The midday sun hung high, scorching the bloodstained arena. Warriors filled the stone coliseum, their roars a mix of cheers, taunts, and raw excitement.
At the center stood the warriors of the minotaurs Stormhorn Clan and the werewolves of the Silverfang Pack.
The minotaurs of Stormhorn Clan were towering figures of raw strength, their massive bodies covered in thick muscle. Their broad chests and powerful limbs made them look like walking war machines. Thick horns curved from their heads, each pair unique—some jagged from countless battles, others polished smooth like trophies of their victories. Despite their size, they moved with surprising agility, their hooves thudding heavily against the stone. Their sheer presence alone was enough to make lesser warriors falter.
Beside them stood the werewolves of the Silverfang Pack, leaner yet no less dangerous. Unlike the bulky Minotaurs, the Werewolves had long, sinewy bodies built for speed and precision. Their fur-covered limbs rippled with toned muscle, and their razor-sharp claws flexed with anticipation. Their wolfish faces bore snarling grins, their golden eyes locked onto their prey with unshakable focus.
Their opponents, at first glance, seemed almost unimpressive.
The Ogrekin, both men and women, stood tall with vibrant red skin and sculpted bodies—strong and toned like seasoned warriors but not overly bulky. They looked human, yet their sheer presence hinted at something far more dangerous. Calm and steady, they carried themselves with the confidence of those who didn't need to prove their strength.
Then there were the Dracokin, every one of them was a woman. Slender yet curvaceous, their bodies were the perfect mix of grace and strength, their movements fluid and hypnotic. Smooth, dark scales traced their arms and legs, their sharp claws glinting under the sun. Their long, sinuous tails swayed with every step, their golden and crimson eyes gleaming with quiet amusement. Unlike the other warriors, they didn't snarl or flex—they didn't need to.
There were no men among them for a simple reason—Dracokin women were stronger. Faster. Deadlier. The males lacked the same raw power, so it was the women who carried their banner to fight in the arena.
This was not mere combat.
It was a rite.
A test to see who was worthy of the new world Hans was forging. Strength alone wouldn't win here—only those with the will to dominate would stand at the end.
A horn blared across the arena signaling the battle to begin.
A Stormhorn Clan minotaur, a behemoth with obsidian horns, charged forward, his massive war hammer swinging like a force of nature. An ogrekin met him head-on, but there was no struggle—only a single, thunderous impact. The ground cracked beneath them, and in the next instant, the minotaur was sent hurtling backward, crashing into his kin like a living boulder.
Nearby, a warrior from the Silverfang Pack—a female werewolf with silver fur streaked with crimson war paint—darted between a dracokin's blazing strikes, her agility unmatched. But the dracokin wasn't even trying. With a flick of her claw, faster than her eye could follow, she caught her mid-dodge. A sudden impact sent her tumbling across the battlefield, The female werewolf crashed into the arena wall, coughing up blood before collapsing unconscious.
The battlefield was chaos incarnate—but it was one-sided.
Minotaurs swung with all their might, only for their weapons to be caught effortlessly. Werewolves lunged, their fangs aiming for flesh, only to find themselves swatted away like mere pups. Ogrekin moved like living mountains, their strikes carrying monstrous weight, each blow sending warriors sprawling. Dracokin wove through the battlefield with elemental grace, their claws wreathed in fire and lightning, their every movement precise, unstoppable.
There was no contest.
In mere moments, the battlefield fell silent. The once-ferocious minotaurs and werewolves lay battered and broken, their strongest warriors reduced to gasping figures struggling to rise. And yet, despite the overwhelming gap in strength, their eyes still burned with defiance.
The ogrekin and dracokin warriors exchanged glances, a flicker of respect in their otherwise impassive gazes. Even in the face of utter defeat, these warriors had refused to back down. They had fought with everything, knowing the odds were impossible—knowing they could not win. And yet, they had still managed to draw blood, to leave scratches on those who had seemed untouchable.
A low rumble of approval passed through the ranks of the victors. Strength was absolute, but the will to fight despite hopeless odds… that was something even they could admire.
After the fierce battle between the warriors of Stormhorn Clan and Silverfang Pack against the evolved warriors of ogrekin and dracokin, the defeated were carried out of the arena. But there was no mockery—only respect. The victors stood tall, nodding in acknowledgment, honoring those who had fought to the bitter end. This was no mere deathmatch for glory; it was a battle of honor, where warriors proved their spirit, and even in defeat, they earned the respect of their peers.
As the crowd remained in stunned silence, still reeling from the battles they had just witnessed, two figures stepped into the heart of the arena.
Untouched by fear.
Unshaken by challenge.
Zharka and Vaelith.
The crowd stilled as the two warriors stepped forward, their presence suffocating, their power undeniable.
Zharka, the Crimson Warqueen, moved with effortless grace, her crimson silk top hugging her curves, held by golden rings. Her toned midriff caught the firelight, every breath accentuating her form.
A black-and-crimson skirt sat low on her hips, slit high to reveal her powerful thighs. Golden chains draped around her waist, swaying with each step, while bangles on her wrists and ankles chimed softly.
Strapped to her back was a massive battle axe, its dark steel blade etched with ancient runes. Her body bore intricate tribal markings—symbols of her lineage and dominance. As an ogre, she needed no armor. Her battle-hardened body was her armor, proof of her strength and leadership.
Her long, raven-black hair, adorned with golden rings, framed her striking features. With a single elegant horn gleaming and golden eyes burning with amusement, she strode forward—the embodiment of a warrior, a woman general whose very presence commanded respect.
Beside her, Vaelith, The draconic chieftainess of the Iron Tail Clan, was a vision of power and allure, a draconic woman with a striking, goddess-like presence. Midnight-black scales traced elegant patterns along her flawless skin, accentuating a figure both regal and mesmerizing. Her emerald eyes, sharp and all-knowing, gleamed with quiet menace, and each step she took was a deliberate, effortless display of dominance—less a prowl, more the stride of a dragoness who knew the world bent to her will.
The moment she stepped into the arena, the air itself seemed to tremble. A pulse of raw energy surged through her body, igniting the transformation in a seamless, fluid motion. Black horns curved from her head like crown, her limbs armored in obsidian scales that shimmered with an eerie luster. Her fingers sharpened into talons, elegant yet deadly. Her tail lashed behind her, a serpent of pure power, and the air around her shimmered with heat, the faint crackle of black fire dancing along her skin. She's emitting an aura of a dragonoid queen.
Across from them, the minotaur chieftain and the werewolf pack leader stood tall. They had fought through battle and blood to prove their worth, but as they faced these two refined goddesses of battle—they knew, they were facing something beyond their capabilities.
Hans' voice rang through the battlefield.
"Begin."
The minotaurs Chieftain moved first.
He charged to Zharka like a living avalanche, the arena's floor trembling beneath his steps. His war axe swung down like a judgement of steel and fury.
But Zharka did not even flinch.
She made no attempt to dodge. Instead she simply lifted her bare palm—meeting steel with flesh.
A thunderous shockwave erupted, blasting dust and debris into the air. Gasps rippled through the crowd. The minotaurs chieftain's breath hitched, He couldn't believe that his attack was so easily stopped dead in its tracks by her bare palm.
Zharka smirked. "Is that all?"
Her grip on the weapon tightened. The axe cracked, then shattered into shards of steel clattering to the ground.
The minotaurs chieftain barely had a time to register the loss of his weapon before she struck.
With a single backhand, the world tilted. His massive frame rocketed through the arena, slamming into the stone wall with a sickening crunch. Blood spattered the cracked surface.
Agony screamed through his body.
Zharka exhaled, rolling her shoulder. "Hmph. Didn't even make me sweat."
Her golden gaze turned. This time, to the werewolf pack leader.
"You're next."
The werewolf pack leader wasted no breath on words.
She vanished—speed incarnate—silver fur flickering between moments, a storm of claws and fangs, striking from every possible angle.
She lashed toward Vaelith's throat.
Yet, despite it all, her strike never found Vaelith. Believing her target remained before her, she lashed out once more—only to meet nothing but empty air. Vaelith had vanished.
The werewolf pack leader felt a sharp pain in her ribs as she was suddenly lifted off the ground. Her breath was knocked out of her, and before she could react, she was sent flying.
She crashed hard, rolling across the arena floor. Dust filled the air, and pain shot through her body. Dazed and struggling to breathe, she tried to get up, but the impact left her stunned.
She gasped, her breath hitching as she struggled to push herself up. Her limbs trembled, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. "What… what just happened?" Her voice wavered, a mix of shock and disbelief.
Vaelith stood before her, unmoved, as if she hadn't even exerted herself. The only sign of motion was her long, draconic tail swaying lazily behind her. It was then that the werewolf pack leader realized—the tail was the only thing Vaelith had used. A single strike, and she was already in this state.The sheer ease of it sent a surge of fury through her.
Humiliation burned in her chest, stoking the fire in her eyes. Her pride, her strength—mocked by a mere flick of a tail. Snarling, she forced herself to her feet, ignoring the sharp pain lancing through her body. Every muscle screamed in protest, but she poured every last ounce of her strength into this final strike. If she was going down, she would make it count.
Her body shifted, bulging with raw power. Her claws lengthened, fangs gleaming. Every fiber of her being surged with primal fury.
Then she vanished once more. A silver tempest descended upon Vaelith.
Fangs, Claws, pure instinct honed into lethal dance.
Vaelith sighed as her opponent lunged for a final, desperate strike.
With a flick of her draconic tail, the air cracked like a whip. The werewolf's body folded under the force, her momentum crushed in an instant. She was airborne again—this time, slamming into the stone wall with a heavy thud. Dust and debris rained down around her.
Yet, despite the clear defeat, the werewolf stirred. Slowly, shakily, she pushed herself up, her body trembling but her eyes still burning with defiance. She wasn't ready to surrender.
Vaelith watched in silence, then gave a small nod. This wasn't mere stubbornness—it was the will of a true warrior. If she wanted to stand, then Vaelith would grant her the honor of a proper end to their fight.
With that, she stepped forward, ready to finish it with respect.
Across the arena, the minotaurs chieftain did the same. Bloodied and battered, He let out a deep, ragged breath as he forced himself upright. His massive frame trembled, his focus locked unto Zharka—his target. With a roar, he charged, pouring every ounce of his remaining strength into one last strike.
Zharka watched him come, her golden eyes steady. She could end this in an instant, but she recognized the strength of his final stand. For that, he deserved respect.
This time, she reached for her battle axe.
As the minotaur chieftain and the werewolf pack leader charged forward, they poured every last ounce of their strength into a single, desperate strike. But Zharka and Vaelith stood like war-goddesses—Zharka, a vision of fiery dominance, her crimson-marked form radiating raw power, and Vaelith, an embodiment of draconic majesty, her emerald eyes gleaming with unshaken confidence.
Steel met flesh, power clashed against power—and yet, it was over in an instant. Despite their strength, despite their will, the gap between them was insurmountable. The battlefield decided the truth: against these two radiant generals, even their last stand was not enough.
As the minotaur chieftain and the werewolf pack leader were carried away on makeshift stretchers by their tribesmen, Zharka and Vaelith watched them with quiet respect. They had not won, but they had stood their ground, striking with all they had, refusing to yield until the very end. That alone was enough.
Zharka glanced at Vaelith, who met her gaze with a knowing smile. Without a word, they both understood—these two had earned their place.