Torgo lunged first, his golden tattoos burning bright like molten metal, his muscles swelling as his energy-infused fists crashed into Boris's iron-clad form. The impact sent a shockwave through the battlefield, ripping through sand and shattered debris. Boris staggered but didn't fall—his monstrous form only seemed to harden, his laughter deep and guttural.
"You think your little tricks can break me, old man?" Boris sneered, his voice a monstrous growl. He swung Azrael's Fang, his newly formed massive war axe, with terrifying speed. Torgo dodged just in time, the blade carving through the ground where he stood, sending sand and bodies flying.
Torgo spat, eyes sharp. "For all your strength, you're still a spoiled whelp playing at war." He twisted his body, spinning like a storm, his fists crackling with raw energy before slamming them into Boris's ribs. The iron plating dented—for the first time, Boris felt pain.
Boris roared, grabbing Torgo by the throat with one colossal hand, his grip like a vice. "Then let me show you what war truly means." With a monstrous heave, he lifted Torgo off the ground and slammed him down so hard the earth caved beneath them. Blood splattered across the iron-clad warlord's face, but he only grinned wider.
Torgo coughed, wiping blood from his lips, but his eyes were still defiant. "You hit like a child," he mocked. With a sudden burst of power, his entire body ignited with golden energy—and in an instant, he was gone, moving faster than any human eye could track.
Boris barely had time to react before Torgo reappeared behind him, fists glowing like twin suns, and unleashed a barrage of strikes—each one shattering the iron plates covering Boris's back, sending sparks and chunks of armor flying.
Boris howled in pain, stumbling forward, but his monstrous endurance held strong. "Enough!" he bellowed, slamming Azrael's Fang into the ground. The force sent iron spikes erupting from the earth, tearing through bodies and impaling anything in their path.
Torgo barely dodged, flipping backward, but Boris was already charging. He moved with terrifying speed for his size, his monstrous form nothing but a blur of iron and death.
They clashed again—flesh against steel, raw energy against brute force. Each strike sent shockwaves through the battlefield, a war cry of gods and demons.
The battlefield became a storm of ruin, a clash of titans that defied nature itself. Torgo and Boris moved like two forces of destruction, their blows creating shockwaves that shattered the very ground beneath them. Each strike carried enough power to crush bones, warp steel, and split the sky. Soldiers and beasts alike were thrown like ragdolls, caught in the rippling aftershocks of their battle.
Boris, now in his monstrous "Iron Vein" form, towered like an armored demon, his iron-plated skin gleaming under the bloodstained moonlight. His laughter was deep, guttural, like metal grinding against metal, and every time he swung Azrael's Fang, it screamed through the air, leaving trails of black energy that scorched the earth.
Torgo, in contrast, moved like golden lightning, his tribal tattoos burning brighter than ever. His every strike sent explosions of radiant energy, leaving Boris's armor dented, cracked, and melting from the sheer intensity of his attacks. But Boris refused to fall—his sheer bulk and monstrous endurance made him a walking fortress of war.
The battle had long since stopped being just between them. Their fight reshaped the battlefield itself. Where Boris swung his axe, iron spikes erupted from the ground, impaling friend and foe alike. Shal'Thuun, the mighty Leviathan-class war beasts, screeched as their massive bodies were wounded by the iron spears, bellowing in agony as blood and sand mixed into a gruesome battlefield swamp.
Torgo retaliated with his own terrifying might—each of his fists glowing like miniature suns, burning through Boris's steel-like flesh, sending firestorms of energy through the air. The Silver Axes warriors, though battle-hardened, were forced to flee as the raw power of their king ignited the battlefield, setting everything ablaze.
Yet Boris only laughed. "Is that all, King of Worms?" he mocked, spitting out a shattered piece of his own armor. His monstrous face twisted into a wicked grin, his fangs bared. "You're just an old dog that still thinks it has bite."
Torgo wiped blood from his mouth, his breath heavy but his eyes burning with undying fury.
"Let's see if you can laugh after this," Torgo snarled.
He vanished in a golden blur—moving faster than the eye could track.
BAM!
A fist slammed into Boris's face—the sheer force of it cracking his iron-clad skull, sending him staggering back, carving trenches in the battlefield with each step.
BOOM!
Torgo struck again, this time driving a knee into Boris's ribs, sending a shockwave that shattered the ground beneath them.
Boris roared in fury—and lashed out with Azrael's Fang, the massive axe tearing through the air with a force that could split mountains.
Torgo dodged—but just barely. The blade grazed his shoulder, carving deep into flesh and muscle, blood splattering onto the scorched battlefield.
But Boris was relentless. The Iron Warlord charged forward with terrifying speed, his monstrous form moving like a rampaging god of war. He swung Azrael's Fang downward with both hands—aiming to cleave Torgo in half.
Torgo had only a fraction of a second to react. He crossed his arms, channeling every ounce of his energy into a defensive shield.
BOOOOOOM!
The impact was cataclysmic. A deafening explosion of power tore through the battlefield, sending a shockwave so massive that it overturned the war beasts, collapsed sand dunes, and knocked soldiers hundreds of feet away.
Even the Leviathans howled as the sheer force of the clash rocked the very foundations of the battlefield.
When the dust settled, Torgo was buried under a massive crater of shattered earth. Blood leaked from his mouth, his golden tattoos flickering as if his life force itself was draining away.
Boris stood tall, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, his monstrous form drenched in blood—both his and others.
He exhaled slowly. "You fought well, old man," he muttered. "But not well enough."
He lifted Azrael's Fang for the killing blow. Torgo, still on his knees, gritted his teeth, refusing to break. His fingers dug into the shattered ground beneath him, his mind racing for a counterattack. But before the axe could descend—A gunshot rang through the air.
A single bullet pierced through the night, grazing Boris's monstrous face—just enough to make him flinch for a split second.
And that was all Torgo needed. With the last of his strength, he lunged forward, slamming his energy-charged fist into Boris's chest.
BOOOOM!
A golden explosion erupted from the point of impact, sending Boris flying back, crashing through debris, impaled by jagged metal and wood.
The battlefield fell into stunned silence. And then—A familiar voice growled from a distance.
"You forgot about me."
It was Jhon.
He stood atop the wreckage of a fallen beast, his revolver still smoking. His face was bruised, bloodied, but his eyes—his eyes burned with the same unrelenting fury as ever.
Boris, half-buried under rubble, turned his monstrous head toward Jhon.
And he grinned.
"Ah," Boris exhaled, his voice like grinding steel. "There you are."
Jhon leveled his revolver.
"I've been waiting for this moment," he said
The battlefield, once filled with the sounds of thousands of warriors, had fallen into eerie silence—but only for a moment. Then Boris roared.
The monstrous Iron Vein warlord rose from the wreckage, his mutated, iron-clad body heaving. The golden energy of Torgo's attack had seared deep into his chest, melting some of his armored flesh, but Boris stood as if the pain only fueled his rage further. The sheer mass of his body, combined with his inhuman endurance, allowed him to survive injuries that would have killed lesser warriors instantly.
Across the battlefield, Torgo struggled to his feet. He was bleeding profusely, his golden tattoos flickering like a dying flame. His martial arts style depended on quick, precise movements, and though his energy-enhanced strikes were devastating, his body was still that of a mortal man. He was faster, more skilled, and more experienced—but his stamina was reaching its limit.
Boris wasted no time. He lunged forward, Azrael's Fangcleaving through the air with a force that could tear through fortresses. The shockwave alone flattened nearby tents and sent bodies flying.
Torgo sidestepped—but just barely. The blade scraped his ribs, sending a spray of blood across the ruined ground.
Before Boris could recover, Torgo retaliated—a golden fist smashing into Boris's side, creating a shockwave that sent the iron warlord skidding backward.
But Boris didn't stop. Using the momentum, Boris planted his massive foot into the ground, kicking up a wall of dust, and swung Azrael's Fang in a full circle, aiming for Torgo's neck. Torgo ducked just in time, feeling the blade slice off a few strands of his dreadlocks.
Boris pressed forward, unleashing a barrage of unstoppable, high-powered strikes. Each blow split the earth, sending iron shards flying like shrapnel.
Torgo dodged by inches, weaving through the attacks like a phantom of war. But dodging wasn't enough.
The fatigue in Torgo's movements became more apparent—his reactions slowing just slightly, his golden tattoos fading with every passing second. Torgo knew this too. He had one shot left.
Torgo summoned every last ounce of his strength. Hisentire body blazed with golden light—his tribal tattoos burning brighter than ever before. He took one deep breath, planting his feet firmly, gathering every bit of energy into his fist.
Boris grinned, recognizing a last-ditch move when he saw one. "COME, THEN, KING OF CORPSES!" Boris bellowed, raising Azrael's Fang for the final strike.
BOOM.
Torgo vanished. A golden blur shot across the battlefield, leaving craters in the sand as he moved. Boris swung his axe—a devastating, full-power attack aimed to cleave Torgo in two.
But Torgo was already inside his reach. With one last breath, Torgo unleashed his ultimate technique—a single, final strike aimed directly at Boris's heart.
Fist meets chest.
A golden explosion erupts.
Time slows.
Boris's eyes widen—but then he smiles.
"Not bad," he mutters.
And then—
Azrael's Fang completes its arc.
The massive, cursed axe slams into Torgo's side, cleaving halfway through his ribs. Boris staggers backward, a gaping hole now burned through his chest. His armor cracks, steam rising from the molten wound.
Torgo coughs blood, his body still glowing, but his energy fading fast. They both stand there.
Silent.
Waiting.
And then—Torgo falls to his knees.
Boris, grinning through the pain, stays standing.
The battlefield watches in stunned silence. Then Boris spits blood onto the ground and lets out a deep, guttural laugh.
"You're the toughest bastard I've ever fought," he admits.
Torgo, breathing heavily, coughs blood, but stares up at him with defiance.
Boris lifts Azrael's Fang again.
Torgo knows he can't move anymore.
But before Boris can finish the job—
A gunshot rings out.
BANG.
Boris stumbles slightly—a bullet lodged in his shoulder.
Jhon stands at the edge of the battlefield, revolver smoking.
"Fight's over," he says. "This ain't your war anymore, Boris."
Boris narrows his eyes, weighing the situation. He could kill Torgo now—but at what cost? His body is damaged, and his men are scattered.
After a long silence, he lowers his axe.
"Not today," Boris mutters.
He turns away, his massive form retreating into the smoke. Jhon rushes to Torgo's side, watching as the Silver Axes carry their fallen leader away.
Torgo, barely conscious, smirks through the pain.
"Didn't need your help," he mutters weakly.
Jhon shakes his head, lighting a cigar.
"Yeah, sure," he says. "And I ain't got sand in my boots."
The war was far from over.
But for now—
It was time to retreat.
As the blood-soaked battlefield smoldered under the dying moon, Jhon and the surviving warriors of the Silver Axes hurriedly evacuated Torgo. The once-mighty warlord, now pale from blood loss, was barely conscious as his men hoisted him onto the back of a Shal'Thuun, the colossal beast groaning under the weight of its wounded king.
Jhon, his body aching from battle, surveyed the battlefield one last time. Corpses—both friend and foe—lay scattered like discarded dolls. The sand, once golden, was now dark with the blood of warriors. Smoke curled into the sky, a funeral pyre for the fallen.
On the other side of the ruined camp, Boris stood tall, his massive iron-clad body still steaming from his mutation. The wound on his chest had already begun to seal, but the exhaustion in his stance betrayed the toll of the battle.
With a heavy sigh, Boris turned to his remaining warriors—the few that had survived his monstrous rampage. Their eyes held fear, respect, and perhaps even doubt, but they awaited his command.
Boris exhaled sharply, then drove Azrael's Fang into the ground, the metal blade sinking deep into the bloodied earth.
"This land," he declared, his voice booming like rolling thunder, "belongs to the Iron Foot." His warriors straightened at his words, the finality of his claim ringing clear.
Then, with a smirk, he cast his gaze toward the retreating Silver Axes.
"And that side," he continued, nodding toward the distant retreat of Jhon and his men, "is theirs."
A ceasefire. Not out of peace, but out of necessity. Both sides were too broken to fight any further. Any more bloodshed now would be wasteful, and Boris—despite his monstrous strength—was not a fool.
Jhon, still watching from atop the Shal'Thuun, met Boris's gaze from across the battlefield.
No words were exchanged. But the understanding was clear. This war wasn't over. Not by a longshot.