The rain hammered down in violent sheets, drowning the world in sound. Thunder rolled through the clouds, shaking the earth beneath their feet. For a brief second, the battlefield stood frozen. The horde of orcs locked in place—waiting

Then the roar came.

An avalanche of bodies surged forward. Berserkers in the front, captains driving the momentum behind, mages cloaked in shadow near the rear. A living machine of war.

At the center of it all, Luke stood alone beneath the storm.

Soaked to the bone. Muscles tense. Breath steady.

His hands tightened around the hilts of his kukris—not from fear, but from the brutal focus that came when survival was balanced on the edge of a blade.

"Seems like the hate between us is mutual," he muttered, stepping forward.

The first step was his.

A shadow sprinting into the flood.

And right behind him, slipping out from the mist like a summoned phantom, Charlie burst free. Her armored frame cut through the downpour, sword already swinging as chains of spectral light unraveled around her.

The clash was instant.

An orc lunged. Luke caught the wrist, twisted until bone snapped, then spun low, dragging the orc's own momentum into the next target. Bodies collided, folding under the weight of their armor.

Another came from behind—too slow.

Luke vaulted skyward, Spider Leggings firing, cloak flaring open midair. Dozens of knives split from his hands, mirrors of steel scattering in every direction.

By the time he landed, an orc captain lay beneath him—headless.

More closed in. He vanished before their blades even hit the ground.

System prompts flickered in his vision.

[Demonic Blade Dance – Activated]

[Mimic Dancer – Activated]

A second figure stepped beside him. An echo of himself. A perfect afterimage.

Together, they moved like one. Spinning, striking, vanishing between the cracks in the enemy's formation. One attack flowed into the next—an endless rhythm of cuts, counters, and lethal precision.

A warhammer swung wide, lightning arcing along its metal. Luke pivoted under the strike, slid inside the captain's guard, and drove both blades into the throat—clean, efficient.

The orc toppled before the body even realized it was dead.

His eyes swept the field.

No time. No breathing room.

Charlie was a juggernaut. Her chains lashed out like living predators, dragging orcs from the fringes of the melee and crushing them under sheer force. Her sword cut through anything that slipped past the barriers—unrelenting, tireless.

Above the screams, the crack of spellwork shattered the air.

Mage fire.

Luke shifted, sprinting toward the rooftops. Stone spikes exploded beneath his feet. Fireballs detonated around him.

None touched him.

The first mage collapsed before his mouth could finish the chant, a kukri buried deep under his jaw.

The second tried to flee. Luke was faster. He hit from the side, driving his knee into the ribs, spun behind, and opened the spine with a single slash.

The third never saw him coming.

A blade flew from the rooftop, punched through his neck, and pinned him to the wall like a piece of meat.

Three down. Barely four seconds passed.

By the time the bodies hit the ground, Luke had already pivoted toward the next threat—a captain storming forward, fists clenched, plates of metal bolted onto bare muscle.

The first punch came heavy. Luke caught it mid-swing, feet sliding against the wet stone, but he held. Countered with a short elbow to the throat, then another strike straight into the solar plexus.

The orc reeled.

Luke didn't let him breathe.

Another knee. A hook across the jaw. Then a step forward—close range—both kukris drove straight into the gap between shoulder and chest plate. The captain collapsed without a sound.

No pause. More coming.

Luke slid under the wide arc of the swing, twisted his body fluidly, and caught the orc by the leg mid-charge. One brutal pivot of his hips sent the creature hurtling like a wrecking ball into the advancing line of berserkers. Bone met bone. Bodies collapsed in a tangle of limbs and splintered armor.

Momentum carried him forward. His cloak flared open, catching the wind like a pair of black wings as he vaulted toward the rooftops, leaving chaos in his wake.

Below, Charlie stood at the eye of the storm.

Four captains closed in—massive, armored, each twice her size. But there was no hesitation in her stance. Her sword spun with mechanical precision, chains swirling around her in a cyclone of spectral energy. Every movement balanced raw power with ruthless efficiency.

An orc lunged, misreading her size for weakness.

The barrier flared between them. Charlie dropped it an instant later, sidestepped with surgical grace, and drove her sword clean through the orc's ribcage. The moment the blade punctured flesh, her free hand snapped forward—chains wrapping the body like a serpent. She pivoted, dragging him into a wide arc before hurling the corpse into the nearest captain with enough force to snap bone.

Another closed from the left, roaring through the rain.

Charlie surged forward. A spectral flash ignited beneath her boots as the charge skill activated. Her armored fist connected with the side of the captain's jaw. The impact threw him sideways with such force that he smashed through the skeletal frame of a collapsed house, burying him in wood and stone.

She didn't pause. Sprinting after him, Charlie straddled his chest and unleashed a barrage of strikes. Her fists came down like hammers, over and over, until the only thing left beneath her was a pulp of shattered bone and blood barely recognizable as a face.

Her sword came free in a clean, final motion—brought down with precise brutality. The body went still.

System notifications flickered at the edge of Luke's vision.

[Princess Charlie has slain an Orc Captain – Lvl 22]

*The [Death Knight] class of Princess Charlie has reached Level 21! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)*

Lightning split the sky above, washing the battlefield in stark white. Rain traced down the curve of Charlie's helmet, glistening against steel and bone. She stood alone, surrounded by corpses, as the storm howled around them.

But the fight wasn't over.

A surge of boots against mud. More orcs pushed forward—relentless, unbroken.

Luke emerged from the fog like a shadow solidifying into flesh. Silent. Sharp. His presence stitched itself to Charlie's flank as if they'd been fighting side by side for a lifetime.

Movement behind him. Fast. Heavy.

A captain, skin slick with blood, lunged. Lightning coiled across his arms as he raised a hammer.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Luke pivoted on instinct, caught the blow on a bracer, twisted beneath the follow-up strike, and drove his fist into the orc's jaw with enough force to rattle teeth loose.

The body staggered.

Before gravity could claim it, both kukris were already in motion—twin arcs that punctured through eye sockets and dragged down into the vulnerable seams of the armor, severing ligaments and bone.

The captain collapsed, twitching, struggling—but not dead.

Luke left him breathing.

Not by mistake.

"Charlie," he called, his voice like a blade through the storm. "Your kill."

His eyes never left the next target.

It wasn't mercy. It was strategy.

Every crippled body was experience left on the field. And it wasn't his.

Mist unfolded beneath his boots, swallowing him whole. The fog swept outward, thick, suffocating. It blinded the orcs. It suffocated sound. Within that veil, Luke moved unseen—ghost, shadow, executioner.

Charlie understood the rhythm now. She hunted through the dark. Her sword fell without hesitation, executing the broken. Each death sharpened her. Strengthened her. Fed the fire in her hollow eyes.

Then the air shifted.

A vibration in the mud.

Luke spun toward the tremor—and saw it.

Movement at the treeline. Carts. A group of orcs, pushing heavy machinery dragged by beasts bred for nothing but labor and war. Wood groaned beneath iron brackets. Leather straps snapped taut as engines of death were dragged into position.

On the carts—massive constructs of steel and bone.

Ballistas.

The air reeked of wet iron, burned grease, and the acidic stench of mana-charged bolts heating in their sockets.

Luke's hands tightened on his blades. "Siege weapons," he muttered.

"You think we only have strong captains?" the orc snarled, voice cutting through the storm. "We have engineers. Blacksmiths. Gunners."

The ballistas turned as one, each iron-jawed frame locking onto a single target.

"You've got all that… and you're still getting wrecked by one human?" His voice was steady, meant for their ears, meant to sink under their skin. "That's why you're going to lose."

"Fire!" the orc roared.

The sky split open.

A volley of ballista bolts tore through the storm, each one a pillar of sharpened steel screaming toward him.

Luke didn't think. Instinct took over. His body moved before his mind caught up.

The world slowed. Rain hung midair. Every droplet visible. The thunder became a distant hum beneath the pulse pounding in his ears.

Focus.

The first bolt sliced past as he dove low, skimming his shoulder with the hiss of death.

The second—closer. He twisted, sliding beneath it, feeling the wind tear past his face.

The third—straight for his chest.

His cloak flared open, body folding impossibly narrow. The bolt passed so close he felt the tremor in his ribs.

Then his boots hit solid ground. Right in the middle of the gunner line.

None of them reacted fast enough.

"My turn."

He dove between two of them, cloak spreading like bat wings to control the fall.

"Stay still, you human bat!" one shouted.

"I do not have the copyright for that name," Luke replied, landing right in front of the orc.

A captain lunged to crush him.

Mist exploded where Luke had been.

From above...

A kick straight to the face. He spun down, kukris slicing. Before the body even hit the ground, Charlie landed right behind him. Barrier raised. She slammed into the captain like a cannonball, sending him flying, then rushed in, sword piercing straight through the orc's skull.

Luke paused, scanning the battlefield. With every fallen captain... more orcs broke rank.

"That's it," he muttered. "Cut the snake's head." He surged forward.

But then...

Three captains leapt at him at once. Two wrapped in lightning. One in stone.

Luke twisted left, but a hammer caught his ribs. His vision cracked. Air fled his lungs. The next strike caught his shoulder, spinning him backward, slamming him into the mud.

Another wave crashed down—this time a spear, then a gauntlet, then a whip of raw mana.

He pushed up, coughing blood, vision sharpening past the ache. His hands tightened on his blades.

"WE ARE GOING TO KILL YOU!" one roared.

Luke exhaled. Rain dripping down his face. Thunder cracking overhead.

"Yeah," he muttered, spitting blood. "Been hearing that threat for two months now."

They roared.

Luke smiled. Twirling his kukris. "So... who wants to be first?"

The first captain lunged. Luke met him halfway.

A sharp pivot, a fist drove up into the orc's chin. Bone cracked. As the orc reeled, both kukris plunged into the ribs—precise, brutal. He tore them free as another captain closed in with a hammer.

Luke dropped, slid beneath the swing, rose behind the orc, and drove a blade straight through the spine.

Another advanced with a spear. Luke side-stepped, caught the shaft, twisted it free, and buried the kukri into the orc's throat in one clean motion.

Then Charlie was there.

Her arrival wasn't quiet.

She moved like a hurricane of steel, sword spinning in wide, brutal arcs. Chains snapped from her gauntlets, latching onto limbs, dragging captains off balance, feeding their bodies into her waiting blade.

Shoulder to shoulder, they moved. A perfect rhythm. Neither outpacing the other. One killed, the other crippled. The next followed. The next fell.

A flare of magic caught Luke's eye.

A bolt of lightning ripped through the rain.

"Charlie—!"

She raised her Spectral Barrier just as it struck. The shield flickered, strained—but held.

The instant the barrier vanished, Luke moved.

A spear spun in his hands—then flew. The tip buried itself in the mage's eye. No scream. No time. The orc collapsed to his knees, clutching at the ruined socket as blood streamed down his cheek.

Luke was already on him.

[Demonic Blade Dance – Mimic Dancer]

A phantom stepped from his shadow. Two bodies. Two blades. Perfect synchronicity.

Another spell surged toward them—fast, wild.

Charlie stepped forward. Her Spectral Barrier flared to life, the translucent glass fracturing under the heat, but holding. Just long enough.

Fog expanded behind the caster. Luke reappeared.

A flash of steel. The kukri sank into the mage's remaining eye, driving straight into the skull. The orc spasmed. Dropped.

He didn't hit the ground alone.

A captain charged in from behind, warhammer raised. There was no warning. No time.

The blow caught Luke mid-step. The impact crushed him into the wall of a nearby house. Stone cracked. Wood splintered. The structure folded, collapsing on top of him.

"Shit..."

Dust and debris filled his lungs as he shoved a beam off his chest, stumbling to his feet.

Ribs cracked. Vision blurred. Mana low. Not enough.

The hammer came again. Luke slipped under it by a hair's breadth, pivoted behind the orc as it overextended.

A blur. Then gravity. His kukri drove into the top of the captain's skull with a wet crunch. The body folded.

Luke sprinted back into the fray.

Charlie was still standing. Bruised but unbroken. Three captains circled her like predators, each waiting for a mistake.

She was fighting three captains at once. Dodging. Blocking. One of them grabbed her. An irrational berserker roared, raising a massive club, and slammed it down on her.

CRAAACK.

The club shattered.

Silence.

She didn't fall. Didn't even flinch.

Charlie glared at him. Raised her arm. Spectral chains whipped out, wrapping around a tree. She yanked herself forward, and the captain holding her was dragged along, screaming.

WHAM. His skull smashed into the tree.

Charlie finished him without hesitation. Sword straight through the head.

Two left.

Luke saw them. Twin mages. One wielding fire, the other earth.

The ground trembled. A fissure tore through the mud, stone spikes lunging toward him. He dove sideways. The fire mage responded—casting a wave of flame that surged like a wall, eating through the forest.

No words passed between Luke and Charlie. They split. She veered left—toward the earth mage. Luke charged the flames.

The fire roared. Heat seared his skin, peeling layers away with every step. But Luke didn't slow. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe. He walked through the fire. A silhouette made of shadow and hate.

The mage faltered. His hands shook. The next glyph wasn't fast enough.

Luke was.

A flash of silver. The kukri tore straight through the orc's wrist, sending the staff spinning into the mud. The mage screamed.

Luke was already moving. A fist slammed into the throat. Cartilage crushed. The orc's scream became a wet gasp. The follow-up was surgical. One hand yanked the head down. The other drove the kukri into the crown—straight through.

The body crumpled. Nerves twitched. Then nothing.

A single notification blinked in his vision.

[You have slain an Orc Captain – Lvl 23]

**[You have reached Level 12! Half-Demon (Rank F)] (+1 bonus point to all attributes, +1 free point)**

Beside him, Charlie raised her sword. A crimson blade sliced through the air.

The stone mage dropped in two clean halves.

[Princess Charlie has slain an Orc Captain – Lvl 24]

*The [Death Knight] class of Princess Charlie has reached Level 22! (Class Bonus Points Acquired)*

Luke looked around. Silence. Only the rain. Only his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. The berserker orcs were running. Scattering like animals.

His whole body trembled. Whether it was the cold, the adrenaline, or the thin line between life and death... he didn't know.

He slid down to the ground, leaning against a broken wall. For a few seconds... he just existed. Breathing.

"We survived..." — he didn't even know if he said it to Charlie or to himself. Days running. Fighting. Always one step from death. And yet... he smiled.

He got what he wanted. Leveling the race. That had been the goal. And the timing was perfect. His body regenerated completely. HP and mana fully restored. All part of the plan. For what was coming.

And then—

THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.

Hooves. Fast. Rhythmic. Sounding like war drums.

Morvat.

The Orc General. Riding atop a massive beast. Eyes burning like fire. Jaw clenched. Around him... only dead captains. The remaining berserker orcs hid behind the trees. Cornered. Terrified.

Luke didn't stand. He sat there. Calmly watching. A silence heavier than death settled over the field.

Then he spoke. "Looks like your precious captains... are dead."

Morvat scanned the battlefield. Corpses everywhere. Fires still burning. Smoke curling into the storm.

Luke stood. Opened his system menu. Dumped every single point into Strength. His. And Charlie's. A grin pulled at his lips.

"Why don't you call your buddies to help you? Oh... right. I killed them all."

It wasn't just provocation. It was a tactic. Break his mind. Force a mistake.

But Morvat didn't explode. He smiled. A cold smile. Calm. Deadly.

Then—

BOOOOM.

A red aura exploded around the General. The ground shook. Rain blasted outward from the sheer force of it. Where it touched, steam rose from Morvat's skin.

The General began to grow. Flesh cracking. Bones snapping. The sound of his body expanding was sickening.

"I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!"

His voice shook the sky like a thousand thunders. The ground caved under the weight of the monster he became. Red aura burned in every direction.

Fire. Power. Death.

Luke raised his kukris. Charlie spun her sword into position.

The three stared each other down.

The final fight began.

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