The battlefield was chaos incarnate—screams, steel, and sorcery crashing together like storm waves. But one duel burned brighter and darker than most.

Neana, leader of the Nullcarvers, stood her ground against the hulking monstrosity that had once been a goblin. Endless's tribulations had twisted it into something foul, something that defied the laws of nature.

The Hobgoblin Demigod towered above her, its body grotesquely muscled, green skin turned to blackened scales that smoked with corruption. Fangs jutted from its jaw, its molten-orange eyes like suns about to burst. A jagged obsidian cleaver, taller than Neana herself, rested on its shoulder.

"You… manaless worm," it snarled, its voice scraping like stone on stone. "You fight with no blessing, no mana. You think Qi alone can resist what Endless has made of me?"

Neana's lips curled into a hard smile. Her grey hair whipped in the storm winds of battle, the Voidcloak Eirana had passed to her draping over her like a mantle of shadow, flickering as though alive. She spread her stance, her hands clenching around her twin, curved Qi-imbued blades which she made as her primary weapon back at Eldoria.

"I don't need mana," she spat back. "I never have. I am Neana of the Nullcarvers. I lead the fearless, the resolved—and I'll bury you here."

ROAR!!!!

The Hobgoblin roared, charging forward with monstrous speed. The ground quaked beneath its steps, and when its cleaver came down, it was like a mountain collapsing. The air rippled, the earth cratered.

BOOM!!!

But Neana was already moving. Her body blurred, Qi veins lighting up across her skin in shimmering silver. She flowed under the strike, Voidcloak coiling to accelerate her body, and with a twist she slashed both blades across its torso. Sparks shrieked against its hardened hide, leaving bloody streaks but not the kill.

The Hobgoblin snarled and swung backhanded. Neana crossed her blades, blocking—but the force was overwhelming. The shockwave threw her back like a ragdoll, smashing her into a broken wall of stone. Dust and blood filled her mouth.

RUMBLE! RUMBLE!!

The beast stomped toward her. "You are not evolution," it growled, raising its cleaver for the kill. "You are prey."

Neana forced herself upright, ribs aching, but her will unshaken. She spat blood and smirked.

"Prey doesn't fight back."

The Hobgoblin brought its weapon down like judgment. This time Neana didn't dodge—she stepped into the strike. Her Qi surged, her Voidcloak screamed around her body, and her aura detonated like a storm. She caught the descending cleaver on crossed blades, her knees cracking into the stone beneath her, but this time she held it.

The Hobgoblin's eyes widened. "Impossible—!"

"Not impossible," Neana roared, her voice shaking the battlefield. "But it is about damn time!"

The word wasn't spoken—but the aura which Neana now exudes carved into the world itself. A new force awakened in her veins. The Qi of a thousand battles, of every scar and trial, erupted into pure might. The Voidcloak harmonized with her spirit, becoming not chains but wings, and her body exuded raw, indomitable presence.

Juggernaut!

Her aura blasted outward in a shockwave, scattering goblins and rubble alike.

The Hobgoblin snarled, forcing its cleaver down, but Neana pushed back harder. In a burst of strength, she shattered its weapon, void Qi splintering the black steel like glass. Before the beast could even react, she drove a kick into its chest that sent the towering monster stumbling backward, earth cracking under its weight.

Neana blurred forward, relentless. Her blades became storms of silver and black, cutting, slashing, piercing—each strike carrying the weight of her new Juggernaut force. Her movements were no longer just quick—they were inevitable.

The Hobgoblin bellowed, claws lashing, but Neana danced through them, carving into its arms, legs, chest. Qi explosions detonated with every blow, shaking the ground. At last, she vaulted into the sky, Voidcloak unfurling into wings of shadow, and came down like judgment incarnate.

Both her blades drove straight through the Hobgoblin's chest, burying it into the ground with cataclysmic force. The earth tremored.

The monster spasmed, molten eyes dimming. "End…less… lied…" it gasped.

"Yes," Neana said coldly, twisting her blades free. "And you believed him."

The Hobgoblin gave one final shudder before its corrupted form collapsed into black ash, consumed by the Void.

Silence hung for a breath. Then the goblin ranks wailed in despair. With their leader dead, their will cracked, and the warriors of Eldoria roared in triumph, surging forward with renewed strength.

Neana stood over the fading corpse, the Voidcloak pulsing with her Juggernaut aura. She was no longer just the leader of the Nullcarvers—no longer just someone with a little wisp of mana.

A Juggernaut had risen.

-----

The battlefield continued to be drenched in blood and steel, but none shook the ground more than the clash between Drake Grey and the Orc Warchief.

The orc was no ordinary brute. Towering at three heads taller than Drake, its body was a fortress of muscle scarred by countless battles. Its tusks jutted like ivory daggers, and in its hands it wielded a colossal war-axe forged from blackened iron, runes glowing a sickly green with Endless's corruption. Each swing of that weapon wasn't just an attack—it was devastation, tearing trenches into the earth, shattering stone as if the land itself cowered.

Drake, though seasoned and strong, felt the weight of every clash shake him to his marrow. His greatsword—a heavy steel blade gifted by his family before he joined the military academy—met the axe again and again, but each strike forced him back, the ground breaking beneath his boots. His arms throbbed, blood seeped from cuts along his sides, and his breathing grew ragged.

The Warchief sneered, pressing his attack.

"Young human. You fight with pride… but pride doesn't win wars. Flesh does. Blood does!"

ROAR!!

BANG!!

With a roar, the Orc's axe came down. Drake raised his greatsword to block, but the force was overwhelming. The blade shattered, fragments scattering across the battlefield. The impact hurled Drake backward, smashing him against a ruined wall. He coughed blood, his vision blurring.

The Warchief stalked toward him, dragging its axe through the dirt. "Your kind made my people slaves to kingdoms, prey to hunters. Today, I repay it. I will hang your skull upon my banner."

Drake tried to rise, but his strength was failing. His body screamed with pain, his spirit wavering. He thought of Morris, of Eldoria, of the people fighting around him—but the weight of defeat pressed heavier than his will.

The Warchief raised its axe for the killing blow.

And then—shadows bled into the air.

A cold laugh cut through the chaos. "What's this? An orc barking about vengeance? How tiresome."

From the veil of battle stepped Rodriguez, the Devouring King. His presence was suffocating—dark robes flowing as if woven from the void itself, his Abyssal Blade trailing a mist that corroded the earth beneath it. His eyes gleamed with hunger, an endless abyss that seemed to swallow even light.

The Orc Warchief snarled. "Another maggot dares interfere?"

Rodriguez only grinned, baring teeth like he was a beast, too hungry. He crouched beside Drake, his voice dripping with mockery. "On your own, you would have been meat for the beasts, our dear leader. But… I'll lend you my devouring magic. Stand, and let's kill this wretch together."

Drake, though battered, felt a surge of grim resolve. He clenched his fists, forcing himself upright, leaning on Rodriguez's dark presence. "Fine. Together."

The Warchief roared, charging with its axe.

Rodriguez stepped forward first, Abyssal Blade sweeping in a wide arc. Shadows uncoiled from it like living things, devouring the air. The axe met blade, and for the first time, the Warchief staggered—the devouring magic eating into its corrupted runes, unraveling their power.

Drake seized the moment. With nothing but sheer force of will, he summoned his secondary blade—a shorter greatsword he had carried but rarely used. He charged alongside Rodriguez, his strikes now fueled by the rhythm of devouring shadows wrapping around him.

The battle turned brutal.

The Warchief swung wildly, cleaving chunks of earth, its monstrous strength tearing craters. But Rodriguez danced around it, each stroke of his Abyssal Blade leaving streaks of devoured flesh, black scars crawling across the orc's hide. Drake followed in the openings, hacking at its legs, its ribs, driving it back blow by blow.

Still, the beast was relentless. With a bellow, it slammed the ground, sending a shockwave that blasted both men off their feet. It lunged at Drake, claws extended—but Rodriguez's shadows intercepted, forming tendrils that coiled around the orc's arms, dragging it back.

"Now, leader!" Rodriguez hissed.

ARGHH!!!

Drake roared, pouring every ounce of his strength into a final charge. He leapt high, his greatsword raised overhead, and brought it down into the Warchief's exposed neck. The blade bit deep, carving through muscle and bone. The beast howled, thrashing, but Rodriguez's Abyssal Blade struck simultaneously, piercing its chest.

Together, their combined strike erupted into devouring force. Shadows and lightning exploded outward, tearing through the Warchief's body, consuming flesh, bone, and spirit alike.

The Orc Warchief's scream echoed across the battlefield before its body collapsed into ash and ruin, devoured entirely.

Silence followed. Then, the orc ranks faltered. Their leader was dead, their will shattered. Eldoria's warriors roared, pressing the advantage, slaughtering the scattered orcs with renewed vigor.

Drake staggered, leaning on his sword, his chest heaving. Rodriguez sheathed his Abyssal Blade, his grin unsettling as ever.

"Not bad," the Devouring King mused. "You nearly died like a dog, but you rose. Remember this feeling, Grey—strength comes from devouring weakness."

Drake scowled but nodded, too exhausted to argue. For now, the battlefield had one less monster.

The Orc Warchief was no more.