With a barely visible tremor, she pulled herself upward.
It wasn't defiance. It wasn't pride. Rising wasn't a choice—it was something older than pain, older than fear. It was her second nature.
And she rose.
"Stay down!" Nentu's voice rang out, tinged with something she had never exposed before—dread. A bitter blend of fear and helplessness.
But Azaros only murmured, her voice faint as charred paper.
"I was never taught to fall… My pride won't allow it."
The wolfarian roared again. With all his might, he kicked her in the chest.
The blow was not just pain—it was a declaration of slaughter.
She flew, weightless for a breath, before the earth caught her in its cruel embrace. Every grain of soil felt like a stone as it collided with her battered form. Blood pooled beneath her. Her breath was shattered glass—broken, jagged, and gasping. Every bone throbbed. Every wound cried. Every bruise spread.
Still, she moved.
Slowly. Desperately.
Her trembling hands pushed against the dirt.
"Damn your stubbornness!" Nentu's voice rose in a cry, but this time, it wasn't rage. It was fear—bare, unhidden.
"Keep this up… and you'll become a ruin that can never be mended."
Azaros spat blood from her mouth and rose to her feet, her legs trembling like branches caught in a winter storm. Yet she stood firm. Her eyes no longer held the usual spark of life, but something else—an ember of promise, one she had sworn to herself long ago.
And for a moment, even the Wolfarian seemed unsettled.
He stared at her, eyes widening with something akin to awe, then roared violently and charged. With both fists clenched and raised above his head, he brought them crashing down onto her back—a savage, crushing blow, like the hand of a mountain descending to obliterate whatever lay beneath.
Her body slammed into the earth with thunderous force, as if the ground itself cried out beneath her fall. The blow didn't merely shatter bones—it nearly tore her soul from its place.
This time… she didn't rise immediately.
"Don't get up," said Nentu, her voice trembling—for the first time since their journey began. "Please… stay down."
But Azaros was already struggling again.
"The blows... they hurt," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "This body… it's fragile… it can't take it."
The Wolfarian loomed over her, panting, his fists quivering. He stepped closer and bellowed—a mix of rage and something else, something colder, fear.
"Why won't you scream?!"
Laughter erupted around him.
"What's wrong, Gurnash?" mocked one of them, his tail flicking with scorn. "Can't even make a human cry?"
Another cackled, his voice slicing the air like a whip. "I thought we'd enjoy her wailing... she hasn't made a single sound."
Beneath her wounds… beneath the blood… beneath every broken bone… she didn't cry. She didn't beg. And she rose once more.
Gurnash stared at her as if his mind itself refused to accept what it saw.
"Why?" he howled, his voice now closer to a sob. "Why won't you scream?! Why won't you plead?! Why won't you give in?!"
He charged again, fists raining down on her—blow after blow. Her body staggered, bled, cracked… but she never screamed.
"Scream!" he roared, as if his voice had become his only weapon. "Cry! Beg!"
But Azaros, amid the pain and ruin, had sealed her lips by sheer will. Her breath was shallow, her eyes filled not with hope, but with defiance. And within her mind, for the first time, Nentu begged like a frightened child about to lose everything,
"Please… Azaros. Surrender. Just one cry. Let them think they've won."
Even as her breath came in gasps, even as blood traced lines down her skin, Azaros slowly lifted her head. In her eyes burned a fire that had not yet gone out.
"I swore I would never fall again," she whispered, as if reminding herself, not the world. "You might not understand this, Nentu… but I'd rather die than break that vow."
Nentu longed to speak—to intervene—to cast some final word that might halt this madness.
But Azaros silenced her with a voice low and blood-soaked, yet unshaken,
"Even if I tried to play your game…" she paused, breathing heavily, then continued, "there's something inside me… something deeper than pain, stronger than you, stronger than them… that won't let me. It stands between me and defeat."
She rose.
Slowly—not with weakness, but with the weight of a world pressing on her shoulders. Her body was wrecked, blood had painted the earth beneath her into a tapestry of agony… and yet, she stood.
Gurnash's eyes widened, and within their widening spread a chill like a wind slipping into his very bones. He looked as though he beheld a phantom not meant to exist… or a miracle the world had forbidden to return.
He whispered, voice emerging from some untouched depth—hoarse, raw, as if his throat had never known the sound of doubt,
"Impossible… who are you? What are you made of?"
Behind him, a snarl rumbled—brief but steeped in smoldering disdain, like it rose from the bottom of a river boiling with hatred.
It was the voice of Captain Darkthar—sharp, final, cracking through the air like a whip.
"End it. I'm done with this farce."
One of the warriors bent, picked up Gurnash's spear from the ground, and tossed it to him with practiced ease. Gurnash caught it as if it were an extension of himself—gripped with purpose, shaped for death.
He surged forward—not running, but approaching like a foregone fate.
And then, time itself slowed.
The voice rang out. Nentu's voice. But not as before—not confident, not commanding. It trembled. Frightened. Unsteady.
"Move, Azaros! If you don't… we die!"
But she didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't even whisper. Even her heart seemed… still.
"Move! For the love of all things, move!"
Gornash's steps grew louder. Each footfall struck the ground like a countdown to oblivion. And the spear gleamed—not as a weapon, but as the very edge of death.
"Azaros!" Nentu's voice broke, tearing like wings caught in a storm. "Please… move!"
But she stood unmoved—rock against the tide. The storm howled around her, yet she remained the unmoving center. A stillness not born of peace, but of choice.
The spear neared. It brushed the boundary between life and nothingness.
"I'm sorry! Forgive meeeeeeeeeee!"
The scream tore through Azaros' mind like a lightning flash cleaving night.
It was the cry of one who had glimpsed her end… and could do nothing to halt it.
The spear hurtled forward, slicing the air—only to miss. It plunged deep into the hill behind her, gouging stone with violent force.
A single gasp shattered the silence. Gornash halted. Frozen. He blinked slowly, as if time itself had betrayed him. For a moment, his vacant eyes searched for something… no longer there.
"Where? Where did she go?" he muttered, as if the question itself was too large for his voice.
Then he saw her—standing. Still. Composed. As if she had never fallen.
And in the very next breath, she moved—not a mere step, but a flicker. She was in front of him.
She clenched her fist—and struck.
A sharp gasp escaped him, torn between pain and disbelief. He staggered back. His body folded from the blow, his stance collapsed, and then he fell—slumped like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
The other Wolfarians stood frozen, their eyes wide with disbelief. For a fleeting heartbeat, silence ruled.
But silence never lasts long in battle.
They moved—eyes burning with newfound resolve, with hunger sharpened by shock.
"Attack!"
The roar rose from their throats like a storm unleashed. They surged forward like a flood, weapons promising to tear through anything in their path.
But Azaros, despite the blood and pain, moved—suddenly, violently—like a specter unbound. It wasn't just a step; it was defiance incarnate. A speed logic could not contain. A motion too fast for the human eye.
One of them lunged, sword arcing toward her head in a deadly sweep.
But Azaros bent backward, her spine arching with supernatural grace. The blade hissed past her face, singing the air. Before he could recover, she lifted her leg and struck his chest with explosive force. He flew, crashing into the trunk of a massive tree. The sound of his bones shattering rang out like a crack of thunder. He fell limp. Motionless.
For a heartbeat, everything stopped.
The Wolfarians who had been ready to charge exchanged quick glances—as if their minds struggled to process what had just transpired. But hesitation is a fleeting thing.
Two more came, coordinated like a tempest.
The axe fell from above. The sword aimed for her side.
But she danced.
A movement of precision and grace, she slid aside, the axe carving a crater into the earth where she'd stood. At that very moment, she spun toward the sword-bearer, seized his wrist in a sudden, predatory grip—tight as a beast's jaws.
A cry burst from his throat—sharp. Unexpected. Painful.
She raised her knee and struck the axe-bearer's leg with a force that shattered bone. The crack echoed like a whip across the clearing. He crumpled to the ground, wailing like a beast beneath a butcher's blade. Without pause, she twisted the sword-wielder's arm behind his back with a deadly torque; the sound of his bones snapping was like dry wood yielding to a storm. She kicked him with all her weight—he dropped, unmoving, broken.
Another Wolfarian gathered his courage, berating himself as he lunged forward in a desperate bid for revenge. His eyes sparked with fury, and every step he took toward her carried the weight of dread and wrath.
Yet Azaros did not flinch—not an inch—until he was close enough. In that final instant, she spun lightly and delivered a sharp punch to his jaw.
The blow sent him stumbling back, his body trembling violently as though the earth beneath his feet had buckled. For a moment, he seemed ready to resist, but his knees betrayed him. He collapsed slowly, softly, as if surrendering to something ancient. A groan escaped his lips, a blend of pain and disbelief. His hands crawled toward his swollen jaw while his body lay stretched on the ground, powerless to rise.
Azaros stood at the heart of the battlefield, breath heavy and ragged. Yet she remained upright, defiant—as if defeat had ceased to be an option. Around her, Wolfarian bodies were strewn like broken promises, groaning or utterly still.
"I didn't think… I could do this," she whispered. "Not after all those blows."
She paused, eyes drifting to the blood staining her hand. A faint smile tugged at her lips.
"Seems this body... hasn't betrayed me yet."
Nentu's voice answered—not with majesty, not with wisdom, nor with guidance—but in a quiet, human hush.
"I thought it was over. I believed, for a moment... we had lost."
Azaros cut her off, her gaze igniting with unwavering defiance.
"You thought I would surrender to death?"
She wiped the blood from her hand, then raised her head slowly, as if what she spoke was not mere speech—but oath.
"No. Not yet, Nentu. There are those waiting for my return... and I will not fail them."
Nentu fell silent for a heartbeat. When she spoke again, a shard of her old steel returned—but beneath it lurked a shadow no heart could miss.
"I fear this moment we now stand in... may open a door we'll one day wish had stayed shut."
Then came a breath, long and grave.
The commander had not stepped back, but doubt flickered in the eyes of his men.
He raised his gaze to his right arm—just a glance, but one that spoke volumes.
Then he advanced with calm, deliberate steps until he stood before her.
"Strange," he said in a voice smooth as silk. "Such will... a body that breaks but does not fall. And eyes... unblinking even in the face of terror."
He stared at her, his eyes void of pity or awe—only a chilling curiosity.
"I never thought a human could rise after so much pain, let alone... defy it."
A wry, confident smile curled his lips.
"I am Kazren. This forest is ours. And today... you will return to its soil."
Azaros lifted a brow, tilting her head slightly, as though weighing the arrogance in his voice.
"Soil, you say? Charming," she said lightly, though her tone hummed with razor-edged mockery.
"But there's one problem with your plan... I don't think I'm the kind that decomposes easily."
Kazren chuckled—a short, sharp sound.
"You..." he said slowly, as if choosing the word with the same care he'd give to choosing a blade.
"You truly are strange."
Then, with a tone poised between curiosity and scorn, he added,
"You'll be begging soon enough."
She met his gaze without blinking.
"Begging? That word doesn't exist in my vocabulary."
Then she smiled, slow and dangerous, her eyes glinting with wicked humor.
"But I might use it... in your eulogy."
Kazren's expression soured. The glint of confidence drained from his eyes.
He surged forward, his spear slicing through the air with lethal intent.
Their clash became a dance of shadows.
The spear lashed out with unrelenting savagery, but her body spun and twisted—always just beyond its reach.
Every strike Kazren made came faster, harder... yet not once did he touch her.
Azaros moved like wind incarnate, slipping between death's fingers as stars slip through the night sky.
But he did not relent—his assault became a blur, strike after strike, stabs that came like a swarm of blades unleashed all at once.
She evaded them with grace, but her breath grew heavier, her muscles beginning to strain beneath the effort.
And then—blood.
Pain threaded its way into her limbs. Some of his blows had pierced her defenses, carving wounds where her armor left skin exposed.
The blood dripped, red and gleaming—but instead of slowing her, it lit a fire within.
She staggered—but did not fall. She bled—but did not retreat.
Kazren thought victory was within his grasp.
And then the unthinkable happened.
Confident in his speed, he lunged once more—his spear arcing wide with brutal force.
But in the very next breath, her hands moved—guided not by thought, but by instinct, as if she had felt the weapon before it arrived.
She caught the spear. Her grip was iron. She clung to it as if it were an extension of her own soul.
And with a sudden, furious pull—she tore it from his grasp.
Kazren froze.
His eyes widened in disbelief—as if the very fabric of his world had turned against him.
But she gave him no time to comprehend. In a single, fluid motion, she raised the spear and shattered it across her knee.
CRAAAAACK!
The crack of splintering wood echoed like thunder across the battlefield.
Every gaze fell upon the broken weapon… and the warrior now left unarmed.
And unmoored.
She stood before him, breath heaving, still regaining her balance from the storm they had just unleashed. Then, in a voice steady and low, like the passing of a sentence no mortal could appeal, she said,
"Your part is over."
Kazren staggered back, eyes still wide with confusion.
"You…"
The word barely escaped his lips before Azaros was already upon him.
Her fist crashed into his chest—an unthinkable blow that sent him collapsing to the earth, airless and stunned.
His expression froze, pale and stricken, as his mind raced to grasp how swiftly the tide had turned.
Pain and disorientation were etched across every corner of his face.
But there was no time to grasp.
No time to plead.
In a flash of feral motion, she lunged and tore off his left arm without mercy.
CRRRRRRACK!
The sound of bones breaking, tendons tearing, blood erupting—it exploded into the air like a hellish symphony.
Kazrin's scream ripped through the silence, primal and raw, more than pain—
It was the cry of realization.
He was finished.
His trembling hand shot to the wound, desperately trying to contain the gushing torrent of blood.
But his fingers were useless, flailing against inevitability, as though trying to trap sand in a broken fist.
He looked up at her, face warped in a tragic blend of agony and disbelief.
She lifted his severed arm, studied it for a fleeting moment, and tossed it to the ground beside him like one might discard a burden no longer worth carrying.
"This is the price," she said, her voice low—yet edged like a blade sliding into flesh—
"For every wound you dared to carve into me."
"This… this isn't the Azaros I expected to see," came Nentu's voice in her mind, soft but layered with unease and reproach.
"You know… I never thought you capable of such cruelty."
"Oh, Nentu…" whispered Azaros, struggling to steady her breath, her hand trembling slightly as she tightened her grip.
"Sometimes… the world demands things of us we'd never choose.
This isn't a choice. It's necessity."
She lifted her chin.
"That Wolfarian… he wouldn't have stopped. No warning. No reason.
It was strike with brutality—or lie broken where he now falls."
She ran her fingers along the wounds etched into her skin by battle, then turned—her gaze locking on the group's commander who watched in silence, unreadable.
Drakthar's eyes—cold, analytical—swept over Kazrin's crumpled form with no flicker of sympathy. No sadness.
Only acknowledgment.
Something had been lost.
His grip tightened around his sword, thoughts buried behind a mask of impossible calm.
In the brutality of this world, moments like these were not rare…
They were inevitable.
"You're no ordinary being," Drakthar muttered, voice hoarse, like a wolf growling in the stillness of the forest.
"You fight like a savage beast."
He studied her the way predators study prey—with patience and intent.
Then he stepped forward, each stride heavy enough to tremble the earth beneath it.
His sheer presence consumed the space around him, as if the very air drew tight in his wake.
"I am Drakthar," he said, voice laced with a threat rooted deep in the marrow of his tone.
"And I do not battle phantoms. What is your name?"
Azaros met his gaze—eyes glacial, like the edge of a honed blade.
She didn't blink.
"I don't give my name to the dead," she said, voice calm but cutting through the hush like a hidden dagger.
For a moment, Drakthar's eyes flickered.
Then a twisted smile curled upon his lips—slow, like something rising from the dark.
And he laughed.
A deep, hollow sound that echoed through the trees, sharing secrets with the shadows.
"Bold words," he murmured, voice soaked in cruel amusement.
"I like that.
It's been a long time since I faced such nerve."
His hand closed around the hilt of his massive sword.
"At last… a foe worthy of my full strength," he said, voice like war drums rolling before the storm.
Azaros stood tall—yet her grip trembled, her arm shivering beneath the weight of exhaustion.
Her breaths came in labored bursts, sweat tracing rivulets down her face.
She bit her lip, her muscles shaking with a strange, inner quake—
As though every fiber in her body screamed in protest, aflame with weariness.
Slowly, she raised her trembling hand to her chest, trying to reclaim the rhythm of her breath.
"I must end this fight. Now. Without mercy," said Azaros.
She planted her foot into the ground with force, propelling her body upward with a resolve that burst like a tempest. Her arm extended—fingers clenched—as though seizing the very air, reshaping it with unyielding will. She was far from collapse. Not now.
Suddenly, Drakthar surged forward. His sword rose high, as if to rend the heavens before the earth, then came crashing down upon her with a force that seemed destined to split the world itself.
The blade sang through the air, its descent swift—lethal.
But Azaros moved.
With a sudden, razor-sharp motion, she thrust out her left hand and caught the sword.
The impact exploded like a volcanic roar. Her feet sank violently into the soil, and the ground beneath her cried out in a deep, fractured groan. Cracks shot outward in frantic lines, forming a ruptured ring as if the very earth protested the violence it bore. Debris flared like sparks. Dust surged upward, choking the breath, while sunlight scattered across flying shards of stone, turning them into scattered gems. The air quivered. A pressure wave unseen swept through the battlefield, stirring dead leaves into a swirling dance before they dropped, silent, upon the split earth.
Drakthar did not move. He didn't need to.
His wide eyes said what words could not,
Shock. Disbelief. Rage, smoldering beneath the surface.
Azaros stood like a mountain braced against the storm.
Then, in that moment, Nentu revealed her teeth—gleaming like blades—before she lunged without hesitation and sank her spectral jaws into the sword. The sound of metal breaking filled the horizon.
Drakthar stepped back—just once. The astonishment in his eyes was undeniable, though his expression held like a mask of stone.
But before he could regain his stance, Azaros struck.
Her right hand moved like lightning. The punch—driven by force both divine and honed—tore through the warlord's body with devastating precision.
The sound of bones breaking, flesh tearing—the air trembled with a noise that was more than pain. It was a declaration of ending.
His mouth opened in a scream that never came. His eyes locked on the ruin carved into his abdomen. His mighty frame shuddered.
"How...?" he gasped, voice choked with agony and disbelief. "How could a mere human...?"
The question fell into the air, unanswered.
Drakthar collapsed—dead.
The warlord who had sown terror into the hearts of many now lay broken, his shattered sword beside him, a symbol of his fall.
Silence swept the field.
The remaining Wolfarian warriors stood frozen, eyes wide with dread, as though their fighting spirit had crumbled with the fall of their commander. Amid the chaos, Kazren lay on the ground—body battered, breath shallow.
The battlefield, which had burned with furious flame only moments before, was now cold and quiet, a grim witness to the ferocity that had just unfolded.