His nose shattered. Blood streamed. His vision blurred from the impact.

They separated, both critically wounded now.

Marcus’s broken nose was bleeding profusely, his face a mask of blood. Skar’s side wound was mortal if not treated immediately, his arm barely functional.

"Last... exchange," Skar gasped through pain. "We both... know this."

"Yes," Marcus replied, his voice distorted by his broken nose. "One of us dies. Maybe both."

"Honorable... combat," Skar managed. "You fought... well."

"As did you. Best opponent I’ve faced."

They charged simultaneously, both knowing this was the final moment.

Marcus put everything into one overhead strike—a classical execution designed to split an opponent’s skull. His training, his experience, his remaining strength all channeled into one perfect blow.

Skar used his last reserves of serpentfolk speed to dodge left, his serpentine body twisting impossibly. The blade missed his head by inches.

But Skar’s dodge positioned him perfectly for his own final strike.

His spear thrust aimed for Marcus’s heart, punching through the gap between chest plate and shoulder armor with deadly precision.

The spear penetrated deep, finding the human captain’s heart.

Marcus died in three seconds, heart pierced, his body falling forward even as his brain processed death.

But Marcus’s falling body—still holding his drawn sword—created one final tragedy.

As he fell, the sword came down with him, driven by gravity and weight. The blade caught Skar’s neck in what was pure accident, not intent.

The edge opened Skar’s throat. Blood fountained.

Skar tried to speak, tried to claim victory, but only blood came from his mouth. He collapsed beside Marcus’s body, his hands trying desperately to close the throat wound.

He died in seven seconds, drowning in his own blood.

Western Sector Duel Result:

Captain Marcus: KILLED (heart pierced by spear)Skar: KILLED (throat cut by Marcus’s falling sword - accidental strike)Mutual elimination through combat skill and tragic luck

The serpentfolk warriors who’d witnessed their chief’s death let out hissing screams of grief and absolute fury. Skar had been more than a commander—he’d been the tribe’s leader, the serpentfolk community’s patriarch, the one who’d guided them through integration into the settlement.

His death was personal for every serpentfolk present.

They threw themselves at human soldiers with complete abandonment of tactical sense, fighting purely on vengeance and suicidal courage.

The human soldiers—equally shocked by Captain Marcus’s death—responded with savage intensity.

The western sector battle devolved into brutal close-quarters slaughter on both sides.

Northern Sector: Colonel Vras vs. Urgak

Colonel Vras was the Church army’s heavy infantry specialist—a massive man standing six-foot-four, weighing two hundred eighty pounds of muscle and scar tissue. At forty-nine years old, he’d spent thirty-one years fighting in the Church’s wars.

He wore heavy plate armor reinforced at all joints, carried a blessed mace that could crush skulls through helmets, and moved with the ponderous inevitability of a siege engine.

Urgak was the orc shock troop leader—seven feet tall, three hundred twenty pounds of green-skinned fury. He’d led orc warriors for forty-three years, fighting in tribal wars before joining the settlement.

He wore thick leather armor studded with iron, carried a two-handed war axe that required supernatural strength to wield, and fought with orc battle rage that made him nearly unstoppable once engaged.

When these two titans met, the ground itself seemed to shake.

"ORC!" Vras bellowed, his voice like thunder. "Face me! Prove your kind can fight as well as you boast!"

"HUMAN!" Urgak roared back, his tusked mouth twisted in a battle-grin. "I’ve killed forty-seven humans in this war! You’ll be forty-eight!"

They charged simultaneously, two unstoppable forces colliding with catastrophic impact.

Vras’s blessed mace swung in a horizontal arc, aimed at Urgak’s ribs with force that could cave in steel plate.

Urgak’s war axe descended vertically, aimed at Vras’s head with enough power to split stone.

The weapons struck simultaneously—mace to ribs, axe to head.

Urgak’s thick leather armor absorbed some of the mace’s impact, but the blessed weapon’s holy energy burned through the protection. Two ribs cracked. Pain exploded through his side.

Vras’s heavy helmet deflected the axe blade, but the sheer force drove his head sideways violently. His neck vertebrae compressed. His vision blurred from the impact.

Both fighters staggered back, both wounded from the first exchange.

"STRONG!" Urgak laughed despite broken ribs, his battle-rage building. "GOOD FIGHT!"

"TOUGH!" Vras acknowledged, his neck screaming in pain. "THIS WILL BE WORTHY!"

They crashed together again.

This time Vras fought defensively, using his armored shoulders to absorb Urgak’s axe strikes while his mace targeted the orc’s legs, trying to cripple mobility.

Urgak recognized the tactic and countered with pure aggression, his axe strikes becoming faster, heavier, more numerous. If Vras wanted to trade blows, Urgak would simply hit harder and more often.

The mace caught Urgak’s left knee—a crushing blow that shattered the kneecap. Urgak bellowed in pain but didn’t fall, his orc constitution allowing him to fight through injuries that would cripple humans.

The axe caught Vras’s shoulder, cutting through armor straps and biting into the flesh beneath. The blessed mace fell from Vras’s hand as his right arm went weak from the shoulder wound.

Both fighters were seriously wounded now, but neither retreated.

Vras drew a hand-axe from his belt with his left hand, his right arm hanging useless. "Still standing, orc!"

Urgak shifted his two-handed axe to one-hand grip, his shattered knee forcing him to fight from a more stationary position. "Still breathing, human!"

They engaged in brutal close-quarters combat, both warriors fighting through catastrophic injuries through sheer willpower.

Vras’s hand-axe was smaller, faster, designed for close work. He used it to devastating effect, cutting Urgak’s arm, slashing his thigh, opening wounds that bled heavily.

Urgak’s one-handed axe work was less controlled but more vicious. Every strike carried killing power. His blade caught Vras’s side, cutting through armor, breaking ribs, opening a deep wound.

They grappled, weapons abandoned, fighting with fists and rage.

Urgak’s massive fist struck Vras’s jaw, breaking bone, sending teeth flying.

Vras’s armored headbutt caught Urgak’s nose, shattering it, blood streaming down the orc’s face.