The Death Monarch, an ancient spirit steeped in centuries of magical wisdom, watched the hulking form of the battered Ogre before him with a mixture of mild intrigue and disdain.
This creature had impressive physical might, that much was clear.
But his utter lack of finesse, his inability to wield or even understand the depths of true magic, rendered him as nothing more than brute force—a one-dimensional weapon that held no place in the Death Monarch's plans.
He sneered, "not really that much but muscle and brawn," he mumbled.
The flickering light of his otherworldly aura casting an eerie, twisted shadow over the battlefield.
The Ogre was strong, yes, stronger than many of his summoned knights, but in the grand scheme of magic, Volk was just muscle.
And then, unexpectedly, Volk's broken form stirred.
There was a heavy pause, as if even the air held its breath, and then—BAM!
