A deep, guttural roar tore through Volk’s throat as he staggered to his feet, fury burning like molten steel in his veins.

The raw, primal rage within him boiled over, a force that refused to be contained, swelling with each blow, with each pulse of pain.

His muscles bulged larger, fibers stretching under the relentless pressure of his own wrath.

He could feel his strength multiplying, the sensation like an unending tide crashing within his core, driving him to rise, to fight harder, to destroy anything that dared stand in his path.

But the Death Monarch only laughed, his mirth a twisted melody that filled the air, echoing off the shadowed cliffs and broken stones surrounding them.

His bony hands flickered in the air, weaving intricate patterns as he called forth more undead monstrosities.

Massive skeletal warriors, some towering above Volk, emerged from fissures in the earth, their bones fused with shadow and enchanted metal that radiated dark energy.

Snarling hounds with empty, flame-lit eyes bounded toward Volk, their jaws dripping with black, corrosive drool that hissed as it splattered against the ground.

“YES!” the Death Monarch shrieked, voice crackling with madness.

“Rage, beast! Feed that endless fury! Each drop of blood, every howl of agony—it only makes you stronger, doesn’t it?” He extended a skeletal finger, sending a pulse of dark magic toward Volk. “Let’s see just how deep this rage runs!”

As Volk took a shuddering step forward, a sickly green bolt of magic struck his chest, crackling against his skin like acid.

The magic dug deep, searing through layers of muscle, burning its way to the bone.

A guttural growl escaped him, his massive fists clenching as he stumbled but refused to fall. His eyes blazed red with rage, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought against the intense pain.

Yet, with each ounce of torment, his body responded, pulsing with more strength, his muscles hardening like iron, his skin tightening, regenerating around the wound even as the pain continued to pulse.

The Death Monarch’s laughter only grew, his skeletal form twitching in sheer ecstasy.

“Marvelous!” he spat, watching as Volk’s very being absorbed the pain, transmuting it into power.

“More! Let’s see how much more you can take!”

Another flick of his wrist, and a shimmering bolt of necrotic energy blasted from his hand.

It struck Volk in the leg, tearing into his flesh, charring the skin and exposing the muscle beneath.

Volk roared in agony, the sound reverberating through the night like thunder.

Yet, as he struggled to keep upright, his flesh began to knit itself back together, thicker, stronger, the new muscle coiling with raw power.

“Come on, brute!” the Death Monarch taunted, his eyes gleaming with wicked delight.

“Does that hurt? Or is that just another fuel for the fire?”

He lifted his hand, his fingers crackling with dark energy, and loosed a barrage of smaller spells.

Each one was a shard of concentrated pain—small, quick, but devastating, tearing into Volk like barbs. His arms, his torso, his legs—all seared with fresh wounds as the magic bit into him.

Yet with every blast, with every strike, Volk grew larger, his rage swelling, eclipsing the pain.

The ogre’s form quaked, his breathing now a guttural, booming noise that rattled his chest.

He planted one massive foot into the ground, the earth trembling as his strength surged, unstoppable.

His eyes gleamed, blazing with unfiltered fury, a fury that knew no bounds, that refused to be quenched.

The Death Monarch’s excitement was now nearing frenzy. His skeletal form quivered, hands weaving new spells with fervor, his eyes gleaming with wild joy.

“Yes! YES!” he shrieked, now casting larger and stronger spells with each pulse of Volk’s wrath. “You are indeed a wonder, a glorious beast of rage! Each spell—each flicker of agony—only fans the flames, doesn’t it?”

He raised both hands high, and dark energy crackled around him, forming into dense orbs that radiated menace, swirling with concentrated malice.

With a cackle, he loosed the orbs, each one streaking toward Volk like a falling star.

They exploded upon impact, erupting in plumes of vile green and purple fire, tearing fresh wounds into Volk’s flesh.

The pain seared, white-hot and unrelenting, yet Volk did not falter. The wounds closed almost as fast as they opened, the magic fueling the regeneration, feeding his rage.

The Death Monarch watched in delight, his face twisted into a grin so wide it threatened to split his skull. He was consumed with fascination, his laughter bubbling up uncontrollably.

“Incredible! Truly incredible! Tell me, brute—does it hurt? Or does it simply make you stronger? Do you even know the limits of your rage? Can it carry you to the ends of power itself?”

He took a step forward, his skeletal feet scraping the earth. “Perhaps I need to bring out more. Yes… more to test the very boundaries of your might!”

Summoning another spell, he twisted his hands, summoning an enormous wave of dark energy that swept across the ground like a tidal wave.

Volk was engulfed, his body battered by the crashing wave of necromantic power, but as it washed over him, his strength surged even further, each new injury another reason for his wrath to swell.

The ground quaked under his weight as he roared, his voice echoing across the landscape, shaking the very stones beneath them.

“YES!” the Death Monarch screeched, his voice a fevered pitch. “Fight, ogre! Rise from the ashes of your own pain and show me the true might of your fury!”

…

On the other hand, the jeering laughter of the Death Monarch echoed, taunting Volk with every bone-chilling cackle.

Each spell the Death Monarch cast felt like another insult, another challenge, his dark magic swirling around Volk as if the ogre was some pet under his control. But Volk was no one’s pet.

Through the haze of fury and pain, memories began to surface—fragmented, blurred by rage but clear enough to feel, clear enough to cut into him deeper than any dark spell ever could.

In his past life, he’d been weak.

Fragile.

He remembered that narrow hospital bed, the one he’d practically lived in, and the sterile white walls that he couldn’t escape from.

He could still feel the cold metal of the wheelchair that had been his prison, trapping him in a body too frail to fight back.

He’d been born with bones that could snap, lungs that labored for every breath, muscles that refused to carry him. And in that life, he was ignored, shoved aside, treated as though he were invisible or worse—as if he were nothing.

He remembered the cruel laughter of children, the taunts of “cripple” thrown his way with no remorse.

The adults had been no better, their pity-filled eyes stinging more than any insult ever could.

He’d seen their looks, their soft, meaningless words of sympathy that they didn’t mean, only offered because they felt they had to.

They looked at him and saw someone weak, someone to be pitied, someone incapable.

In his chest, something coiled tighter, a well of bitterness and fury that had waited a lifetime to burst.

And here he was again—mocked, underestimated, treated as if he were still that helpless boy in the wheelchair.

The Death Monarch’s twisted smirk, his hollow laughter, the way he looked down on Volk like he was no more than an insect to be toyed with—it was too much.

The memory of all that weakness, all that indignity, clashed with the towering power he felt now, this strength that raged inside him, begging to be unleashed.

His breath came in deep, shuddering gulps, his chest heaving as every fiber of his being burned.

He clenched his fists, his fingers digging into his palms, drawing blood, the pain mingling with the raw fury boiling within him. And then, he threw his head back, his voice a primal roar that shook the air itself.

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“DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE—VOOOOOOLLLK!”

The sound echoed across the battlefield, thunderous, defiant.

The power within him ignited like wildfire, racing through his veins with such intensity that his vision blurred.

His muscles surged, every inch of his massive form swelling with newfound strength, the sheer force of it tearing through his skin, which regenerated instantly, stronger than before.

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