HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The air inside Hollow Pass was taut, like the stretched string of a bow ready to snap. Soldiers—north and south alike—held their breaths, eyes fixed not on their banners, not on their captains, but on the two men who stood at the center of the battlefield.

Ryon.

Alric.

The clash that loomed between them was not merely a duel of blades; it was the meeting of two hungers, two fires, two truths forged in war and hardened by loss.

The first strike came slow.

Ryon moved like a storm gathering, blade arcing downward with a molten sweep that trailed fire in its wake. The Wrath-Knight met it with both hands on his greatsword, steel slamming against steel. The impact cracked through the Pass like a hammer against stone, and men flinched as if their own skulls had been struck.

They parted.

The second strike came quicker, a slash and riposte, sparks spitting between them. Then a third, faster still, fire flashing, frost whispering. Their blades found rhythm, the way drums find tempo before the song begins.

Clang.

Clang.

Clang-clang.

The rhythm quickened.

Ryon's boots tore grooves into the stones as he pressed forward, every step carrying the heat of flame and the sting of frost. He lunged—blade a streak of firelight. Alric twisted, his counterstrike cutting wide enough to shear a soldier in half had one stood too close. Sparks sprayed like molten stars, dancing on the blackened ground.

The duel climbed in speed, blow answering blow in a rising storm. Fire roared. Frost hissed. The wind shrieked between them, torn apart by the violence of their swings. The Pass itself seemed to shudder, as if the mountains knew the weight of what clashed upon their shoulders.

The north held their breath. The south gripped their weapons tighter.

Ryon struck high, fire blazing. Alric met him low, the greatsword smashing upward with a sound like thunder splitting stone. The shock flung dust and grit into the air, choking the field with a haze that glowed orange in the firelight. From within it, sparks burst—sparks that moved too quickly to follow, sparks that were blades clashing again and again, faster and faster, until the haze itself seemed alive with fireflies of war.

Alric bared his teeth, scar burning across his face. "You think flame makes you more than a boy?" His voice boomed over the chaos. "I'll show you what fire becomes when tempered by stone."

He shoved forward, strike after crushing strike, each one like a boulder rolling down a mountain. The sheer weight of him drove Ryon back, boots skidding across scorched stone.

But Ryon's fire did not retreat.

He turned the stagger into a spin, blade carving a crescent of flame that hissed like a burning tide. The arc lashed across Alric's guard, scattering sparks that landed upon the stones like embers from a forge. Ryon pressed in again, frost now threading the fire, blade singing with a twin voice of heat and cold.

The tempo surged.

Strike. Strike. Strike. Their weapons blurred, each clash faster than the last, each recoil answered with a heavier return. Men squinted against the sparks. Some covered their ears against the sound—like iron screaming in agony.

The rhythm broke.

No longer was it a pattern of blow and counter. Now it was chaos itself, steel flashing in broken bursts, steps scattering across the battlefield like lightning splitting the sky.

Alric's blade carved through stone, showering dust. Ryon's fire answered, the ground beneath them glowing from heat. Frost clung to the edges, white cracks spiderwebbing through black rock. Each step left the Pass more broken than before, as though the duel itself was carving scars into the land.

The armies wavered. Men who had marched through blood and storm now trembled, their hearts struck dumb by what they saw. The south's line faltered; whispers of fear rippled through the ranks. Could even the Wrath-Knight withstand such fury?

Alric sensed it. He roared—not only at Ryon, but at his host behind him. "STAND! Stand and watch as stone crushes fire!" His voice struck them like a lash, their spines snapping straight again, their breaths caught by his command.

Ryon answered not with words, but with fire. He drove forward, blade erupting in a storm of flame and frost. Sparks became fireballs, shards of frost became daggers of white light. Each clash spilled chaos into the armies, scattering heat and ice among the watching soldiers. Some dropped their weapons, some raised shields, some stood frozen, unable to decide whether they watched gods or monsters.

The ground trembled. Stones split. Dust rose in choking clouds.

The duel had erupted beyond a contest of men—it was a calamity.

And still it rose higher.

Alric's blade slammed into Ryon's shoulder guard, the blow numbing his arm, rattling his bones. Pain flared, white and sharp, but he bore it, fire pouring through the wound to seal it as fast as it opened. In return his sword flashed low, flames licking the Wrath-Knight's greaves, leaving blackened streaks across the metal.

The exchange grew cruel. No more restraint. Each swing now carried the weight of killing intent. Sparks became flares, their clash a storm that blinded even those who watched too close.

Men in the front ranks stumbled backward, shields raised against flying shards of burning stone. Horses screamed, stamping the earth, nostrils flaring with the scent of ash. Commanders shouted, but their voices drowned beneath the roar of fire, the crash of steel, the sheer weight of two titans locked in fury.

To the north, whispers grew: Ryon holds. He holds! Their voices rose with hope, brittle but alive. To the south, silence thickened—every man watching Alric, waiting, praying, that their Wrath-Knight's fury did not falter.

Ryon's blade caught Alric's shoulder, cutting deep into steel and drawing blood that sizzled in the fire. Alric bellowed, the wound fueling him, his greatsword lashing out with earth-shaking fury. Ryon ducked, spun, his counter flashing too close—hair singed, breath stolen, heart racing with a fire not wholly his own.

They were no longer two men. They were storms colliding.

Blow for blow, fire for stone, until chaos itself reigned in Hollow Pass.

The armies dared not move. The north stood with teeth clenched, their hope pinned to Ryon's burning figure. The south stood rigid, their courage fraying as they clung to Alric's towering presence.

And as steel rang and sparks flew, the Pass itself seemed to hold its breath—both hosts balanced on the edge of collapse, waiting, straining, to see which turan would break first.