"Everything ends. I just make it faster."
The ground screamed when the High Orcs landed.
Stone fractured outward in concentric rings, dust blasting into the air like smoke from a cannon. The impact alone flattened anything within thirty meters—trees snapped, corpses were reduced to red smears, and defensive wards flared desperately before collapsing.
Dova Nexus stood still.
Not because he was fearless.
But because moving too early meant dying.
Two World-Level High Orcs rose from the crater.
They were not like the common orcs soldiers fought on the frontier. These were ancient warforms—beings bred for extermination, shaped by eras of conflict where survival demanded dominance.
Each stood nearly five meters tall.
Their skin was dark green, layered with natural armor like overlapping plates. Veins glowed faintly red beneath the surface, pumping something thicker than blood. Their tusks were etched with runes—ritual scars marking centuries of conquest.
One carried a jagged great-axe fused to its arm.
The other wore no weapon.
It didn't need one.
Its fists alone could collapse buildings.
The air around them reeked of iron and old violence.
Dova exhaled slowly.
His hands trembled.
"Two," he muttered. "Figures."
High above, on the remains of a shattered spire, six figures observed in silence.
Eryndor stood with his arms folded, storm-blue eyes locked on the battlefield.
Kaelus leaned forward, wind stirring around his shoulders. "He's not a god candidate," he said quietly. "Why send him alone?"
Stellar's expression was unreadable, frost mist curling from her breath. "Because he insisted."
Darius' shadow stretched unnaturally long beneath his feet. "Because he knows something they don't."
Rein Clark said nothing.
His gaze was sharp.
Measuring.
And beside them stood Headmistress Seraphine Caldris, arms crossed, her aura contained—but barely.
"He's walking a razor's edge," she said. "Decay magic doesn't forgive mistakes."
Eryndor narrowed his eyes.
"No," he replied. "But it doesn't hesitate either."
Dova moved.
Not forward.
Sideways.
The moment he shifted, the axe-wielding orc roared and charged.
The ground split under its steps.
Dova sprinted—not with supernatural speed, but with perfected human efficiency. His movements were clean, precise, economical. Every step conserved momentum.
The axe came down—
Dova slid beneath it, the blade passing inches above his spine. He rolled, came up on one knee, and slapped his palm against the orc's calf.
For a split second—
Nothing happened.
Then the flesh collapsed inward, rotting in real time.
The orc howled as its leg buckled, muscle turning gray, bone crumbling like wet ash.
Decay magic wasn't flashy.
It didn't explode.
It ended things.
The second orc didn't hesitate.
It appeared behind Dova almost instantly—faster than something that size had any right to be—and swung its fist.
Dova twisted, barely avoiding a direct hit.
The shockwave alone sent him skidding across the ground, ribs screaming.
He coughed.
Blood splattered the dirt.
"Damn it," he muttered.
Dova Nexus had never been chosen.
No divine resonance.
No whispering gods.
No cosmic destiny.
He was born in the lower districts of Nohr's eastern continent, where magic was scarce and survival was a matter of stubbornness.
His decay affinity manifested early.
Too early.
At age eight, he touched his mother's hand during a fever.
Her skin turned gray in seconds.
By the time he realized what was happening—
She was gone.
The world didn't forgive him.
It feared him.
Villages drove him out.
Teachers refused him.
Even mages recoiled.
Until one man—an old martial artist with one arm—looked at him and said:
"If everything you touch dies, then learn how to touch."
That was how Dova learned to fight.
Not to overpower.
Not to dominate.
But to end things precisely.
The unarmed orc charged again.
Dova forced himself up.
His body was already screaming. Peak human strength meant limits—bones could break, muscles could tear, stamina could fail.
But his mind was steady.
He ducked low, slid between the orc's legs, and drove his elbow upward—hard.
Not to strike.
To make contact.
Decay surged.
The orc's abdomen hollowed out, organs collapsing into dust. It staggered—but didn't fall.
World-Level monsters didn't die easily.
The axe orc recovered, dragging its ruined leg forward, axe arm swinging in a brutal arc.
Dova leapt.
Too slow.
The axe clipped his shoulder.
Flesh tore.
Bone cracked.
Pain exploded white across his vision.
He hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of him.
Above, Kaelus swore.
"That's it—"
"No," Seraphine said sharply. "Watch."
Dova lay on his back, blood soaking into the dirt.
The orcs loomed.
Victory was seconds away.
He laughed.
Softly.
"Guess," he said, coughing, "this is where I end too, huh?"
He closed his eyes.
And remembered his teacher's voice.
Decay isn't destruction.
It's inevitability.
Dova sat up.
Slowly.
The orcs hesitated.
Something about his presence changed.
Decay magic spread outward—not violently, but calmly. The ground beneath him aged, cracks forming like wrinkles in stone.
He stood.
Hands open.
"Come on," he said. "I'm still here."
The unarmed orc struck first.
Dova stepped into the punch.
Let it hit.
The impact shattered his forearm.
But his hand was already pressed against the orc's chest.
Decay surged—deeper than before.
Not surface rot.
Not tissue collapse.
Time itself accelerated within the contact zone.
The orc's roar cut off as its entire torso aged a thousand years in seconds, armor flaking away, bones collapsing inward.
It fell.
Dead.
The axe orc roared in fury and raised its weapon overhead for a final blow.
Dova staggered forward.
Every step hurt.
He jumped—using the orc's axe handle as leverage—ran up its arm, and planted his palm against its skull.
"Everything," he whispered, "ends."
The head crumbled.
The body followed.
Silence fell.
Dova collapsed to one knee.
Breathing hard.
Alive.
Above him, the watchers descended.
Eryndor landed first, storm fading as he crouched beside Dova. "You good?"
Dova smirked weakly. "Define good."
Kaelus laughed, relief obvious. Stellar nodded once—respect. Rein studied him closely.
Seraphine stepped forward.
"You are not a god candidate," she said. "But you are dangerous."
Dova looked up at her.
"That's enough for me."
Eryndor smiled faintly.
In a world of gods—
Decay had proven it still mattered.
As healers rushed in, Dova stared at the sky.
He didn't want worship.
He didn't want divinity.
He just wanted one thing.
That when monsters came—
Someone like him would be there to end them.
And far away, unseen, something ancient took note.
Because even gods feared decay.