The Iron Foot warriors were lost in their revelry, completely unaware of the storm about to descend upon them. Massive bonfires crackled, casting eerie shadows on the sand, while warriors sat in large circles, laughing, drinking, and feasting like kings of the wasteland.
Skewers of roasted meat dripped fat onto open flames, filling the air with a rich, greasy aroma. Some warriors boasted of past conquests, slamming their fists on wooden tables, recounting brutal raids and villages set ablaze, their voices thick with arrogance and liquor.
At the center of the camp, a makeshift fighting pit roared with the sounds of combat. Two half-naked warriors, their bodies scarred from countless battles, fought like beasts for entertainment, while the others cheered and placed bets. The victor would drink himself into a stupor, while the loser—if still breathing—would be dragged off to nurse his wounds.
Near the tents, women, taken from past raids, were forced to dance, their faces hollow with exhaustion, yet they dared not falter. The slightest misstep, the smallest sign of resistance, would result in swift punishment from the leering warriors who clawed at their arms and waists like hungry animals.
Greedy hands passed around golden goblets overflowing with fermented cactus wine, and barrels of ale stood open, warriors dunking their tankards in without care. Some had already succumbed to drunken stupor, collapsing into the sand with loud, contented groans, while others engaged in raucous songs of blood and conquest, their voices rising over the desert wind.
The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and the sickly-sweet scent of indulgence. They believed themselves untouchable, their kingdom of brutality stretching as far as the desert itself.
They had no idea death rode toward them on the backs of monsters. The moment came without warning, without mercy.
From the crest of the dunes, the monstrous forms of the Shal'Thuun erupted from the sands like leviathans breaching the ocean, their massive bodies sending a tidal wave of dust cascading down the slopes. Their screeches split the night air, an alien wail that shattered the drunken laughter of the Iron Foot warriors.
Before the slavers could react, Jhon and the Silver Axes warriors leaped from their backs, descending like demons from the night sky.
The first warrior to notice the attack barely had time to scream. A Silver Axe's twin blades flashed in the firelight, and the man's head rolled across the sand, leaving a crimson trail.
Then, chaos consumed the camp. Jhon landed in the center of the fray, his sword already wet with blood before his feet even touched the ground. A warrior lunged at him, still clutching a wine goblet instead of his sword. Jhon drove his blade into the man's stomach, twisting it before yanking it free. The warrior collapsed forward, eyes wide in shock, the alcohol on his breath mixing with the iron scent of his own blood.
The Silver Axes fought like gods of war, tearing through the camp with terrifying efficiency. Their dual axes danced through flesh and bone, hacking down enemies before they could even fully comprehend the nightmare unfolding around them.
Some Iron Foot warriors, too drunk to fight, stumbled to grab their weapons—but they were cut down before they could even lift a blade.
Others tried to run. That was a mistake. The Shal'Thuun, massive and unforgiving in their hunger, dove back into the sand, their sleek bodies swimming beneath the surface like sharks beneath a bloodied sea. The moment a warrior's foot touched the dunes beyond the camp, the creatures struck.
A massive maw burst from beneath the sand, snapping a fleeing warrior in half, his lower body collapsing into the dust as his upper torso disappeared into the beast's throat.
Screams of terror and agony rose into the night. A group of Iron Foot men tried to rally near a stack of crates. One of them, a larger brute with a scarred face, roared, "To arms! Kill these bastards!"
He barely had time to lift his axe before Jhon's blade tore through his throat. The man gurgled on his own blood, stumbling backward into the fire pit, his body thrashing as the flames swallowed him whole. The others hesitated, their courage faltering—and that hesitation cost them their lives.
Kalthar, a Silver Axes captain, swept through them like a whirlwind of death. His golden tattoos glowed in the firelight, his axes carving through muscle and bone as if he were butchering livestock. One warrior lost his arm, another his leg, and both screamed like dying animals before Kalthar silenced them with a single, brutal swing to their necks.
On the other side of the camp, Torgo's men found the enslaved women. The Iron Foot had forced them to dance, to entertain, to suffer—now, they cowered against the cages, their eyes filled with a mixture of terror and hope.
One of the Silver Axes warriors approached a trembling woman. She flinched, expecting another cruel hand, another punishment.
Instead, he smashed the chains binding her wrists, severing them in one clean strike. The other warriors followed, cutting the women free one by one. Some of the freed captives collapsed, sobbing, their bodies too weak to move. Others, with rage burning in their veins, grabbed fallen weapons and turned on their captors.
One woman, her face bruised and her body covered in scars, grabbed a dagger and drove it into the throat of a wounded Iron Foot warrior. She twisted the blade, savoring his death rattle, before spitting on his corpse.
The Silver Axes did not stop them.
This night was not just a battle. It was vengeance.
Jhon made his way toward the largest tent in the camp—the warlord's quarters. He kicked open the flaps, his breath steaming with rage, ready to slaughter whoever stood in his way.
Inside, he found a man scrambling to put on his armor. The Iron Foot captain's hands shook as he fumbled with the leather straps of his breastplate, his face pale with terror. He looked up at Jhon, and in that moment, he knew there was no escape.
Jhon stepped forward, lifting his sword. The man raised his hands in a pathetic attempt to beg.
"Please—"
Jhon's blade silenced him forever.
By the time the campfires had died, the last screams had faded into nothingness.
The battle was over.
Jhon stood amidst the ruins of the Iron Foot encampment, blood dripping from his sword, his breath heavy. Bodies littered the sand, their lifeless eyes staring up at the uncaring desert sky.
The once-thriving den of raiders and slavers was now nothing more than a graveyard.
Torgo approached him, his axes still slick with gore. He looked around at the carnage, nodding in approval.
"A fine slaughter," the warlord mused, his voice deep and satisfied.
Jhon didn't respond. He only gazed at the burning remains of the camp, watching as the flames devoured the last remnants of the Iron Foot filth.
Jhon's grin faded as he scanned the battlefield, his bloodied sword still clenched in his fist. Something was wrong. This was too easy.
His eyes darted across the ruins of the Iron Foot camp, searching, counting. Where is Boris?
Torgo stepped beside him, the warlord's hulking form casting a long shadow in the firelight. He was grinning, but his sharp eyes showed understanding.
"You feel it, don't you?" Torgo rumbled, tossing an axe to the ground. "The missing piece. The real fight hasn't begun."
Jhon exhaled sharply. "Boris Thorson wasn't here."
Torgo's grin widened, his golden tattoos glinting in the flames. He cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders like a beast preparing for the next hunt.
"He'll find us."
And then, a cry split the sky.
Not human. Not natural.
Jhon's gaze snapped upward. Against the smoldering backdrop of the burning camp, two massive crows circled. Their wings stretched unnaturally wide, their dark feathers shimmering under the moonlight like they were made of something beyond mortal flesh.
Their beady, obsidian-black eyes locked onto Jhon.
Torgo's expression darkened. "There they are."
The crows of Boris.
One of them let out a low, guttural call—an unnatural sound that reverberated through Jhon's bones.
"Vrakar and Durn." Torgo spat the names like a curse. "Boris' eyes. His spies. His messengers of death."
Jhon's knuckles tightened around his sword. The crows circled once more before swooping westward, vanishing into the night.
The message was clear.
Boris Thorson knew.
And he was coming.
The dark chamber of Boris Thorson's war tent was lit only by the faint glow of smoldering coals. Heavy furs draped the walls, muffling the howling winds outside.
Then, a shadow passed through the entrance.
Vrakar and Durn, his two crows, landed beside him, their talons scraping against the ironwood table. Their beady, soulless eyes locked onto Boris, and their beaks parted—not to caw, but to whisper.
They spoke of ruin.
The Iron Foot war camp by the shore had fallen.
His warriors shifted uneasily as the crows described the beasts. The impossible leviathans that swam through sea and sand, bearing Silver Axes upon their backs like warships from hell. The camp had been torn apart before they could even raise a proper defense.
Fear. He could smell it in the air.
One of his men clenched his fist. "The Shal'Thuun… they're real. Just as the stories said. How do we—"
A deep, rumbling laugh rolled from Boris Thorson's throat.
And in that instant, the fear died.
He rose from his chair, towering over them all, his long crimson beard draping over his chest like a blood-stained mantle. His left eye—a wicked yellow orb, glowing like molten gold—fixed upon his men.
"You cower like children hearing ghost tales." Boris' voice was like thunder rolling over the battlefield. "Did you think the Iron Foot had no answer to such creatures?"
He raised his massive axe, the serrated edge gleaming in the dim firelight.
"Bring forth the THAL'GRAAD."
Silence. Then, a ripple of movement. Warriors rushed to obey.
Minutes later, the ground itself trembled.
The heavy gates of the Iron Foot stronghold groaned as they were unbarred. The torches lining the walls flickered wildly as something massive stirred beyond them.
And then, it came.
The Thal'Graad.
A beast of nightmare.
It crawled forth from the darkness, its thick, matted fur glistening with swamp water and blackened blood. Its body was built like an unnatural fusion of a behemoth and a wolverine, its powerful shoulders hunched with raw muscle. A ridge of jagged, bone-like spikes ran down its back, pulsing faintly with a sickly green glow.
Its head was monstrous—part bear, part hyena—its elongated snout filled with curved, serrated teeth designed not just for tearing flesh, but for rending armor apart like paper. Its nostrils flared, taking in the scent of iron and blood, and then—it roared.
A sound that shattered the night.
It wasn't just a roar. It was a war cry.
And from its mouth dripped a viscous, black ichor—a venom so corrosive it could melt steel within seconds.
Shal'Thuun had speed. Thal'Graad had endurance.
Shal'Thuun could navigate sea and sand. Thal'Graad could climb mountains and tear through forests like twigs.
And while the Shal'Thuun was a beast to be ridden, the Thal'Graad was a beast made for WAR.
Boris stepped forward, fearless. The beast lowered its head in recognition of its master.
"The Silver Axes think they can challenge me?" Boris sneered.
He placed a hand on the beast's thick hide, feeling the raw power beneath.
"Then let them hear the cry of the Thal'Graad."
His warriors cheered, their fear replaced by burning rage.
Boris turned his golden eye westward, toward the ruined shore camp.
Toward Jhon.
Toward Torgo.
And he smiled.
Because soon, they would know what it meant to challenge the true King of the Iron Foot.
The moon hung high over the ruined Iron Foot camp, casting silver light upon the shattered remnants of tents, blood-soaked sand, and broken weapons. The air was thick with the stench of death and saltwater, but beneath it all, there was something else—a tremor.
Faint at first, like the distant rumble of thunder.
Then stronger.
A quake.
Jhon, standing atop the wreckage of a burned-out supply tent, turned his gaze inland. His gut twisted.
The Iron Foot were coming.
But it wasn't just an army.
It was something far worse.
From the black horizon, the Thal'Graad emerged, its hulking form parting the darkness like a demon crawling out of the underworld. Its yellowed fangs gleamed in the moonlight, strands of viscous black saliva stretching between them. Its thick, wolverine-like muscles rippled beneath its matted fur as it barreled forward, its enormous paws leaving craters in the sand.
It wasn't alone.
Behind it, four more Thal'Graad stormed forward, each a monstrous force of destruction. Their iron-plated riders—Boris Thorson's elite warbringers—clung tightly to their beasts, their war cries ringing through the desert air.
Jhon's heart pounded.
Torgo, standing at his side, grinned.
"Looks like we have a proper war now."
Then the Shal'Thuun roared.
The six leviathan-beasts that carried the Silver Axes warriors reacted immediately to the oncoming threat. Their massive fins kicked up waves of sand as they turned their hulking bodies toward the charging Iron Foot. Their pale, smooth hides gleamed under the moonlight, their many black eyes reflecting the chaos that was about to begin.
The ground shook violently as the Thal'Graad met the Shal'Thuun. A single Thal'Graad lunged.
It crashed headfirst into one of the Shal'Thuun, its bone-ridged skull slamming into the leviathan's sleek hide with a sickening crunch. The Shal'Thuun screeched in pain, its serpentine body writhing as it reared back, sending several Silver Axes warriors flying.
Before they could hit the ground, the Iron Foot riders descended upon them.
Blades clashed in the air. Bodies were torn apart before they even landed.
On the opposite end of the battlefield, another Shal'Thuun retaliated.
It twisted its massive body, whipping its muscular tail straight into a charging Thal'Graad.
The impact was devastating. The Thal'Graad was sent sprawling, its thick hide splitting open where the Shal'Thuun's tail struck. One of its riders was crushed beneath its own beast, his bones snapping like dry branches.
But the Thal'Graad didn't die.
Instead, it raged.
It dug its claws into the sand and launched itself back up, its gaping maw parting just in time to clamp down on the Shal'Thuun's underbelly.
The leviathan howled.
Dark blood gushed onto the battlefield as the Thal'Graad's serrated teeth ripped through the soft flesh.
The battlefield descended into chaos. One Shal'Thuun rolled violently to crush its attackers, its weight alone enough to flatten entire squads of Iron Foot soldiers beneath its bulk. But even as its enemies were crushed, more came. Axes and spears pierced its skin, turning its pale hide into a patchwork of wounds.
Another Shal'Thuun lunged forward, its elongated jaws snapping at a Thal'Graad's throat. The two beasts collided with such force that the very ground beneath them cracked.
Meanwhile, the Iron Foot warbringers fought viciously. They climbed atop fallen Shal'Thuun, hacking at the exposed bellies of the great beasts, pulling out entrails with their bare hands.
On the other side, Silver Axes warriors fought with equal brutality. They rode their Shal'Thuun through the battlefield like living warships, hurling massive spears down at the Thal'Graad below, impaling riders and beasts alike.
The collateral damage was immense.
The once-pristine dunes were now a blood-soaked wasteland.
Bodies—mangled beyond recognition—littered the battlefield. Some impaled on broken spears, others trampled underfoot by the warring titans.
The tents and makeshift structures of the ruined camp were utterly obliterated—either torn apart by rampaging beasts or burned to the ground by stray firebombs.
And still, the battle raged on. In the midst of the chaos, Jhon's eyes locked onto Boris. The Iron Foot warlord stood atop his Thal'Graad, his golden eye gleaming with battle-lust. His crimson beard was speckled with blood—his own or his enemies, it didn't matter.
Then, he pointed his massive axe at Jhon.
A challenge.
Jhon gritted his teeth.
This was it.
He grabbed a nearby Silver Axes steed—one of the few remaining Shal'Thuun still strong enough to fight—and charged.
Boris laughed, raising his axe high. And as the battlefield continued to burn, the two men raced toward their final clash.