The surf crashed violently against the bloodstained shore. The tide lapped hungrily at the corpses strewn across the sand, nameless men whose lives had been swallowed by the chaos of battle. The air was thick with salt, sweat, and the copper stench of freshly spilled entrails. Only two remained.

One, a Valusian mercenary, average in height, lean, scarred, and gasping for breath. His left eye had swollen shut, his body a tapestry of fresh wounds. Blood—some his, some not—ran in rivulets down his bare arms. His sword, chipped and trembling in his grip, felt heavier than it had ever been. His enemy loomed before him.

A giant of an Atlantean, more a beast than a man, seven and a half feet of corded muscle and raw hatred. His chest heaved, his breath coming in ragged snarls. The war paint streaking his face had long since been lost beneath a mask of blood, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—glowed with an unnatural malice. He was a son of the Tiger Skulls, one of the southern war-tribes who drank from the skulls of their enemies and believed the spirits of slain warriors burned in their veins.

The two men circled each other, slow and measured, like wolves sniffing for weakness. Then, a ripple of inhuman fury contorted the Atlantean’s face, and with a shriek that sounded more beast than man, he charged. The world became a storm of flashing steel.

The Atlantean swung both his swords—massive, crude things hammered together from the weapons of lesser men. Each strike crashed down with the force of a landslide, forcing the Valusian onto the backfoot. Every parry sent painful shocks through his arms. The sand betrayed his footing. He stumbled, staggered—his defense cracking. He barely caught a downward swing meant to split him in two, but the angle left him exposed. A second later, his ribs screamed as steel sliced through leather and into flesh. He gasped, eyes wide, staggering backward.

The Atlantean let loose a barking laugh and lunged in for the kill. And then— Fate intervened. The Valusian’s foot caught a corpse beneath him. He toppled backward, his sword jerking upward as he fell. The Atlantean, lost in bloodlust, didn’t stop. He barreled forward, bringing all his weight down in a final, crushing strike—and impaled himself upon the Valusian’s outstretched blade. The impact drove the sword through the giant’s midsection, straight up to the hilt. For one terrible moment, neither man moved. Then, to the Valusian’s growing horror, the Atlantean did not die. He let out a ragged, animalistic growl. His lips peeled back from bloodied teeth. And with slow, terrifying determination, he pulled himself further down the blade—inch by agonizing inch. His hands found the mercenary’s throat, squeezing, strangling, his ruined face a rictus of hate. The Valusian thrashed, fought, struggled. His fingers found the dagger hidden at his wrist. Desperation overtook thought, and he stabbed. Once. Twice. Three times. Into the Atlantean’s neck. Into his eyes. Into his brain. Even that took too long. Only when the giant’s weight collapsed onto him, pinning him beneath, did the warrior of Valusia finally understand that he had won. The battle was over. He sucked in ragged gulps of air.

“Valkas’ bones!” he wheezed.

“You massive dog!”

Still, it took him far too long to shove the corpse off of him. He rose shakily, knees nearly buckling. Hands on his thighs, he spat blood onto the sand, collecting himself. He had survived. And now, finally, he could go home. But first, his sword. He turned. And froze. Seventy-five Atlantean warriors stood before him. Silent. Still. Watching. All of them were massive. All of them bore the same primal stillness as the beast he had just slain.

Their bodies were streaked with war paint, their faces unreadable. One among them stepped forward. He was just as enormous, just as bloodthirsty, yet he did not attack. He only smiled—a slow, deliberate, malicious smile—and drew his own weapons: a heavy broadsword and a wickedly curved dagger.

The message was clear. The mercenary let out a long, agonized sigh. He groaned, rolled his eyes, and spat in the sand. Then, gripping his sword, he straightened his back and grinned—a sneer full of the same arrogance that had carried him through a hundred unwinnable fights. The Atlantean said something in his guttural tongue, a language the mercenary did not understand. But words were meaningless now.

The Valusian simply smirked, took a deep breath, and let out the most disrespectful, unbothered belch he could summon from his gut.

Then, with all the confidence of a man who knew he was absolutely doomed, he bellowed:

“Yeeeeeeah! Devil’s eat you to the bone once we are done, beast! I can do this all day!”

And then,

sword flashing,

he charged.