The ancient clearing became an arena of death as two chiefs circled each other like predators sizing up their prey. Centuries-old trees bore witness to their deadly dance, their massive trunks scarred by the raw spiritual energy radiating from the combatants. The very air crackled with tension so thick it seemed solid, and even the forest's natural sounds fell silent in reverence—or terror.
Sarion's crimson skin gleamed with perspiration, his single horn casting a wicked shadow across his face as golden sunlight filtered through the canopy above. Across from him, Vorgrim's blue flesh rippled with barely contained rage, his twin horns gleaming like polished sapphires. Both chiefs had shed their casual demeanor, revealing the primal killers beneath their leadership facades.
"You know, Sarion," Vorgrim snarled, rolling his massive shoulders, "I always wondered which of us was stronger. Today, we finally get our answer."
"Today," Sarion replied, his voice carrying the finality of a death sentence, "you die for threatening my family."
The words had barely left his lips when Vorgrim exploded into motion. His fist, easily the size of a boulder, cut through the air with whistling speed. Sarion twisted sideways, the punch grazing his cheek and tearing away a strip of flesh that painted the ground crimson. Before Vorgrim could retract his arm, Sarion's counter-attack came like lightning—a vicious uppercut that caught the blue chief under the ribs.
The impact sounded like thunder rolling across the mountains. Vorgrim's feet left the ground, but he twisted mid-air, using his momentum to bring his knee crashing toward Sarion's skull. The Crimson chief barely managed to raise both arms in defense, the blow driving him backward with bone-jarring force. His heels carved twin furrows in the earth as he slid to a stop, blood trickling from where his own arms had been driven against his face.
"First blood to me," Vorgrim laughed, wiping Sarion's crimson essence from his knuckles. "How poetic."
Sarion spat a mouthful of blood onto the forest floor, his eyes never leaving his opponent. "First blood means nothing. Last blood wins the war."
They crashed together again like colliding avalanches. Vorgrim's massive fist sought Sarion's throat, but the red chief ducked low, his own punch driving deep into Vorgrim's solar plexus. The blue ogre doubled over, gasping, only to straighten immediately with a devastating headbutt that caught Sarion square in the face.
Cartilage crunched sickeningly as Sarion's nose exploded in a spray of gore. He staggered backward, vision blurring, but muscle memory kept him moving. Vorgrim pressed his advantage, a haymaker aimed at taking his rival's head clean off. Sarion dropped to one knee, the punch whistling over his horn, then drove his fist upward into Vorgrim's exposed armpit.
The blue chief screamed as Sarion's knuckles found the nerve cluster, his entire left arm going momentarily numb. But pain only fueled his rage. His good arm swung down like a club, catching Sarion across the temple and sending him sprawling into the underbrush.
Thorns tore at Sarion's flesh as he rolled through the vegetation, leaving crimson streaks on every branch. He came to his feet just as Vorgrim's boot crashed into his ribs. The sound of bones cracking echoed through the clearing, and Sarion felt at least two ribs give way. Agony lanced through his torso, but he grabbed Vorgrim's extended leg and twisted with all his strength.
Vorgrim toppled backward, but he used his fall to scissor his legs around Sarion's waist. The blue chief's thighs, thick as tree trunks, began to constrict like a python's coils. Sarion felt his spine compress, vertebrae grinding together as the pressure built. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.
Desperation gave him strength. Sarion brought both fists down on Vorgrim's knee—once, twice, three times. On the fourth impact, something gave way with a wet popping sound. Vorgrim's scream of agony shattered the forest's silence as his leg bent at an unnatural angle. His grip loosened just enough for Sarion to tear free, gasping for air.
Both chiefs struggled to their feet, blood streaming from multiple wounds. Vorgrim's left leg dragged uselessly, while Sarion clutched his ribs, each breath sending fresh waves of fire through his chest. They were no longer the proud leaders who had entered this clearing—they were wounded animals fighting for survival.
"You... bastard," Vorgrim panted, favoring his good leg. "You broke... my fucking knee."
"Good," Sarion wheezed, blood frothing at his lips. "Now you'll die... slowly."
They came together again, but their movements were slower now, more deliberate. Vorgrim's punch caught Sarion in the shoulder, the impact spinning him around. Sarion used the momentum to drive his elbow backward, catching Vorgrim in the floating ribs. Both chiefs separated, circling like wounded wolves.
Vorgrim feinted left, then lunged right, his hands seeking Sarion's throat. But the red chief had been expecting it. He stepped inside Vorgrim's reach and drove his knee upward with devastating force. The blow caught Vorgrim directly in the groin, lifting him off his feet and dropping him to his knees, retching.
Sarion grabbed two handfuls of Vorgrim's hair and brought his knee up again, this time aiming for the blue chief's face. But Vorgrim wasn't finished. Even through his agony, he managed to grab Sarion's leg and bite down on his thigh with fangs meant for tearing flesh.
Sarion's howl of pain and rage echoed through the forest as Vorgrim's teeth sank deep, grinding against bone. Hot blood poured down his leg, but he used the pain to fuel his next attack. His fist came down like a sledgehammer on the back of Vorgrim's skull, the impact reverberating through both their bodies.
Vorgrim's teeth tore free, taking a chunk of Sarion's flesh with them. The blue chief spat out the bloody meat and grinned up at his rival, his mouth painted crimson. "You taste... like fear."
"And you taste like death," Sarion snarled back, blood streaming from the savage bite wound.
They separated again, both chiefs swaying on their feet. The clearing looked like a slaughterhouse—blood soaked into the earth, painting the ancient roots of the watching trees. Both warriors were operating on pure willpower now, their bodies pushed far beyond normal limits.
Vorgrim made the first move, a desperate charge despite his mangled leg. Sarion met him head-on, and they grappled like titans from legend. Vorgrim's hands found Sarion's throat, fingers digging into the soft flesh. Sarion responded by driving his thumbs toward Vorgrim's eyes, seeking to blind his enemy permanently.
They crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs, rolling through their own blood. Vorgrim's grip on Sarion's throat tightened, cutting off his air supply. Sarion's vision began to tunnel, but his thumbs pressed deeper into Vorgrim's eye sockets. The blue chief screamed and jerked his head back, but not before Sarion's thumb punctured his left eye with a wet, nauseating sound.
Vorgrim's agonized shriek filled the clearing as vitreous fluid streamed down his cheek. His grip on Sarion's throat loosened, and the red chief sucked in desperate gasps of air. But Vorgrim wasn't finished—his remaining eye blazed with insane fury as he brought his forehead crashing down into Sarion's already broken nose.
The impact sent fresh explosions of pain through Sarion's skull, but he managed to roll away before Vorgrim could follow up. Both chiefs struggled to their feet once more, their movements increasingly erratic. Vorgrim's destroyed eye wept tears of blood, while Sarion's face was a mask of gore from his pulverized nose.
"Look at us," Vorgrim laughed bitterly, swaying on his feet. "Two chiefs... reduced to this. Is your family... worth dying for?"
"They're worth killing for," Sarion replied, his voice barely recognizable through his ruined features. "And that's exactly... what I'm going to do."
The final exchange came without warning. Both chiefs lunged forward simultaneously, their remaining strength poured into one last, desperate attack. Sarion's fist sought Vorgrim's heart while the blue chief's hand reached for Sarion's throat, intending to crush his windpipe once and for all.
Time seemed to slow as they collided.
Sarion felt Vorgrim's fingers close around his neck, cutting off his breath. But his own fist found its target first—driving deep into Vorgrim's chest with enough force to crack his sternum. He felt the blue chief's ribs give way like kindling, and then his knuckles punched through into the soft tissue beneath.
Vorgrim's eye widened in shock as he felt Sarion's fist tear through his chest cavity. Blood erupted from his mouth in a crimson geyser, painting Sarion's face with gore. His grip on Sarion's throat loosened and fell away as his body began to convulse.
"Impossible," Vorgrim whispered, blood frothing at his lips. "A chief... cannot die... to another..."
"Watch and learn," Sarion gasped, his voice barely a whisper through his crushed throat.
He twisted his embedded fist, feeling Vorgrim's heart rupture like an overripe fruit. The blue chief's body went rigid for one final moment, then collapsed like a puppet with severed strings. His remaining eye stared sightlessly at the canopy above, while blood continued to pool beneath his still form.
Sarion stood over his fallen enemy, swaying dangerously. His fist was still buried wrist-deep in Vorgrim's chest, blood streaming down his arm in crimson rivers. With tremendous effort, he pulled his hand free, bringing with it fragments of bone and tissue that painted the ground in gore.
"For... my family," he wheezed, before his own legs gave out and he collapsed beside his enemy's corpse.
The ancient clearing fell silent once more, save for Sarion's labored breathing and the steady drip of blood from countless wounds. The Yin Clan's chief was dead, his body already growing cold in the dappled sunlight. But Sarion lived—barely—his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.
In the distance, Veryan's voice called out, "Chief! Chief!" But Sarion could barely hear it over the roaring in his ears. The battle was won, but the cost had been terrible. As consciousness began to fade, his last coherent thought was of Bria and their newborn son, safe in their village.
The reign of the Yin Clan was over, ended in blood and bone in a forest clearing that would forever remember the day two chiefs fought to the death. Only one had risen, and only barely. But in the world of ogres, survival was victory enough.