Ascension of the Outlander

The battlefield was chaos.

Smoke choked the air, thick with the scent of blood and burning flesh. Bodies lay scattered, some twitching, others eerily still, their lifeless eyes staring into the void. The ground was slick with gore, turning the dirt into a crimson swamp that clung to Alex's boots as he struggled to stay upright.

He had fought before. He had killed before. But never like this.

Never with death so absolute, so consuming.

His arms trembled, the weight of his sword unbearable. His muscles burned, his breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. His body was telling him to stop, to drop his weapon, to run.

But he couldn't.

Mira was still fighting.

Roderic was still standing.

And the enemy was still coming.

The Blackfangs were relentless, their forces like a tide that refused to recede. Even after the slaughter, even after losing so many men, they kept pushing forward.

And then—

He came.

The battlefield seemed to pause.

The moment Vaelin Korr stepped onto the blood-soaked field, the world itself seemed to recoil.

Unlike the frenzied warriors he commanded, Vaelin did not charge.

He walked.

With every step, the weight of his Essence grew heavier, pressing down on the battlefield like an invisible storm. His long, curved blade rested at his side, gleaming unblemished despite the carnage around him.

His cold, calculating eyes swept over the battlefield before finally landing on Alex.

"You," he said, his voice carrying through the chaos like a death sentence.

Alex felt his stomach drop.

"You're the one who led that pathetic raid on my men."

Vaelin tilted his head, as if studying a pest beneath his boot.

"I was wondering if you were worth killing myself."

Then he moved.

Faster than Alex could react.

One moment, Vaelin was standing feet away. The next—

Agony.

The force of the strike sent Alex flying.

His sword tumbled from his grip as his body crashed into the dirt, the impact forcing the breath from his lungs. A burning pain tore through his chest, blood soaking through his clothes.

Alex gasped, his vision blurring.

His body wouldn't move.

His sword was gone.

Vaelin's footsteps echoed as he slowly approached.

"This is the difference between us," Vaelin said, his tone neither mocking nor cruel—just factual.

"You are nothing."

Alex's chest heaved.

He tried to push himself up, but his arms wouldn't respond. His fingers clawed weakly at the dirt, his breath ragged.

This was it.

This was how he died.

All his training. All his struggle. All his pain.

It meant nothing.

Vaelin raised his sword, the blade gleaming with finality.

"Let me show you the fate of the weak."

Then he swung.

And in that moment—

Something snapped inside Alex.

A pulse.

A deep, primal force awoke within his chest, colder than death, vast as the abyss itself.

Something that had always been there.

Waiting.

The world went black.

The battlefield froze.

Shadows erupted from Alex's motionless body.

They didn't slither like smoke.

They surged.

A massive wave of pure darkness exploded outward, swallowing everything in its path.

The Blackfang warriors had no time to scream.

The moment the shadows touched them, their bodies stiffened, their eyes going wide with terror.

Their Essence ripped away in an instant.

Their bodies withered, their souls devoured by the abyssal force that Alex had unleashed.

And then—silence.

Half the battlefield was gone.

Not burned. Not destroyed.

Just… gone.

The shadows retracted, slithering back into Alex like a living entity, vanishing as if they had never existed.

The ground where the Blackfang warriors had once stood was now a barren, lifeless void.

Their corpses lay scattered, their faces frozen in silent horror, their flesh untouched but their lives utterly erased.

And at the center of it all—

Alex collapsed.

The battlefield was unnaturally quiet.

The remaining Blackfangs—those who had been lucky enough to not be caught in the abyss—stood paralyzed, their faces pale with horror.

Even the most savage among them trembled.

They didn't just fear death.

They feared what had just happened.

What had erased their comrades without a single wound?

And that's when they did something unthinkable.

They ran.

The infamous Blackfang warriors—murderers, raiders, slavers—fled like children before a monster.

Their retreat turned into a desperate, scrambling panic, men tripping over each other, shoving, fighting to escape the battlefield of shadows.

But one man did not run.

One man remained standing.

Vaelin Korr, the blackfangs leader, did not move.

He did not speak.

He only stared at Alex's unconscious body, his grip on his sword tightening.

A slow, humorless chuckle escaped his lips.

"This…" he muttered, his voice lower, more measured. "This is something else."

Mira and Roderic forced themselves to stand, stepping in front of Alex's fallen form.

Vaelin's cold gaze shifted to them.

"You're still here?" His smirk returned, though it was smaller, tighter.

Mira wiped the blood from her mouth. "You're not taking him."

Vaelin tilted his head.

"And what exactly are you going to do to stop me?"

His Essence surged, dark energy crackling around his blade.

Roderic's grip on his greatsword tightened. "We'll do what we must."

Vaelin's smirk widened. "Good."

He flicked his blade, the air humming with power.

"Then let's finish this."

And with that—

The final battle began.