The battlefield reeked of blood and burning flesh. Smoke curled from the pyres of the dead, and the cries of the dying were swallowed by the howling wind. Corpses lay half-buried in the mud, their shattered armor glinting under the storm-choked sky.
Leonhardt Vale stepped over the ruined bodies, his boots sinking into the blood-drenched earth. His armor was cracked, his muscles burned with exhaustion, but his grip on his sword never wavered.
Across from him, standing amidst the carnage like a specter of death itself, was Salvatore Vernoux.
The warlord-turned-immortal regarded Leonhardt with something close to amusement. His long coat billowed behind him, stained with the lifeblood of a dozen men. His crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable—not fear, not anger. Just anticipation.
Leonhardt raised his sword, pointing it directly at him. "I've crossed half the world to kill you."
Salvatore smirked. "Then let's not keep you waiting."
They moved at the same time.
Leonhardt struck first, a brutal downward slash aimed at Salvatore's skull. The warlord sidestepped, fluid as a shadow, the blade missing by inches. Before Leonhardt could recover, Salvatore's hand shot forward—grabbing the blade mid-swing.
The sound of steel cutting flesh rang out. Blood streamed from Salvatore's palm, but his smirk never wavered.
Leonhardt twisted the sword, ripping it free. The blade sliced through Salvatore's fingers, nearly severing them. The warlord didn't even flinch. Instead, he lashed out with a kick, catching Leonhardt square in the ribs.
CRACK.
Leonhardt staggered, gasping as he felt something break. A rib, maybe two. He barely had time to process the pain before Salvatore vanished from sight—
Then reappeared behind him.
Leonhardt spun just in time to block the dagger aimed at his throat. The force of the impact sent vibrations up his arms, but he didn't retreat. Instead, he drove his elbow into Salvatore's jaw.
The warlord's head snapped back, but before Leonhardt could capitalize, Salvatore's hand shot forward—fingers digging into his side, right into the broken ribs.
Leonhardt let out a strangled grunt as pain flared through his body. Salvatore's smirk widened as he twisted his fingers deeper into the wound.
"Not bad," Salvatore murmured. "You might actually make me work for this."
Leonhardt's response was a headbutt so vicious it split Salvatore's forehead open.
Blood streamed down the immortal's face as he stumbled back, momentarily dazed. That was the opening Leonhardt needed.
With a roar, he swung his sword in a vicious arc—
And buried it into Salvatore's side.
The blade ripped through flesh and ribs, carving deep. Salvatore let out a wet gasp, his fingers twitching as blood poured from the wound.
Leonhardt didn't stop. He yanked the blade free, hacking at Salvatore like a butcher at a carcass. A deep gash across the chest. A stab through the shoulder. Another cut that nearly took off the warlord's arm.
Salvatore staggered, then dropped to his knees. Blood pooled beneath him, his face pale from the sheer amount of it spilling from his body.
Leonhardt towered over him, panting, his own blood dripping onto the dirt.
"It's over," he said.
Then, without hesitation—
He swung.
The sword took Salvatore's head clean off.
Salvatore's world collapsed into darkness.
Then, he woke up screaming.
Hands—hundreds of them—tore at his flesh. His skin ripped like wet paper, his bones snapped like brittle twigs.
The faces of the dead surrounded him. Their rotting mouths clamped onto his body, devouring him.
He felt every bite. Every tear. Every rip.
His own soldiers. His enemies. Women. Children. All the lives he had taken were here. And they wanted him to suffer.
Salvatore screamed as they ate him alive.
And then—
He woke.
The battlefield was still. The only movement was Leonhardt, leaning against his sword, panting. Blood dripped from his wounds, his body barely holding together.
Then—
A soft squelch.
Leonhardt's eyes widened. The headless corpse at his feet was moving.
Salvatore's body convulsed, fingers twitching as blood soaked the dirt. And then, slowly, his severed head began to regenerate.
Flesh knitted together. Bone reformed. The skin sealed itself, like time reversing before Leonhardt's eyes.
And then Salvatore stood.
His eyes snapped open, glowing with something unnatural. His once-smirking face was twisted into something else entirely—rage.
Leonhardt exhaled sharply. "Impossible."
Salvatore cracked his neck. "Gods, that was unpleasant." He glanced at his own bloodstained hands before rolling his shoulders. "Your technique is good. Very good. But I'm afraid this fight is over."
Leonhardt gritted his teeth and raised his sword again. "Like hell it is."
With a roar, he charged—only for Salvatore to move faster than sight.
Before Leonhardt could react, a hand was around his throat.
Salvatore lifted him effortlessly, fingers tightening like a vice. Leonhardt struggled, gasping for air, but the warlord didn't flinch.
Then, with brutal force, Salvatore slammed him into the ground.
Bones snapped. Leonhardt let out a strangled cry as pain exploded through his body. His sword fell from his grip, lost in the mud.
Salvatore didn't stop. He crushed Leonhardt's ribs beneath his boot, grinding them into his lungs. Blood bubbled at the warrior's lips.
"You were the first man in centuries to kill me," Salvatore admitted. "But unfortunately for you... I don't stay dead."
Leonhardt spat blood. "Go... to... hell."
Salvatore sighed. "You first."
Then he drove his hand straight through Leonhardt's chest.
Flesh tore. Blood sprayed across the dirt. Leonhardt's body convulsed violently, his mouth opening in a silent scream.
Salvatore ripped his hand free. In his grasp, still faintly beating, was Leonhardt's heart.
The warrior's body shuddered—then fell limp. His lifeless eyes stared up at the storm-ridden sky.
Salvatore exhaled, letting the blood drip from his fingers. He looked down at the corpse. Even in death, Leonhardt's expression remained defiant.
Something in Salvatore's chest twisted.
For the first time in centuries, he had tasted fear. He had felt pain. He had died.
And for the first time in centuries—he realized he didn't enjoy it.
He dropped Leonhardt's heart into the dirt and turned away, silent. The battle was over.
But something inside him had changed.
The next morning, at the great northern stronghold, the guards stationed at the gates received a gift.
A large wooden box, sealed with thick iron clasps, sat motionless in the snow. No messenger. No markings. Just silence.
Cautiously, the captain of the watch pried it open.
Inside, resting atop a bed of crimson silk, was the severed head of Leonhardt Vale.
His eyes were still open.
And on his forehead, carved deep into the flesh, was a single word.
"Try again."