Chapter 118: Demonic Assassin vs Morvat, the Orc General

Luke stood at the center of the orc village, deep within the forest. Rain poured down in sheets, hammering the ground like thousands of needles. Beside him, Charlie gripped her sword. In front of them stood Morvat — the Orc General. The strongest opponent they had ever faced. More lethal than any captain whose broken bodies now lay scattered in the mud.

The general breathed heavily. Every time his eyes fell on the corpses of his own, his jaw clenched tighter. Steam began to rise from his skin, the rain evaporating before it could even touch him.

Then came the roar. Raw. Guttural. Savage. A crimson aura exploded around him, bursting into flames that erupted straight from his body. This wasn’t just energy. This was fire — living fire that spread in waves, clinging to wooden planks, rooftops, trees. Flames devoured torches until they disintegrated into ash.

Morvat began to grow. His muscles swelled, veins bulging like thick, pulsing ropes. Bones snapped and shifted with sickening cracks as his body stretched, rising to nearly five meters tall. Berserker Mode was active.

The air itself warped. Pressure shifted. The wind swirled, dragging mud, leaves, and shards of broken wood into the vortex. The ground buckled beneath his feet, cracking in all directions. What stood before them was no longer a general. It was a cataclysm shaped like an orc.

Luke swallowed hard. He knew exactly what this monster represented.

Then Morvat charged.

Luke closed his eyes. He dropped his kukris, letting them sink into the mud. The entire world shrank. Sounds vanished. Everything turned hollow, muffled. The only thing left was the pounding in his skull, the pressure behind his eyes, the metallic taste of blood running from his nose.

His awareness collapsed into a suffocating sphere where only the present existed. Inside it, he felt everything — the stench of scorched air, the faint tremor in the ground with every step the enemy took, the suffocating heat of that burning aura closing in like a giant predator.

He raised his fists.

Strength.

That was the word hammering in his mind. If he could refine his perception… then he could do the same with strength. The human body had always modulated force by instinct — just enough to hold a feather, or enough to swing a blade. Subconscious control.

But now he was pushing that to the limit. To unnatural levels. And he succeeded. His stamina bar plummeted — even while standing still. His body devoured energy like never before. Every muscle clenched at maximum tension. Every fiber strained, seconds from tearing apart.

The impact came. Morvat lunged like a living avalanche. Luke moved too. Their fists collided — the shockwave split the air, sending mud and debris flying in a brutal blast of pressure. Luke’s feet sank deep into the ground. Earth shattered beneath him. But he didn’t fall. He didn’t back down.

Morvat’s eyes widened, overtaken for a moment by something dangerously close to disbelief. Luke stared right back. Blood ran from his nose. His eyes were bloodshot, veins pulsing, ready to burst. He drew his other fist back to his chest, then snapped it forward in a sharp gesture, beckoning the enemy.

“I thought you were stronger than that.”

The provocation stabbed like a knife. Morvat roared again. His muscles swelled even further. The aura flared, thickening into something almost liquid, devouring everything — stamina, mana, control. Exactly what Luke wanted. The angrier he got, the faster he burned himself out. But the price was shared. Luke could feel his own limits cracking. His stamina drained at an unsustainable pace. His mind vibrated on the edge of collapse.

And then, both of them lunged. Morvat’s fist came down, heavy as a steel block. Luke crossed his arms to block, his bracers trembling under the impact. The blow punched through his guard and shoved his body back. He was hurled across the mud, sliding through dirt and stones until he planted his feet, forced his weight down, and stopped himself. His chest heaved. His muscles trembled. But he was still standing. And that was all that mattered.

The hit fractured bones, but Luke didn’t retreat. He spat blood and charged again. The ground could no longer hold the rain. Every drop evaporated in the hellish heat the fight had unleashed. Morvat’s fists weren’t just punches anymore. They were earthquakes. Shockwaves of compressed air that rattled the earth. And every time Luke blocked, it felt impossible that he could survive the next one.

Off to the side, Charlie didn’t attack. She waited. She knew this wasn’t a fight where the strongest won. It was a fight where the one who endured the longest survived. Then she saw the opening—and moved. Her fist slipped past Morvat’s guard and struck straight into his ribs. The sharp crack of breaking bones echoed, frozen in the air. The general staggered, eyes wide, panting like an enraged bull. But he turned, swinging his arm like a warhammer. The blow caught Charlie square in the chest and sent her flying.

She skidded through the mud, rolled, and sprang to her feet the next instant—already back with her blade in hand, pure fury in her eyes. Morvat’s roar came with an explosion of fire. The trees around them bent under the pressure. Flames spread outward, forming a ring of destruction that sealed them in. Then darkness fell. A black mist tore across the battlefield. Above, Luke appeared like a specter—cloak flared open, black wings projected behind him, his eyes sharp as blades.

“Fall back!” he commanded. “You know what to do.”

Charlie jumped back without argument. Luke dove like an arrow. His fist crashed into Morvat’s chest, driving the monster back two full meters. The general refused to accept it. He roared and charged on all fours like a rabid beast. He moved like a twisted gorilla, fists slamming into the ground, tearing craters into the earth as he ran.

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Luke tried to dodge. Too late. The headbutt exploded against his abdomen. His body shot backward, smashing through trees, ripping through branches until he vanished into the wreckage. When he tried to breathe, nothing came. Only the smell of burnt wood and the metallic taste of his own blood registered.

He forced his eyes up. Morvat was already on him. The punch came down like a sledgehammer. Luke crossed his arms—heat, pressure, pain. A relentless barrage of strikes hammered everything: ground, stone, flesh. And nearly him along with it.

In the razor-thin gap between two blows, Luke reacted. His knee shot up, smashing into Morvat’s chest, knocking the giant half a step back. In the same motion, Luke spun, unleashing a roundhouse kick that crashed square into the orc’s jaw. Morvat flew. His body tore through tree trunks, carving a trench of destruction for dozens of meters.