The ground beneath Alison's boots shook with every impact. Steel struck against steel. Flesh tore. Voices rose in a cacophony of war—screams, shouts, commands, the guttural roars of beasts driven by bloodlust.
And in the center of it all, he fought.
His sword, heavy yet familiar, cleaved through an orc warrior's chest. Hot blood sprayed across his cheek, mingling with the sweat that already stung his eyes. He yanked the blade free with a grunt, but before he could breathe, another brute lunged at him with a cleaver the size of a man's torso.
Alison pivoted sharply, boots digging into mud slick with gore. The cleaver crashed down where he'd stood, the impact spraying earth and bone. With swift precision, he slashed upward. His blade found the orc's throat. A wet gurgle, a spurt of crimson—and the beast collapsed.
"Damn it," Alison muttered between clenched teeth, panting hard. "How many of you bastards are there?"
The answer came not in words, but in shadows.
Two titans moved through the melee, parting the battlefield like prowling beasts entering a slaughterhouse. They towered above their kin, their massive frames clad in armor of bone and steel, each step thundering against the earth. Orc Warlords.
The first carried a battle-axe so large it looked better suited to felling trees than men. The second bore a flail, its spiked iron ball swinging lazily as though eager to taste flesh. Their presence was suffocating, a weight that pressed upon the lungs and froze the heart. Around them, lesser orcs drew back, creating a ring—a makeshift arena amidst the chaos.
And Alison stood at its center.
"Perfect," he muttered, raising his blade. His voice dripped with bitter sarcasm. "Because one monster at a time would've been too easy."
The warlords grinned, tusks glistening, their guttural laughter booming like drums. The first one surged forward without warning, axe swinging downward in a brutal arc that split the air. Alison barely rolled aside, the blade biting into the ground where he had been. The impact left a crater, soil and blood spraying like shrapnel.
Before he could recover, the second warlord's flail came screaming toward him. Alison threw himself into a sideways dive. The spiked ball crashed into a fallen corpse instead, pulverizing it into a grotesque mess of blood and bone.
"By the gods," Alison hissed, pushing to his feet, chest heaving. "Do you two ever swing light?"
The warlords didn't answer. They pressed forward, relentless, their strikes coordinated with frightening precision. The axe carved wide arcs, forcing him back. The flail followed in ruthless rhythm, punishing every dodge with another sweeping strike.
It was like standing between a hammer and an anvil.
Every step, every motion demanded perfection. One mistake, one hesitation, and he would be crushed.
Alison's mind raced even as his body acted on instinct. They're not reckless. Not like the others. They're trained—disciplined. His respect for their prowess only made the danger sharper.
The first clash of steel rang out like a bell. Alison parried the axe head-on, sparks erupting as his blade skidded against its iron surface. The force rattled through his arms, threatening to wrench the weapon from his grasp. His muscles screamed in protest.
"Is that all you've got?" Alison spat through clenched teeth, forcing his legs to hold. He twisted, redirecting the axe downward, then drove his knee into the warlord's stomach. The beast barely flinched.
The second warlord struck at that moment, his flail snapping forward like a striking serpent. Alison jerked aside at the last instant, but the spiked chain grazed his shoulder. Pain tore through him, hot and sharp. Blood began to seep into his tunic.
He hissed but didn't falter.
"Alison!" a familiar voice cried. An archer from his unit loosed a volley of arrows toward the warlords. They clattered harmlessly against their armor, deflected as though they were little more than pebbles.
"Save your arrows!" Alison barked, never taking his eyes off his foes. "They'll do nothing here."
The warlords laughed again. One raised his axe in mock salute, as if acknowledging Alison's bravery. Then they attacked together.
It was a storm.
The axe descended in crushing blows, each one enough to cleave a man in half. The flail spun with terrifying momentum, its chain whistling through the air before smashing into the ground, spraying dirt and gore in geysers.
Alison weaved through them like a thread through a needle. His blade darted in quick, precise strikes—aiming at joints, gaps in armor, exposed flesh. He drew blood, shallow cuts here and there, but nothing decisive.
Every movement drained him further. His lungs burned. His arms trembled. Sweat mixed with blood, dripping into his eyes.
Still, he fought.
Still, he endured.
If I fall here, the line collapses.
He couldn't let that happen.
As if sensing his resolve, the warlords pressed harder. The axe swung high, the flail low, their arcs crossing in perfect timing. Alison leapt upward, twisting midair. The axe roared beneath his boots, the flail above his head. For a heartbeat he was suspended between death itself.
Then he landed hard, rolling, coming up with his blade ready. His chest rose and fell in ragged heaves.
"Renher better be doing something spectacular," he muttered under his breath, "because I'm not going to survive babysitting these two for long."
The axe warlord snarled and charged. Alison met him head-on. Their blades clashed, ringing like thunder. The force shoved Alison back several steps, boots skidding in the blood-soaked earth.
The flail came again, but this time Alison ducked beneath it, rolling forward and slashing at the warlord's thigh. The blade bit deep. A roar of pain split the battlefield as dark blood poured from the wound.
Alison's lips curled in a grim smile. "Finally."
The other warlord bellowed in fury, swinging his flail in a wide arc. Alison was too slow this time. The spiked ball crashed into his side, sending him flying. He hit the ground hard, the air ripped from his lungs. Pain flared white-hot through his ribs.
For a moment, the world blurred. He heard only the pounding of his own heart, the rush of blood in his ears.
But he forced himself up. Staggering, gasping, but upright. His sword trembled in his grasp, yet it remained steady where it mattered—its tip pointing at his foes.
"You'll… have to do better," he rasped, blood on his lips.
The warlords advanced.
And then—
"Captain!"
A lancer squad burst through the chaos, spears gleaming as they rammed into the orcs' flank. Alison exhaled sharply, relief mingling with resolve.
"About time you joined the party," he said hoarsely, shifting his stance.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," one of the lancers shot back, a grin flashing even in the heat of battle.
Alison chuckled darkly. "Let's give these bastards a proper welcome."
With renewed vigor, he surged forward once more. The clash resumed, fiercer than ever. Blood sprayed. Steel sang.
And Alison knew—this was far from over.