HAREM: WARLOCK OF THE SOUTH

The air was a living furnace, burning with screams, sparks, and the iron tang of spilled blood. The clash of two armies blurred into one vast, suffocating roar—a tide that battered the ears, rattled the bones, and made the ground quake as though the earth itself was writhing under the weight of so much rage. Yet within that endless chaos, a narrower storm carved its path—Ryon and the scarred commander, bound in a duel that devoured all else.

The scarred man's blade, broad and vicious, swept down in arcs that seemed to tear the world in half. His breath was ragged, but his eyes glowed with the kind of fury that made him relentless. Ryon's arms ached with every parry, his wrists singing with pain as sparks flew, yet something deeper kept him upright—the fire of the South, the oath of Ash, the memory of every face that had fallen to northern cruelty.

Steel rang out like a funeral bell, again and again.

The commander snarled through gritted teeth, voice ragged but venomous.

"You should have fallen already, southern brat. You're no king, no savior—just a boy hiding behind borrowed steel."

Ryon met the next strike with a desperate twist of his blade, catching the edge and shoving the commander's sword aside.

"And yet… you bleed,"

he hissed, his voice raw, the words more growl than speech.

"If I am nothing, then why do I still stand while your own men falter behind you?"

As if the words had summoned them, a cry of panic rose from the northern flank. A line wavered, staggered, then collapsed under the southern push. But just as quickly, another voice rallied the North, the scarred commander's second-in-command forcing them forward with the whip of his will. The balance teetered, and the field became a living mirror of the duel itself—each side straining, collapsing, surging again, neither willing to yield.

The commander's lips curled into a humorless smile as he lunged, his scarred face twisting with the shadows of torchlight and lightning.

"They will not break. They will never break. I'll cut you down, and your people will scatter like the ash you worship."

Ryon's knees nearly buckled under the force of the blow, but he dug his boots into the blood-muddied ground, refusing to give even an inch. He spat blood onto the dirt, crimson mixing with the mud, and let out a defiant roar.

"Then you'll have to break me first!"

Steel crashed again, louder, harder. The world shrank down to the sharp glint of their blades and the rush of air from every swing. The duel wasn't just about killing—it was about consuming, about proving whose will could outlast the other. Every strike carried the weight of entire nations.

Ryon's mind split in two—the instincts of battle driving his limbs while the other half watched the battlefield crumble. He saw Alric desperately holding the southern lines together with his booming voice, saw southern cavalry sweeping wide only to be intercepted by northern shields, saw the world bleeding itself dry in real time. And yet he could not look away from the scarred commander, not for a heartbeat, for in that man's eyes was the answer to all of this—the keystone of the northern host.

The commander shoved him back, their blades locking, faces inches apart, both smeared with blood. His breath reeked of iron and rage.

"You can't win. You don't even know what it means to lead. To kill one man is nothing. To kill a thousand? To sacrifice them with your name in their mouths? That is what warlords are made of. Can you do that, boy? Can you kill your own to claim victory?"

The words struck deeper than the steel, tearing into Ryon's chest with a cruel truth. For a heartbeat his grip faltered, the weight of his own doubts pressing against him. He thought of every man who had died for him already, thought of the faces twisted in fear as they screamed his name, thought of whether he truly deserved to lead them into the fire.

But then he remembered the silence of his homeland when it burned. He remembered the children whose cries were swallowed by northern blades. He remembered the promise he made when he first stepped into exile—that he would never let the South kneel again.

He pushed back, teeth clenched, his voice cracking like thunder.

"I'll never be like you. My people fight because they believe—not because I drive them with whips and chains. And that is why you will fall."

With a guttural roar, he twisted, breaking the lock, and swung. The commander staggered back, barely blocking in time. The momentum shifted—slowly, agonizingly—but it shifted.

Every movement became heavier, slower. Both men were reaching the breaking point, their bodies screaming, blades trembling. Blood soaked into Ryon's tunic where a shallow gash leaked crimson down his ribs. The commander's shoulder hung lower, his breaths shallow from the stab Ryon had landed earlier. They were both unraveling, threads pulling apart, but neither would let go first.

The ground shook again as cavalry clashed nearby, the cries of dying men and horses rising like a storm. The battlefield tilted toward collapse, and both armies looked toward the duel without even realizing it, sensing that the outcome of the greater war balanced on the rhythm of two blades.

The commander lunged with sudden desperation, swinging high. Ryon ducked, brought his sword up, and steel screamed against steel. For an instant they locked again, and the commander hissed in his ear,

"When you fall, I will burn your South until there is nothing left but smoke."

Ryon's voice came back like the crack of a whip.

"Then I'll rise as smoke, and choke the life from you."

Their blades broke apart. Both staggered. Both drew breath like drowning men. And still, still, they raised their swords again, because neither had yet given what the other demanded—submission, death, an ending.

But the battle around them surged suddenly, swallowing the space between. A charge of northern infantry pushed into the line, crashing dangerously close, forcing Ryon and the commander to step apart lest they be trampled. Shouts erupted. Shields slammed. The tide of war ripped them back into its chaos, dragging them from each other like beasts torn by chains.

Ryon's chest heaved as he fought to keep his footing against the sudden crush of men. His blade hacked aside a northern soldier, his eyes darting, searching desperately for the scarred commander. Somewhere in the chaos, he saw a glimpse of him—backing away, eyes locked on Ryon, promising silently that this was not finished.

And then he was gone, swallowed by the tide.

Ryon roared his name into the fray, his voice breaking across the battlefield. But there was no answer, only the clash of armies and the endless storm of war.

The duel had not ended. It had only been postponed, left raw and festering, waiting for the moment when the storm would force them together again.