The orc warbands gathered like a restless storm, surrounding the center of the encampment where a crude fighting pit lay carved into the earth. The stench of sweat, blood, and smoke thickened the air, mixing with the scent of raw meat roasting over massive bonfires. Warriors sat on rough-hewn logs or sharpened rocks, their scarred bodies reflecting the light of the flickering flames.
Leonhart stood before them, his posture unwavering, his gaze fixed on the monstrous orc seated atop a throne of bones. Korgath the Red Hand, the so-called warlord of these savages.
Leonhart's voice carried across the camp.
"Thetimeofscatteredmonstersisover.Thestrongshouldlead, andtheweakshouldfollow. Ifyouwishtoliveasbeasts, fightingamongyourselvesforscraps, thenyouarenobetterthancattlewaitingforslaughter."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered orcs. Some sneered. Others leaned forward with interest. But one—or rather, a few—took his words as an insult beyond forgiveness.
A hulking orc with jagged tattoos across his arms snarled and stepped forward, his lips curling in disgust. "AmeregoblinthinkshecanchallengethegreatKorgath?Youshouldbecrushedbeneathourboots, notspeakingamongwarriors!"
Another orc spat. "Killhimwherehestands!"
The challenge, the insult—whatever they perceived his words to be—was too much for them to bear.
Two warriors lunged at Leonhart, their weapons raised. The instant they moved, Leonhart's blackish mana flared to life.
A pulse of unseen force erupted from his body. The attacking orcs were slammed into the ground with a deafening thud, their bones cracking beneath the invisible weight. The crowd recoiled in surprise. The attackers tried to rise, but Leonhart hadn't even looked at them.
He still had his eyes on Korgath.
Bruk and Drog smirked, arms crossed. Gurruk let out a sharp exhale, clearly impressed, while the lizardmen warriors nodded in approval. This was their leader. Their king.
Some of the watching orcs grunted in approval, curious now. Strength was all that mattered among them.
Korgath, however, was far from impressed. He watched Leonhart with eyes of burning embers, his lip curling upward in distaste. Then he chuckled—a deep, guttural sound that rumbled like distant thunder.
"Youattackmymenandthendarechallengeme?" Korgath leaned forward, gripping the armrests of his throne. "Doyouevenunderstandwhereyoustand, goblin?"
Leonhart remained still. "Areyourefusing?"
The murmur that passed through the crowd was different this time. He had chosen his words well. Among orcs, a direct challenge could not be refused—not without losing face, not without being called a coward.
Korgath's laughter cut off abruptly. His massive fingers curled into fists, thick veins bulging from his forearms. His crimson war paint made his already furious expression even more menacing. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he roared.
It wasn't a sound of rage alone—it was a declaration. A war cry. An acceptance.
"Fine!I'llbreakyouwithmyhands, littlegoblin!Andwhenyourcorpseisnothingbutdust, yourmenwillknowthefateofthosewhochallengeKorgaththeRedHand!"
The orcs erupted into cheers, pounding their fists against their chests, against rocks, against the ground. The challenge had been accepted.
The duel would begin.
The pit was cleared in moments. The ground was packed with dirt and sand, soaked with the blood of past battles. The warbands gathered in a thick ring around it, forming a wall of flesh and steel, their eager voices blending into a roaring sea of anticipation.
Leonhart stood at one end, arms loose at his sides. Across from him, Korgath stepped forward, rolling his shoulders as if loosening them before a simple exercise.
Leonhart was weaponless, but that was about to change.
He turned his head slightly, his gaze settling on an orc gripping a jagged blade. With barely a thought, he reached out—not with his hand, but with his mana.
The weapon ripped from the orc's grip, flying through the air. It landed firmly in Leonhart's palm.
A ripple of shock passed through the crowd.
He turned the blade, examining it for a moment before setting his eyes back on Korgath. The warlord's grin widened.
"I'llenjoythis."
Then, without warning, he charged.
Korgath moved with terrifying speed for his size. The ground shook beneath each step, and his first strike came down like a hammer. Leonhart dodged, pivoting with fluid grace, but the sheer force of the swing sent a blast of wind through the pit.
Leonhart slashed out, the stolen blade cutting toward Korgath's ribs. But the warlord twisted, catching the weapon in his massive hand. He wrenched it from Leonhart's grasp and snapped it inhalf.
The crowd roared. Korgath's laughter echoed through the pit.
But Leonhart wasn't done.
His blackish mana surged once more. He reached out to the shattered remnants of the blade still in his grip and willed his power into it. The dark energy coiled around the steel—but then, something went wrong.
The blade corrodedinstantly, eaten away by the unnatural mana.
Leonhart had no time to ponder this failure. Korgath lunged again, this time slamming into him with the full weight of his bulk. The impact sent Leonhart skidding back, dust and sand kicking up in his wake.
The crowd howled.
Pain rippled through Leonhart's body. He had faced stronger foes before, but Korgath was relentless, a mountain of muscle and sheer will. If brute force alone determined this battle, he would lose.
So he did what he did best.
He adapted.
Leonhart's breathing slowed. His mana shifted. He didn't try to wield it like a blade—he let it consume him.
Darkness coiled around his body, seeping into his limbs. His form seemed to blur, his presence growing heavier.
Korgath snarled. "What…?"
Leonhart moved.
His speed doubled. No, tripled.
In the blink of an eye, he was behind Korgath. His claws—now wreathed in black energy—tore into the warlord's side. The flesh beneath them didn't just tear—it rotted, blackening instantly.
Korgath staggered. Then—forthefirsttime—he let out a sound of pain.
Leonhart didn't stop. He struck again. Again. Korgath's skin decayed wherever he was touched, his wounds refusing to clot, spreading like a disease.
The great warlord dropped to his knees.
A hush fell over the watching orcs.
Korgath looked up, his breathing ragged, his face twisted in a mix of rage and horror. His lips trembled, blood dripping from his mouth. His body—his powerful, undefeated body—was fallingapart.
His voice was hoarse. "What… areyou?"
Leonhart met his eyes.
He stepped forward, knelt down, and—just inches away—whispered the answer.
"Yournewlord."
The last of Korgath's strength left him. His body crumbled onto the pit floor, rotted and broken.
Silence.
Leonhart turned slowly, his gaze sweeping across the stunned orcs, his chest rising and falling with each steady breath. The silence was suffocating, thick with disbelief, awe, and fear.
Then, he lifted his hand—still blackened with the remnants of his mana, still dripping with the decay that had consumed Korgath.
"Lookatyourwarlord." His voice was cold, edged with finality. "Look at what your 'great leader' has become."
The orcs hesitated. Some glanced at Korgath's withered corpse, his flesh still smoldering with unnatural corruption. Others kept their eyes on Leonhart, uncertain, wary.
"Hethoughtstrengthwasjustbruteforce. Thatrawpoweralonemadehimuntouchable" Leonhart took a slow step forward, his presence pressing down on them like a storm about to break. "Butstrengthismorethanthat. Strengthis knowingwhentoadapt.Whentoevolve. Andwhentobowbeforeagreaterpower."
He let those words settle, then raised his arms wide, as if daring them to challenge him next. "Sotellme… doyoustillclingtoyouroldways?Toyourbrokenwarbands,yourpointlesssquabbles?"
The tension thickened.
Then his voice boomed across the encampment, final and absolute.
"Orwillyourise?Willyoufightforsomethinggreater?Willyoukneelbeforeawarlordwhowillmakeyoustrongerthaneverbefore?!"
For a moment, there was nothing.
Then, one orc dropped to one knee.
Then another. And another.
Like falling stones, the entire warband knelt before him.
Leonhart exhaled slowly. Theorcswerehis!
The end of Chapter 28.