The forest was dark, a suffocating silence hanging heavy in the air. The heavy tread of Zeranthian boots, the rustle of leaves disturbed by the march of soldiers—every sound was magnified in the thick stillness of the trees, each one an omen of the danger closing in. Michael stood in the center of the clearing, his body still, his posture deceptively calm. His mind was a machine, cold and calculating, measuring every movement, every possibility.
Karth Vallor loomed before him like a mountain, his sheer size and presence enough to make the ground tremble beneath him. His armor, a grotesque patchwork of metal and bone, gleamed with the dull light of the dying day, trophies of countless battles and kills adorning his form. In his hands, he gripped his massive battle axe—its blade, stained with the blood of the fallen, a symbol of death itself. Beside him, Zelya Tirael stood, a fire mage whose eyes glinted with the kind of bloodlust that sent shivers down the spine of even the bravest men. The air around her shimmered with heat, as if her very presence was burning the world.
"I knew it," Karth rumbled, his voice like thunder in the thickening air. "The little rat thinks he can escape. His head will be worth more than the bounty I'm after. Better make peace with the end, boy."
Michael's pulse quickened, but his face remained impassive, his heart beating a slow, steady rhythm. His eyes flicked over the terrain—his mind already moving, calculating, preparing. He knew this would be his final confrontation, but he wasn't about to go down easily. Not today.
Zelya's lips curled into a mocking smile, her voice a sweet, venomous whisper that sent a chill through the air. "Such a pretty thing to waste," she purred, her gaze appraising Michael as though he were an object to be consumed. "I'd rather keep you, Michael. You'd make a fine slave. But before that, tell me, how much can you take before you break?"
The words hung in the air, suffocating, but Michael didn't flinch. His mind was clear, focused. He wasn't here to break; he was here to end this.
"I'll be your slave," he said evenly, his voice betraying no fear, no hesitation. "If you tell me something."
Zelya's eyebrow arched in curiosity, her lips still curled in a cruel smile. "A traitor, perhaps?" she teased, her gaze flicking between Karth and Michael. "How clever of you."
Michael moved forward, his steps deliberate, slow. He had no time to waste with games. "I've heard whispers," he continued, his voice steady as ever. "There's someone on your side. Feeding you information. A traitor. Who is it?"
Zelya's amusement faltered, a flicker of something in her eyes. For a moment, it seemed as though the game would end there, with her remaining silent. But then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she spoke, her tone laced with venom. "Count Varrik. His lands in the south are already promised to us."
Michael's heart skipped a beat. Count Varrik. The name rang through his mind like a bell of impending doom. A traitor at the highest level. His gaze hardened, but before he could act on this information, the Zeranthian soldiers closed in, forming a ring around him, cutting off his escape. His time for negotiation was over.
"You've had your moment, little rat," Karth growled, his voice low and menacing. "Now, you die."
The forest erupted into chaos.
Without warning, Zelya raised her hands, summoning the infernal flames that licked at her fingers like living things. A torrent of fire shot from her hands, surging toward Michael with terrifying speed. His body sprang into motion, every muscle crying out in pain, but he was already moving. His staff slammed into the ground, and with a force of will, he called upon his Verdant Shield. The earth beneath him trembled as vines, roots, and thorns erupted from the soil, forming a barrier of twisting greenery that wrapped around him.
The fire slammed into the shield, and the heat was almost unbearable. The flames twisted, crackled, and surged with an intensity that threatened to overwhelm the shield in seconds. The smell of burning wood and flesh filled the air, but the shield held—barely. Michael gritted his teeth as the heat began to sear through the barrier, the wood scorching beneath him. His skin burned, but he fought through it. Thornstorm—a burst of deadly, jagged thorns—shot from the shield, aimed directly at Zelya.
She staggered back as the thorns pierced her clothing, their barbed tips tearing into her skin. Blood splattered, and she hissed in pain, but her eyes remained as cold as ever. "You'll pay for that," she snarled, raising her hands again to conjure another inferno. But this time, Michael wasn't waiting.
Before Zelya could release her next fireball, Michael cast Verdant Lash, sending thick vines snaking toward her. The vines wrapped around her arms, pulling her towards the earth as she screamed in fury. With a brutal twist of his will, Michael constricted the vines, tightening them until they dug into her flesh. Zelya's body convulsed, her fiery eyes wide with shock as the life drained from her. She tried to summon more fire, but the vines silenced her struggles, constricting around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs.
One last, ferocious yank, and Zelya's body fell limp, her eyes empty, her mouth still twisted in disbelief.
Karth's roar of fury pierced the air, snapping Michael's attention back to the barbarian. He barely had time to raise his staff to block the massive battle axe that came crashing down with all the force of a mountain. The shockwave from the strike sent the ground trembling, and Michael's arm shattered with a sickening crack as the axe collided with his staff. He screamed, but there was no time for pain—only survival.
He stumbled back, his vision blurring with agony. Blood poured from his arm, soaking his sleeve. Karth stepped forward, his eyes wild with rage, his axe raised for another strike. Michael's senses sharpened. He could feel the weight of Karth's looming presence, the power in every swing. The barbarian was relentless.
Desperation surged through Michael's veins. He could feel his body failing him, but his mind—his mind was sharp, as always. He reached deep within himself, tapping into the earth beneath him, summoning his Seismic Grasp. The ground trembled as the earth cracked open beneath Karth's feet, throwing him off balance. The barbarian's foot slipped, his axe swinging wide, missing Michael by inches.
It was enough.
Michael gathered every ounce of strength left in him and lashed out with Verdant Lash once more. Vines shot from the ground, wrapping around Karth's legs, pulling him down with a violent force. Karth roared, but he couldn't free himself in time. With a strained breath, Michael thrust his staff into the earth and whispered a final incantation: Verdant Apocalypse.
The ground cracked open, stone pillars erupted from the earth, and torrents of water surged toward the battlefield. The air became thick with the force of the magic. Vines spiraled upward like tendrils of death, stone pillars slammed into Karth's side, sending him flying backward with a ferocious impact. Water surged over him, dousing his flames of fury, but the barbarian was not dead. Not yet.
Karth roared in defiance, his wounds deep but his spirit unbroken. He struggled to rise, his bloodied hands grasping at the earth, but it was too late. Michael had won. He had taken Zelya's life and gravely wounded Karth. But now, battle was taking its final toll on him. His body was a mass of shattered bones and burning flesh, his breath ragged.
Zelya's mocking smile still haunted his vision, but he knew he had to move. He wasn't finished yet. Not quite.
As Karth scrambled to rise, Michael took a shaky step back, the last of his energy draining away. He could feel the darkness closing in, the weight of unconsciousness pulling at him. But he couldn't stop. Not yet.
With a final, desperate cry, Michael called upon the earth one last time.
Verdant Shield flared, wrapping around him like a protective cocoon, but it was already faltering. As Karth let out another guttural roar, Michael whispered his final command.
Escape.
Vines erupted beneath him, forming a path that would carry him away from the battlefield, away from the clutches of death. He stumbled, his legs shaking, barely able to stay upright. His vision swam with dizziness and pain, but he moved. His staff dragging on the ground, his body dragging him forward, Michael forced himself to take one more step, and then another, before his legs gave way completely.
The last thing he saw before darkness consumed him was the shape of Karth, still alive but too slow to stop him. The barbarian's roar echoed in the distance as the forest swallowed him whole.