Volk's body was a whirlwind of primal fury, his muscles pulsating with each step, each thunderous strike against the Death Monarch.
His roars echoed across the field, a guttural bellow that grew stronger with each impact.
Blood and dust coated his skin, yet he was unbroken—each hit thrown at him only served to make him fiercer, his body hardening, his spirit blazing brighter.
The Death Monarch laughed, a low, sinister sound that filled the battlefield with its chill.
His skeletal form shifted as he watched the Ogre rise again, amused but increasingly intrigued.
"Seventeenth empowerment," he murmured, feeling the rise in Volk's power like a crackling surge through the air.
His interest was piqued as he sense tod the depths of Volk's rage deepening, churning like a storm.
