HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The storm of the battle raged unchecked, but within its endless noise a strange gravity pulled two men together, as if the chaos itself bent around them.

Ryon had not sought him. The scarred northern commander had not called his name. Yet in the churn of steel and screams, in the endless press of bodies and dust, their eyes met across a narrow gulf of corpses and broken spears.

And in that instant, both knew.

The storm belonged to them.

The scarred man—broad-shouldered, his beard matted with blood, his face torn by an old wound that twisted his left eye into a permanent scowl—lifted his spear high. His voice cut through the din, not loud, but sharp enough to carve meaning from madness.

"You."

No title, no name, just a single word that carried weight like iron.

Ryon's chest burned with the raw air he dragged into it, his sword heavy, his shield dented and slick with blood not all his own. Yet when he heard that voice, when he felt the gaze that locked him in place, his body steadied. He lifted his blade, raising it not in defiance but acknowledgment.

"Then come."

The battle surged between them, men clawing and dying, the tide pulling one way then the other. But it might as well have been empty space, for neither man moved to strike another. Soldiers sensed it, some instinct deep in the marrow warning them away. The circle opened, reluctant, unwilling, yet inexorable, like wolves giving room to their alphas.

The scarred commander stepped forward, spear balanced, shield tight to his chest. His movements were unhurried, deliberate, like a man for whom time had slowed.

Ryon met him stride for stride, each boot crunching through blood-soaked soil, each step echoing with inevitability.

When they met, it was not with words but steel.

The first clash rang sharper than the rest of the battle, cutting through the storm. The commander's spear darted like a serpent, driving for Ryon's heart with terrifying speed. Ryon's shield snapped up, the point screeching as it slid along iron. He pivoted, blade whipping out in a riposte aimed for the man's side. The commander twisted, shield braced, the strike glancing off wood.

They broke apart a step, circled.

The world shrank.

The battle still screamed around them—shields breaking, men sobbing their last, horses shrieking as they died—but to both men it had become nothing but echo, a distant storm across a horizon they no longer cared to see.

Steel darted again. The commander pressed hard, spear stabbing in precise, lightning-quick thrusts that forced Ryon back, back, his shield rattling, his arm burning with the weight. Each strike came within a hair's breadth of piercing him, each one guided by years of ruthless mastery.

Ryon's heart thundered, sweat cutting rivers through the grime on his face. He parried, deflected, turned, waiting, searching for a seam. He had faced killers before, had bled and learned in fire, but this man fought like the embodiment of war itself.

The spear stabbed again, this time low. Ryon twisted aside, the point grazing his thigh, hot pain searing. He hissed, teeth clenched, but used the momentum, slashing downward. His blade scraped across the commander's shield, sparks flying.

The commander shoved forward, shield-bash slamming Ryon's chest, knocking him back. The air left his lungs in a grunt, his boots dragging trenches in the mud as he barely held his ground.

Still, he did not fall.

Still, he advanced.

A cry rose in his chest, part fury, part defiance, and his sword lashed in an arc of silver fire. The commander blocked, but the force rattled his stance. Ryon pressed again, and again, driving blows that sang with desperation. The spear flicked to counter, but the rhythm had shifted—now the southerner pressed, and the northerner endured.

Their breaths rasped, harsh and ragged. Each man bore the weight of not just survival, but the gaze of every soldier who watched.

For they did watch.

The circle had widened, bodies forgotten, blades lowered as men stared in rapt silence at the duel. Even in chaos, even in slaughter, something greater had seized them. Two figures, one scarred by time, one forged in youth's fire, clashing in a dance older than kingdoms.

Steel rang. Mud churned. Blood sprayed.

The spear struck Ryon's shoulder, tearing leather, drawing crimson. He staggered but twisted with the pain, driving his sword up, catching the commander's jawline with a shallow slice. The scarred man's blood joined the storm, dripping down his beard.

They locked eyes. Neither flinched.

The commander smiled then, a grim baring of teeth.

"Yes," he growled. "You'll do."

And the fight renewed with ferocity.

The spear abandoned restraint, slashing as much as stabbing, arcs meant not for precision but for ruin. The shield slammed forward like a battering ram, cracking against Ryon's defense. Bones ached, teeth rattled, vision blurred with each punishing blow.

But Ryon endured. He had been tempered by the South's fire, honed not by the luxury of technique but by survival. He bent where the commander pressed, shifted when struck, never yielding more than an inch.

And in each moment of breath, he struck back—slashes that carved shallow lines into flesh, thrusts that nearly pierced, the steady drip of defiance wearing at the commander's edge.

The circle quaked with their fury. Men forgot their fear, forgot their hatred. North and South both watched, held by a truth none could deny: this was no longer battle but trial.

The storm bent around it, as if the Hollow Pass itself paused to see which man would remain standing.

Ryon's lungs burned, his arms screamed with the weight of every swing. Blood ran freely from his shoulder, his thigh, a gash across his ribs. But he held, because he must. Because if he fell, the South would break.

The scarred commander bled as well. His jaw ran red, his arm bore a deep slice, his shield cracked along its rim. Yet his eyes gleamed, fierce and unbroken, like a man who had lived his entire life for this single hour.

They closed again, blades sparking, shields slamming. Ryon's sword carved down, the commander's spear swept up. The impact rattled the ground. Men cried out at the force, some stumbling as if struck themselves.

And still it went on.

Neither man yielded.

Neither man broke.

The Hollow Pass thundered with the fury of their duel, each heartbeat carrying them closer to the moment when one would fall, and the storm would decide its master.

The spear darted like lightning, Ryon's sword answering with thunder. Each strike was met, each thrust answered, the ground around them carved into a pit of churned mud and blood. Their breathing was ragged, their arms trembling with exhaustion, but neither yielded.

The commander slammed forward, shield smashing into Ryon's chest. Pain lanced through his ribs, and for a heartbeat he tasted blood in his mouth. He staggered but held his footing, twisting, slashing in defiance. His blade carved another line across the man's shield, splinters spraying.

They locked eyes again—blood dripping from both, muscles screaming, yet unwilling to give the other even a single step.

And then the world shattered around them.

The northern cavalry, breaking from a flank, crashed into the circle. Horses screamed, men roared, and the duel's sacred silence was consumed in an instant. The watching soldiers scattered or were crushed, the fragile ring collapsing under the tide of war.

A rider's lance struck between them, forcing both men apart. Ryon's sword clanged against it, the commander's spear snapped upward to parry the blow. The moment broke, torn to pieces by iron hooves and desperate cries.

"Not finished!" the commander bellowed, his voice ragged but certain, before a horse barreled between them, cutting him from sight.

Ryon lunged after him, fury blazing, but the tide surged. He was swept back into the press of men and beasts, shields slamming, blades clawing for his blood. His eyes searched, desperate, but the scarred face was gone—swallowed by the storm once more.

He fought, he killed, he bled, but a single truth burned hotter than the battle itself.

It was not over.

It would not be over.

The storm might have torn them apart, but destiny had only delayed its verdict.