"I, Mobul, the War Chief, challenge the radiant Snow Knight to a duel!" His voice boomed across the battlefield, a wicked grin tugging at the corners of his lips. "If I win, the Snow Knight will stay here and be my slave." The image of the beautiful knight at his mercy danced in his mind, fueling his arrogance.
"Such impudence!" The Snow Knight's voice rang out, cold and cutting.
"An ogre dares to act human?" She sneered, her eyes narrowing in disdain. "It's disgusting. Fine, I'll accept your offer. But if you lose, I'll kill every last one of your men."
There, in the heart of the canyon, a tense silence fell between them. The rules of combat were sacred to both. Despite the inherent contradiction of their roles, both knight and barbarian shared one unshakable belief: a duel must be respected. The Varnak Tribe, known for their unyielding warrior code, would rather die than break their word. Likewise, the knight code upheld honor and duty above all else—justice must be served, no matter the cost, whether to a king or a pope.
And so, the duel began.
The two warriors stood facing each other, locked in a silent war of wills. Neither made a move. Patience. The air was thick with anticipation, as if the earth itself held its breath. Both knew the other's strength, yet neither dared make the first strike.
Minutes passed. Ten... fifteen. The sky grew darker, the clouds gathering as though they, too, awaited the clash of titans. Still, there was only silence.
Finally, the Snow Knight exhaled slowly and drew her sword. The glint of her blade reflected the last light of the fading sun. It was a simple movement, but it held the weight of her resolve.
"He may hide it, but I know he's a six-star Aura Master like me," she murmured to herself, eyes locked on her opponent. "The world is vast, after all."
She was right. Mobul, the War Chief, was no ordinary foe. His power was undeniable. But what made him truly terrifying was how the barbarians wielded their aura. Unlike knights who focused on disciplined control and form, the barbarians harnessed their aura in unpredictable, brutal ways.
It was raw, savage, and untamed—a force of nature in itself.
And so, they waited.
The battlefield stood still, the air thick with tension. On one side, the Snow Knight—cloak of frost, blade wrapped in whispering wind. On the other, Mogul, Chief of the Varnak Tribe, a living mountain cloaked in raw, surging aura. Unlike the Knight, who channeled her power into her blade with precision and grace, Mogul embodied destruction—his entire body was his weapon, engulfed in a storm of violent energy.
"O guardian of the skies, spirit of the eternal wind—grant me your strength, that my blade may move swifter than the storm and strike with the fury of the gale!"
The Knight called upon her art.
Wind Art, First Form: Tempest's Blessing.
Wind erupted around her, wrapping her body from feet to sword, turning armor light as feathers, movements swift as lightning. In the blink of an eye, she dashed forward—her slash aimed straight at Mogul's core. The sand beneath them exploded outward from the pressure.
But to her shock, Mogul caught the blade with his bare arm.
The impact sent shockwaves through the arena, knocking spectators to the ground. Yet Mogul didn't bleed. He didn't even flinch.
"My turn," he said coldly.
He exhaled slowly. Then, with terrifying calm, he punched her.
Her armor shattered. She crashed to the ground, blood staining the snow.
Still, the Snow Knight rose.
"O spirit of the endless sky, give thee the strength to propel—
Wind Art, Third Form: Heaven Piercer!"
A razor-thin wind slash howled toward Mogul—only to be shattered against the wall of his aura. He hadn't moved. Her most refined technique had done nothing.
Once more, Mogul inhaled. His next punch roared forward like a cannon. She barely evaded, casting a defensive technique:
Wind Art: Aegis of the Tempest.
It shattered instantly.
"What… is this power?" she whispered.
Cheers erupted from the Varnak Tribe. Their champion was untouchable. Her blade was useless. Her shield is meaningless.
And yet—he didn't finish her.
Mogul stood still, arms crossed, waiting. Giving her time.
"Why?" she wondered. "Why isn't he ending it?"
Fifteen silent minutes passed.
Then she understood. He wanted her at her best. He wanted a battle worthy of his final roar.
So she stood again—this time, changing her focus. Wind wrapped not just around her weapon, but her entire body. She dashed again, blade flashing. Mogul didn't block. The blade struck his skin—and again, nothing.
He prepared another punch—but she was ready.
She shifted, using wind to slide her body aside mid-air, then twisted—counter-slashing.
Blood spilled.
The Varnak Tribe fell silent.
She had pierced him.
She understood now: Mogul's aura was not absolute.It was either absolute defense or devastating offense—but never both. When he punched, he was vulnerable.
The duel shifted.
He raised his battle axe, swinging with monstrous force. She tilted the wind beneath her feet, redirecting the strike just enough to slip by. Her sword sank into his flesh.
They clashed again and again. Wind and fury. Speed and might. Blood and steel. Hours passed. The sun dipped.
Now it was a war of attrition.
And the Snow Knight, forged in endless drills and training, would not yield.
Mogul bled heavily. Knowing he was on the brink, he funneled the last of his aura into defense. She pressed on—strike after strike, relentless as the storm.
Three hours passed.
His aura flickered, then vanished.
Mogul dropped to his knees.
The Snow Knight approached, blade poised.
"Any last words?" she asked.
With a bloodied smile, Mogul looked up.
"The Demon King has descended."
The final slash came swift. Clean. Inevitable.
His head fell.
And with it, the Varnak Tribe was no more.
The Snow Knight stood victorious—scarred, wind-wrapped, and reborn through battle.