Morning arrived with a crisp clarity, the sun cresting the jagged foothills in a blaze of gold that chased away the night's chill shadows. The air was fresh and biting, carrying the scent of dew-kissed grass and pine from the surrounding woods, mingled with the earthy dampness seeping from the mine's entrance. Goblins stirred from their alcoves and tents, rubbing sleep from their eyes, the soft murmurs of conversation growing into a buzz as word spread: the duel was today. The venue wasn't the open field everyone had assumed—a wide expanse where strategy and speed could play out under the sky. Instead, the Chieftess's four honor guards had set it up in secret during the night, transforming a restricted clearing just outside the mine into something far more confining.

The arena was a brutal construct, a circular cage of jagged iron fences hammered into the ground with heavy mallets that had echoed like distant thunder through the dark hours. The bars were thick as wrists, twisted with barbs that gleamed wickedly in the morning light, designed to tear flesh if anyone tried to climb or press against them. It measured no more than 15 meters in length and width, a cramped killing ground that limited movement to close-quarters savagery. The ground inside was raked flat, hard-packed dirt scattered crunched underfoot, offering poor traction for dodges or runs. The guards had worked in silence as they drove stakes deep into the earth with rhythmic grunts and the clang of metal on metal. No one had seen it until dawn; the goblins thought it would be an open field, where Byung could evade and outlast. This cage eliminated that—once closed, it was a death trap, forcing a direct clash with no room to breathe.

Goblins poured into the venue, streaming from the mine in a green tide, their footsteps a collective thud on the path leading to the clearing. The once-restricted area was now open, the barriers removed by the guards to allow spectators. They clustered around the fence, pressing close but not too close, the iron's cold bite a warning. Intimidation rippled through them like a chill wind—the cage looked like a beast's maw, ready to swallow fighters whole. Whispers spread: "That's not duel ground—that execution pen."

Fear mixed with excitement, the air humming with nervous energy, the scent of unwashed bodies and anticipation thick enough to taste.

Maui and Naruz arrived early, pushing through the crowd with their massive frames, goblins parting like water before a ship. They froze at the sight of the cage, Maui's green eyes narrowing in horror, Naruz's tusks grinding with a low rasp.

"Fifteen meters?" Maui muttered, her voice a deep rumble that cut through the murmurs.

"No way he can run in that. We're screwed. The plan was to dodge, wear her down. This... this forces a brawl."

Naruz nodded, her scarred face tightening. "She's caged him like an animal. No space to breathe." She glanced at Maui, noticing the subtle glow to her green skin, the loose way she carried herself despite the worry. Maui had gotten fucked the night before—hard, from the look of it.

A brief envy twisted in Naruz's gut; she wanted a taste too, the thought of Byung's new body making her flush. But she said nothing, focusing on the crisis.

Byung emerged from the mine shortly after, his final preparations complete. He had crafted a simple armor in the forges overnight—light plates of forged iron strapped to his forearms and thighs, designed for protection without sacrificing mobility. The metal gleamed dully, etched with nothing but swear for protection, but it was minimal, leaving his torso and head exposed. He couldn't fit into his old armor; the evolution had forced him to outgrow it. The goblins looked confused, murmuring.

"Why no full plate?"

"He not wear it protection?" But Byung ignored them, his golden eyes focused ahead. He spotted Naruz and Maui in the crowd and smiled—a calm, fearless curve of his lips that sent a ripple of hope through the spectators. No hint of fear, just quiet confidence.

The four honor guards stood at the arena's axes—north, south, east, west—like silent sentinels, their gray cloaks billowing slightly in the breeze, bone helms hiding their faces. They prevented any intervention, axes planted firmly in the ground, the blades catching the sun in wicked glints. The Chieftess was nowhere to be seen—yet.

Maui and Naruz exchanged worried glances as Byung stepped into the cage, the gate clanging shut behind him with a finality that made the crowd hush. The jagged fence loomed around him, barbs curling inward like claws ready to snag flesh.

Then she appeared.

The Chieftess walked into sight from the treeline, her presence hitting the crowd like a physical wave. She looked like a goddess descended from the sky—seven and a half feet of sculpted muscle and grace, her white hair cascading like a waterfall of snow, catching the sun in shimmering strands. Her red eyes scanned the arena with cold beauty, piercing and unyielding, like twin suns that burned rather than warmed. She wore only a white robe, the fabric thin and flowing, clinging to her curves in the breeze. Her nipples poked through the material, hard and prominent, drawing gasps from the crowd as the robe hinted at the fullness of her breasts—heavy and firm, swaying slightly with each step. The robe hugged her hips and thighs, accentuating the powerful swell of her buttocks, round and muscled, a sight that stirred lust in even the most disciplined. Whispers erupted: "Look her..." "Like warrior queen..."

But every lustful thought evaporated the moment she equipped her broadsword. One guard handed it to her with reverence, the massive blade—etched with the souls of those it had taken—settling into her grip like an extension of her arm.

The robe billowed as she swung it once, the air whistling, and the crowd fell silent, awe turning to fear. She stepped into the arena, the gate clanging shut, ready for the duel.

Byung faced her, his simple armor glinting, his new weapons at his side—the sword with its long reach and blunt tip, the bone daggers tucked in his belt. The tension was palpable, the air charged like before a storm.

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