While Jake was preparing for an arduous battle, not far away at the top of a certain volcano, an imposing black orc was also facing a worthy opponent.
"Garow, what are you doing here?" Urul chuckled evilly as he recognized the swordsman. "I thought you were too busy chasing that old necromancer. Don't tell me he defeated you?"
He wasn't worried at all. Compared to a few hours ago, the spectacular Garow had lost his poise. His long-sleeved coat hiding his hands was a distant memory, and even his tight-fitting black armour was a wreck good for the garbage. A long gash now crossed his face, its repulsive sight reminiscent of a cauterized red-hot wound.
His long aquamarine sword, however, still hung faithfully on his belt.
Perceiving the orc's mocking tone, the young warrior's starry double-pupil-filled irises rested coldly on him.
