Volk's axe swung through the air, slicing cleanly through the writhing black roots that erupted from the ground like dark serpents.
"Ha!" "Ha!" "Ha!"
His muscles strained, sweat beading on his brow as he hacked and slashed with relentless fury.
The battlefield was a chaos of tangled roots, Orcs shouting battle cries, and magic crackling in the air like static electricity.
"Haaaaaa!!"
His heart pounded in his chest, but his mind was sharp, his focus singular.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw them—familiar figures emerging from the shadows of the catacomb entrance. His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he faltered.
The axe hung mid-swing, his arms frozen as recognition struck him like a hammer to the chest.
The Dreadmaw Clan.
The ones he had left behind at the entrance before taking on his mission of the system. And among them, his wife—Solluha'r, the Elven Witch.
