HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The clash rang out again, and the battlefield stilled around them.

Sword and spear—steel and broken wood—ground together, sparks spraying, their arms trembling with the sheer force of each strike. They were no longer men but embodiments of wrath, their bodies smeared in blood and mud, their breath thick with the copper of their own wounds. Every clash reverberated like a bell tolling across the dead.

Ryon's teeth clenched as he shoved forward. His voice came in a guttural growl, close enough for the commander to feel his words hot on his scarred face.

"You'll fall here," Ryon spat, his arms bulging with strain. "Your name will be buried in the mud, forgotten."

The commander's grin split bloody lips. "Then bury me with your own corpse, southerner." His spear twisted, nearly wrenching the sword from Ryon's grip. "The North doesn't forget. We carve memory in bone."

Their weapons tore apart with a shriek. Ryon staggered back, swinging his blade in a heavy arc. The commander parried, half his shaft splintering further, yet he pressed forward, stabbing low for Ryon's belly.

Ryon barely caught it, steel knocking aside wood. Still, the jagged end raked across his thigh again, deeper this time. His leg buckled, hot blood flooding his boot. Pain lanced upward, but he forced himself to stand, face twisted in fury.

The commander saw the limp and barked a savage laugh. "You're slowing."

"Then catch me," Ryon snarled, lunging forward.

Their blades screamed together again. Ryon hacked high, his strength shaking through every swing. The commander blocked, ducked, retaliated with a vicious jab that scraped Ryon's ribs. Flesh split, warm blood running, but Ryon didn't falter. He shoved his weight into the next swing, driving the man back, mud sucking at their boots as if the earth itself tried to claim them both.

Steel clashed again. Sparks lit their faces, blood dripping down both chins.

"You fight like a beast," the commander growled between gritted teeth.

"I fight to end you," Ryon snapped, his sword pushing the spear wider, forcing their bodies closer until their foreheads nearly touched. "I've waited for your blood."

The commander's pale eyes narrowed. "Then take it."

With a roar, he shoved, broke the lock, and spun his weapon. The jagged spear-shaft came whipping around, slamming into Ryon's shoulder. Bone jolted, pain exploding. Ryon stumbled, barely catching his sword as the commander drove forward with relentless speed.

The point of the spear darted again, this time for his chest. Ryon twisted, too slow—the steel punched into his side, sliding past armor, sinking deep.

Ryon gasped. Blood welled hot and fast, his vision flashing white for an instant.

The commander's grin widened as he leaned in close, twisting the blade. "I told you, southerner. This earth belongs to me. Even your heart beats for the North now."

Ryon's snarl ripped through his throat. His hand clamped on the spear-shaft, locking it in place despite the pain. His eyes burned into the commander's as blood poured from his side.

"Not yet," Ryon hissed, his voice hoarse but unbroken.

With his other hand he drove his sword upward in a desperate arc. The commander jerked back, but not fast enough—the blade carved deep across his chest, ripping through armor, flesh, and muscle in one brutal stroke.

The commander's laugh turned into a howl.

He staggered, blood spraying, his spear jerking loose from Ryon's ribs as he stumbled back a step. His chest gushed crimson, the wound deep enough that even his ragged breath whistled through it. His knees bent, but his eyes still gleamed with savage light.

"You—" he choked, blood bubbling on his lips. "You finally—cut me deep."

Ryon staggered too, clutching his side, his sword dripping. Each breath was fire, each movement a threat to his balance. His voice rasped, but it carried across the ring of silent warriors watching them.

"This… ends now."

The commander barked a bloody laugh, straightening despite the gaping wound across his chest. "Ends?" His pale eyes locked onto Ryon, burning through the pain. "No, southerner. This only begins. Even if I die, my people will wear your bones as crowns."

Ryon raised his blade, trembling but steadying his stance. "Then I'll cut them all down after you."

The commander lunged again.

Ryon met him.

Their weapons collided with a sound like thunder, both staggering from the sheer force. The commander swung wide, his spear-haft heavy with blood, aiming for Ryon's neck. Ryon ducked, drove his sword upward, and their weapons locked once more.

This time, though, both were slowing.

Blood loss dragged at them, arms trembling, legs heavy. The mud beneath them was slick with their mingled blood, their boots slipping as they strained to stay upright.

The commander bared his teeth, face slick red. "One cut. That's all it takes now."

Ryon's chest heaved, blood dripping from his side. "Then swing it."

They broke apart, both stumbling, then charged again.

Steel screamed. Wood splintered. Blood flew.

The commander thrust low for Ryon's leg. Ryon leapt sideways, his wound tearing wider, pain blinding—but his sword came down in a brutal arc, splitting across the commander's arm. Flesh tore. The spear dropped.

The commander roared in agony, grabbing at his ruined arm. Still, with his left hand, he swung the broken haft in a desperate strike. It cracked across Ryon's skull, sending stars exploding in his vision. He staggered, sword wobbling, blood streaming from his brow.

Both men fell to their knees, face to face, gasping like beasts.

The commander's pale eyes burned even as his chest bled rivers. "You're strong, southerner… stronger than most." He spat blood, coughed. "But strength isn't enough. You'll bleed out before dawn."

Ryon pressed a blood-soaked hand to his side, sword trembling in the other. His voice was raw, but his glare was fire. "Then I'll bleed standing."

He swung.

The commander barely brought up his arm, but the blade bit anyway—deep across shoulder and collar. Flesh and bone split. The commander roared, collapsing sideways, his body jerking in the mud.

Ryon staggered forward, barely able to breathe, sword heavy in his hand. His own blood gushed freely, staining the ground black beneath the fires.

The commander lay sprawled, gasping, chest and shoulder ripped open, blood pouring out. Yet still, impossibly, he grinned up at Ryon through his broken teeth.

"Not finished… not yet." His voice rattled like death's breath.

Ryon raised his sword, staggering, blood streaming from his wounds. His vision blurred, his chest heaving. "Then I'll finish it."

The commander laughed—a ragged, wet sound, equal parts madness and admiration. "Come, then."

And the battlefield held its breath, waiting to see who would fall first.