The Orc chieftain's rage-filled face appeared impossibly close, his fetid breath washing over Luke. The world seemed to slow, the clang of steel and roar of the battlefield fading into a distant hum. Despair threatened to consume him. This was it. This was how his story ended, a nameless knight on a blood-soaked battlefield.
Then, from within, a warmth bloomed in Luke's chest, spreading outward like a tidal wave. It wasn't the familiar surge of aura he'd grown accustomed to, but something deeper, primal. A faint hum resonated from the mysterious stele lodged within his mind, a sound both ancient and invigorating. With a gasp, Luke felt a surge of energy course through him, pushing back the waves of fatigue and pain.
His blurry vision sharpened. He saw an opening – a minuscule gap in Grog-dar's defenses. Fueled by this newfound energy, Luke lunged forward with a speed that surprised even himself. His blade, imbued with the strange energy, found its mark, carving a deep gash across the Orc's arm.
A bellow of rage erupted from Grog-dar, but the sound lacked its previous ferocity. The berserk state, fueled by pure rage, was starting to wane. The arrow wound on Luke's shoulder throbbed with renewed intensity, but the pain was a distant echo compared to the fierce determination burning within him.
The fight continued a brutal dance of steel and sweat. Luke, empowered by the strange energy, fought with a newfound ferocity that mirrored Grog-dar's earlier rage. He moved with a fluidity he hadn't known he possessed, his strikes precise and deadly. But the toll was evident. His body ached with every movement, his vision swam at the edges, and blood slicked his armor.
Grog-dar, sensing weakness, launched a final, desperate attack. Luke met it head-on, his blade humming with power. Steel met steel in a deafening clang, the impact sending shockwaves through Luke's already battered body. For a heart-stopping moment, they were locked in a struggle of wills.
Then, with a sickening crunch, Grog-dar's axe shattered. The mighty Orc chieftain stumbled back, his remaining eye filled with disbelief. Seizing the opportunity, Luke thrust his sword forward, the tip finding its mark deep within Grog-dar's chest.
A guttural cough escaped the orc's lips, followed by a deafening silence. The hulking figure crumpled to the blood-soaked ground, lifeless.
Luke sank to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The strange energy that had fueled him ebbed away, leaving him drained and trembling. He looked down at his bloodstained hands, the weight of what he'd done settling in. He had taken a life, a brutal act necessitated by the chaos of war.
A commotion drew his attention. Master Morris and his father, Baron Reyland, were battling their way towards him, their faces etched with concern.
"Luke!" Master Morris bellowed, relief flooding his features as he reached Luke's side. "Are you alright?"
Luke could only manage a weak nod, the adrenaline leaving him as vulnerable as a newborn baby. His gaze drifted back to Grog-dar's fallen form, a strange emptiness gnawing at him.
The battle raged on around them, but for Luke, the world had shrunk to the weight of his sword and the echoing hum within. He had won his first duel, but the victory tasted like ash in his mouth. This was the baptism by steel master Morris, who had spoken of it as a brutal initiation into the harsh realities of war.
As healers swarmed him, tending to his wounds, a single thought echoed in Luke's mind: This was just the beginning. He had awoken to a strange power—a power that had saved him today. But the source of the stele's hum remained a mystery.