HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The Hollow Pass no longer held the shape of armies. What had once been ordered lines and roaring commands had dissolved into a storm with no center, no mercy, and no memory of formation. The banners that had marked discipline and pride now lay trampled in mud, soaked dark with blood, their emblems broken beyond recognition.

The air was a choking mire of smoke and ash. Fire licked at abandoned wagons and shattered siege towers. Sparks rained through the fog like falling stars, carried on a wind that stank of rot and sweat. Men could hardly see more than a spear's length before them, but they fought all the same—half-blind, half-mad, driven only by survival and fury.

It was here, in this madness, that Ryon hunted.

The scarred commander haunted the smoke like a shadow. Ryon had glimpsed him before—standing tall amidst the ruin, spear lifted high, helm gone so his ruined face glared bare at the world. That single image clung to Ryon's mind. He could not let it go. He could not let the man slip away again.

Every step forward was a fight of its own. Ryon cut through a northern soldier, blade hacking through shoulder and chest. He kicked free, yanked his sword loose, and shoved onward. A pike jabbed for his ribs—he twisted, parried hard, sparks leaping, and drove his steel under the man's guard. Another came screaming, axe raised; Ryon rammed him with his shoulder, smashed his pommel into the man's jaw, then split him down the middle.

The weight of the battlefield pressed against him like a living tide. Southern men stumbled back, some bleeding, some crying out for captains already dead. Northern warriors surged forward, teeth bared, blood running thick on their beards. The push and pull was endless—one side collapsing, then surging back with a roar, only to be forced down again.

Still, Ryon searched.

Through the blur of men and smoke, he thought he saw the commander again—a dark silhouette on a mound of corpses, spear flashing like lightning. But a cavalry charge thundered between them, horses shrieking, hooves crushing bone beneath. Ryon swung wildly to survive, dragging a rider down by his leg, slitting his throat before he could even scream. The horse reared, bolted, and vanished. When the dust cleared, the commander was gone once more.

Ryon growled low, fury gnawing at his chest. The man was there—he could feel it, could sense it. It was as though the battlefield itself bent toward dragging them together.

He carved deeper, slipping through the cracks of chaos. The ground beneath his boots was no longer ground at all, but a churn of blood and bone and broken steel. He slipped on something slick—realized it was a severed arm—and pushed harder, face grim, heart hammering.

Around him, the world screamed. Arrows hissed in wild arcs, punching into men and horses alike. A siege engine collapsed in fire, dragging men down in its ruin. A southern captain tried to rally, his voice breaking over the clash: "Form on me! Form—!" An axe smashed through his helm before the words were finished. His body was swallowed, his men scattering.

Ryon ignored it all.

The hunt consumed him.

And then—he saw him again.

The scarred commander cut his own path, a spear-blade drenched and dripping. He fought like a man born to ruin. He hooked his weapon behind a shield, ripped it down, and thrust through the soldier's heart in one smooth motion. He wrenched the spear free, pivoted, and struck low, tearing a man's legs from under him. His face was streaked with blood, and yet his pale eyes burned sharp, unclouded, as if the chaos fed him.

For a heartbeat, their gazes found each other.

The world dulled. The screams, the clash of steel, even the thunder of cavalry—it all bled into a hollow silence.

The commander smiled.

It was not joy but cruelty. A thin, cutting thing, like the edge of broken glass. It was the smile of a predator who had scented prey.

Ryon bared his teeth in answer. He raised his sword, blood slicking down its fuller.

The commander lifted his spear.

But the tide of men poured between them again.

South and North surged, bodies colliding, blades sparking. A southern boy stumbled into Ryon's path, eyes wide with terror. Ryon shoved him aside, parried a northern axe meant for them both, and killed without looking back. He pressed forward, shoulder braced, blood singing in his ears.

The commander did the same. Ryon glimpsed him now and again—thrusting through a man's chest, spinning the body aside, bellowing as he carved on. It was like watching two storms spiral closer, tearing their way through the same sea.

The battlefield groaned around them. Shields shattered. Horns blared. Standards toppled, trampled into the mud. The South faltered. Then the North buckled. Neither side broke, though both bent near the breaking point. The entire war seemed to balance on the breath of men too tired to stand but too desperate to fall.

And at last—through the wreck of a fallen banner—they met.

The scarred commander thrust forward, spear leveled like a lance. Ryon swung hard to meet him. Steel screamed against steel. The impact rattled up their arms, sparks bursting in the dim. They pressed close, face to face, eyes locked in hatred and hunger.

For an instant, the war itself seemed to bow around them. The chaos became backdrop, the ruin became stage. This was the storm's eye.

Neither yielded. Neither blinked.

Sword and spear ground against each other, trembling with strain.

A horse without a rider barreled past, its flank cut open, its eyes rolling white. Men screamed, axes hammered shields, arrows clattered on broken armor—but the duel held. It was as though the world wanted them to strike until one fell, and yet the world also wanted them torn apart, delayed, denied.

A northern warrior shoved between them, howling. Ryon cut him down in one savage swing, but the commander used the moment to spin free, spear sweeping in a wide arc. It nearly caught Ryon's throat; only instinct saved him as he ducked, sparks clipping his hair.

They circled, boots splashing in muck, blades ready. The commander's ruined face twisted, half fury, half exhilaration. Ryon's chest heaved, blood dripping from his sword, his heartbeat roaring in his ears.

For a single, breathless moment—everything was them.

And the unspoken question rang between them, louder than any horn, deeper than any drum.

Which Turan would break first—the armies, or the men at their heart?