The draugar's magical abilities, Sigurd explains. Made it all the more terrifying. It could control the weather, summoning storms with a mere thought, black clouds gathering over its head as lightning cracked the sky. It could also see the future, its hollow eyes glimpsing moments yet to come, as though the threads of fate lay open to it. And with a sickening twist, the draugar could shape-shift, warping its already hideous form into something even more grotesque—or into something deceptively human.
The draugar's towering figure loomed over the battlefield, its aura freezing the very air around them. With a guttural growl that sent shivers down their spines, it summoned a massive, rusty sword—jagged and corroded, its edges gleaming with an unnatural, deathly sheen. The sword seemed to hum with dark magic, the weight of centuries of decay clinging to it like a shroud. As it swung the monstrous weapon with terrifying speed, the ground trembled beneath its might.
Yacha and Sigurd barely had a moment to react before the sword came crashing down. Sigurd, his eyes sharp with warrior's instinct, slammed his axes together, crossing them to block the blow. Sparks flew as metal met metal, the force of the strike pushing Sigurd to one knee, his muscles straining against the sheer power of the draugar. Yacha, beside him, thrust his axe upward, aiming for the creature's exposed flank, but the draugar twisted its rotting body unnaturally, evading the strike with a sickening fluidity.
The others—Ursang, Eline, and Speira—watched in tense silence, their weapons at the ready. Speira's hands trembled as she gripped her daggers, her heart heavy with fear and sorrow. She wanted to join, to fight beside Yacha, but Sigurd's stern command held them in place. "This is our battle," he had said, his voice filled with finality. They knew this would be the last stand for the two warriors.
Yacha moved swiftly, fire flickering in his eyes as he called forth his fire magic, sending a blazing arc of flames toward the draugar. The flames licked at the undead's flesh, but instead of burning, they seemed to die out, consumed by the dark magic that surrounded the creature. The draugar let out a low, rumbling laugh, its skeletal grin widening as it swung its sword once more, this time aiming for Yacha.
Yacha sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the blade, but the force of the swing sent a shockwave through the ground, knocking him off balance. He rolled to the side, his axe gleaming as he pushed himself back up, breathing heavily. Sigurd was already moving, his earth magic surging through him. The ground beneath the draugar shifted and cracked as Sigurd summoned jagged stone pillars to rise and stab at the creature's legs. But the draugar, undeterred, lifted its foot and crushed the pillars into dust, its deep, hollow eyes glowing with eerie foresight.
As the draugar turned its attention back to Sigurd, Yacha took his chance. He channeled both his fire and thunder magic at once, his body crackling with raw energy. With a roar, he hurled a bolt of lightning toward the draugar's chest, the electricity striking true. For a brief moment, the draugar's body convulsed, its grip on the sword faltering. Sigurd seized the opportunity, rushing forward with a powerful swing of his axe aimed at the creature's neck.
But before the blow could land, the draugar shifted its form, its body blurring and contorting in a grotesque display of its shape-shifting magic. In an instant, it had moved behind Yacha, its massive sword raised for a killing strike. Yacha barely had time to react—he spun around, crossing his axes to block the deadly blow. The impact rattled his bones, the force sending him skidding backward, his arms screaming in pain from the sheer power.
Sigurd roared in defiance, slamming his foot into the ground, sending a wave of molten rock surging toward the draugar. The creature staggered as the lava struck its legs, its undead flesh hissing and bubbling from the heat. Yet still, it fought on, its weather-controlling magic surging into the sky. The wind howled, the clouds above darkened, and snow began to fall, chilling the air even further as the draugar summoned a storm to match its fury.
Sigurd, his breath visible in the frigid air, met Yacha's gaze. At that moment, they understood each other. This battle was not just against the draugar, but against time itself. They had to finish this—together. With a nod, Yacha and Sigurd charged as one, axes raised, their combined magic swirling around them in a deadly storm of fire, thunder, and earth.
A monstrous roar tore through the air, a sound so guttural and filled with ancient malice that it shook the very bones of those who heard it. The draugar's eyes flared with unnatural light as it raised its colossal, rusted sword high above its head, preparing to bring it down with terrifying force. This time, the blow was aimed squarely at Yacha, the draugar's hatred radiating from its decaying form.
Yacha barely had time to brace himself. His heart pounded in his chest as he saw the massive blade descending like the wrath of the dead itself. But before the strike could land, Sigurd, his mentor, and his father, threw himself in front of Yacha, his axes crossed to block the attack. The impact sent a deafening shockwave through the clearing, the sheer force causing the ground to tremble. Sigurd's knees buckled under the strain, his muscles straining to hold the draugar's sword at bay.
Yacha's breath caught in his throat. He could see it now, the strain in Sigurd's body, the faltering strength in his once-unbreakable stance. The potion Sigurd had drunk earlier, something Yacha hadn't fully understood in the chaos, was weakening him. The mighty warrior who had stood against so many was now visibly drained, his movements slower, his power fading.
The draugar saw it too. It pressed harder, the dark energy in its sword pulsing with malice. With a sickening thud, the creature broke through Sigurd's defense, landing blow after blow. Sigurd grunted in pain as the sword tore into his side, then slashed across his chest, dark blood spilling onto the snow-covered ground. Still, Sigurd stood firm, shielding Yacha with every ounce of strength he had left.
Yacha could feel the desperation rising in his chest. "Sigurd!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. But Sigurd didn't look back. His eyes were focused, not on the pain, but on the moment, on the fight that had to be won.
The draugar's sword lifted once more, poised for a final, lethal strike. But in that instant, something changed. Sigurd's aura flared, brighter than before, and Yacha could feel the shift in the air. It was the unmistakable surge of life force. The final reservoir of power Sigurd had been holding back. His body was broken, bloodied, and poisoned, but his will burned with an intensity that defied death itself.
With a mighty roar of his own, Sigurd charged forward, his axes blazing with the combined might of his earth and thunder magic. His body glowed with the last remnants of his life force as he launched himself toward the draugar, slashing through the storm of dark magic. The air crackled as his axes met the draugar's sword, and for a moment, it seemed as if the world itself held its breath.
Then, with a final, explosive strike, Sigurd drove his axe deep into the draugar's chest. The creature howled, its form flickering and unraveling as the blow tore through its decaying flesh, ripping apart the dark magic that held it together. The draugar staggered its grip on the massive sword faltering, and then, like a shadow dispelled by the sun. It began to vanish, its body dissolving into the wind, consumed by Sigurd's final act of defiance.
The battle was over, but the cost was steep. Sigurd stood for a moment, his breath shallow, his body trembling from the effort. His eyes, once fierce, now softened as he glanced back at Yacha. A faint, almost wistful smile crossed his lips before his legs gave out beneath him, and he fell to the ground, his strength finally spent. The draugar was gone, vanquished, but Sigurd had given everything to ensure it.
Yacha's heart felt as though it was being torn apart. The weight of guilt pressed down on him, suffocating him with every breath. He had known—he should have known—that the glass bottle Sigurd drank wasn't just a potion, but poison, slowly draining the life from him. And now, with every passing moment, Yacha watched his mentor's once powerful form weaken, his vision blurring as death crept closer. Yet Sigurd, in his quiet defiance of fate, gathered what strength he had left and nodded to Yacha, wordlessly urging him to continue.
They had fought together for for a while , side by side, but now the battle was against each other, and both men wielded only the thunder that coursed through their veins. Sparks of electric fury cracked in the air between them as they clashed once more, Sigurd's movements growing weaker, slower with each strike, his breaths labored. Yacha could feel the tears building, his throat tight as the overwhelming ache in his chest grew unbearable. Every strike, every burst of lightning, was an agony he couldn't escape from.
Sigurd staggered, his axes trembling in his grip as the poison sapped the last vestiges of his strength. Yacha's eyes were clouded with tears, his vision blurring as he struggled to control himself, but the fight would not stop. They moved in a rhythm that had been set from the moment they met, one last dance of power and pain, and as Yacha lifted his axe for what he knew could be the final blow, he saw Sigurd falter.
And then it happened. The axe, charged with the last of Yacha's strength, was aimed directly at Sigurd. Yacha's mind screamed at him to stop, to pull back, to do anything but strike. But Sigurd—ever the warrior, ever the protector—dropped his axes. The weapons clattered to the ground, forgotten, and Sigurd opened his arms wide, standing tall in the face of what was coming.
"No!" Yacha's voice cracked, his body betraying him. Tears spilled from his eyes as he fought against himself, fought to stop the strike. He closed his eyes, desperately wishing he could stop, but the axe in his hand surged forward as though driven by forces beyond his control. With a sickening thud, the blade sliced through the air and into Sigurd's chest, carving a deep, final wound.
Time seemed to freeze. Yacha's heart shattered as he opened his eyes to see Sigurd, blood blooming across his chest like a dark flower, still standing. His legs gave out, and he fell to his knees, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips as if, in the end, he had found peace in Yacha's hands.
"Come closer, boy," Sigurd rasped, his voice weak but gentle, as though he were offering Yacha comfort instead of the other way around. Yacha, tears streaming down his face, dropped his weapon and rushed to his side, falling to his knees before the man who had been his mentor, his friend, his family.
Sigurd's breath came in shallow gasps, his life slipping away with every second. But even now, his eyes—dim as they were—held no anger, no fear. Only that same calm Yacha had always known. He reached out a trembling hand and rested it on Yacha's shoulder, his grip weak but full of warmth.