CHAPTER 85: THE CLASH OF WOLVES.

The war bent around them.

Wherever they stepped, the chaos thinned—not because the killing lessened, but because men instinctively recoiled from the storm gathering between Ryon and the scarred commander. It was the gravity of blood and rage; both armies felt it, though neither side could name it.

Their blades met again.

Clang!

Clang!!

Steel on steel screamed like tortured iron. Sparks burst, bright against the dark haze of smoke and ash. The commander’s spear darted, a serpent’s tongue—sharp, precise, relentless. Ryon’s sword answered with raw fury, heavier, each strike a hammer meant to break bone and end flesh.

They moved like predators.

Ryon ducked under a thrust meant for his throat, his boots sinking deep in the churned mud. He lunged, sword swinging for the man’s ribs, but the commander twisted, spear-shaft knocking the blow wide, his elbow driving toward Ryon’s temple. Ryon caught it on his forearm, teeth gritting against the sting, then shoved forward, shoulder smashing into his foe.

The clash was like two bulls colliding.

The commander slid back half a step—just half—but his grin widened. The scar that tore across his jaw twisted with it, turning his face into something almost monstrous.

"You have hunted me," he rasped, voice rough as gravel, his pale eyes gleaming. "Now you have found me."

Ryon answered with steel.

His blade came down in a savage arc. The commander caught it on his spear-shaft, wood splintering with the force. He twisted, hooked, and yanked, trying to rip Ryon’s weapon free, but Ryon held on, driving forward. Their faces came close—Ryon’s eyes blazing with fury, the commander’s scarred grin lit by firelight.

Around them, men screamed and died.

A northern warrior tried to strike at Ryon’s back. Without looking, Ryon lashed a boot out, smashing the man’s knee sideways with a crack. The soldier dropped, screaming, only to be trampled underfoot as the duel raged on.

The commander struck low, spear flashing for Ryon’s thigh. Ryon jerked aside, but the blade bit shallow across muscle. Hot blood spilled down his leg, his stride already faltering. The commander lunged in for the kill—Ryon slammed the flat of his sword against the shaft, forcing it wide, then rammed his head forward.

Their skulls cracked together.

Both men reeled, blood running from the commander’s brow, sweat stinging Ryon’s eyes.

Neither slowed.

Ryon roared, blade swinging in a brutal backhand that caught the commander’s chest. Armor split, flesh tore, blood sprayed. The man staggered, but instead of falling he laughed—a deep, guttural laugh, full of violence and madness. He shoved forward with sudden strength, his spear’s butt slamming into Ryon’s stomach. Air burst from Ryon’s lungs as he stumbled back, mud sucking at his boots.

The commander came on like a storm.

Thrust. Slash. Spin. Each strike was a killing blow, every movement honed by years of bloodshed. Ryon barely caught the spear on his sword, sparks flying with every clash. He gave ground, each step costing him, until his back nearly slammed into the corpse of a fallen horse.

He planted his foot and roared.

His next swing was not defense but fury unleashed. The commander’s spear cracked under the force, half the shaft splintering away. Still the man pressed, spinning the broken weapon in vicious arcs, jagged wood now as deadly as the steel point.

They closed, no longer fighters but beasts on the battlefield.

Ryon slashed across the commander’s side—blood welled dark. The commander rammed the broken shaft into Ryon’s ribs, the wood splintering deeper, jagged edges biting flesh. Ryon snarled, grabbed the shaft with his free hand, and yanked it free even as pain lanced through him. He threw it aside, then slammed his forehead into the commander’s nose. Bone crunched. Blood burst down the man’s face.

The commander only laughed harder.

"Good," he spat, crimson dripping over his lips. "Good!"

They grappled now, locked chest to chest, fists and elbows and knees joining steel. Ryon’s blade hacked shallow wounds into the man’s side. The commander’s gauntleted fist crashed into Ryon’s jaw, rattling teeth. Blood poured freely from both, each wound feeding their rage rather than slowing it.

All around them the battle surged—north against south, shield against axe, sword against shield, scream against scream. But here, in this eye of ruin, there was only them.

The commander shoved Ryon down into the mud, spear-point pressing for his throat. Ryon caught it in both hands, the blade kissing skin, warm blood already welling. His arms shook with strain, veins standing, teeth bared.

The commander leaned closer, voice a growl:

"You will die here, southern dog. Your bones will rot in northern soil."

Ryon spat blood in his face. Then he twisted, wrenched the spear aside, and with a guttural roar rolled them both over. Mud swallowed them, blood mixing with filth, but Ryon rose first, knee pinning the commander’s chest. His sword raised high, his shadow loomed like death itself.

The commander did not flinch. He grinned up at him, eyes mad with joy.

Ryon’s blade fell to the ground.

The commander twisted at the last instant, the edge slicing deep into his shoulder instead of his throat. He seized the sword in both hands, ignoring the cut, holding it fast with blood-slick fingers. Ryon strained, trying to wrench it free, but the commander surged upward, forehead smashing Ryon’s face, teeth snapping together with the taste of iron.

The sword tumbled loose. Both men scrambled, mud sucking, blood pouring. The commander reached his broken spear. Ryon seized his blade once more.

They rose together.

Their weapons crossed again.

And the world bent with them.

Every soldier nearby faltered, drawn to the sight of two beasts locked in hate. Even as arrows rained and fires spread, men watched in horror and awe. It was no longer a duel. It was prophecy.

Ryon and the commander struck again, again, again—steel ringing like a funeral bell, sparks falling like stars, each blow louder than war itself.

And neither yielded.

Not yet.

Not here.