Kragath groaned, clutching his ribs as he sat up, his labored breathing echoing in the tense silence.

The surrounding Orcs remained frozen, their gazes fixed on the two warriors.

Then, with a grunt of effort, Kragath muttered, “Okay.” He extended a hand as if accepting defeat and offering peace.

Volk nodded, letting out a small sigh of relief. “You’ve made the right choice,” he began, taking a step forward. But as he reached out, Kragath’s fingers twitched.

Suddenly—SWOOSH!

The arena-hardened Orc lunged forward with a speed that belied his injuries. His fingers curled into claws, aiming for Volk’s throat.

The crowd gasped, their collective breath held in suspense.

But Volk’s reflexes were sharper. He sidestepped with uncanny grace, Kragath’s strike missing him by inches. WHOOSH!

Volk spun around, his eyes narrowing. “Really?” he barked, his voice sharp with disappointment.

Kragath grinned wickedly, showing bloodied teeth. “Mak’Gora isn’t about honor. It’s about survival, Warchief. Life and death.”

Volk growled, raising his gauntlet and pointing it directly at Kragath, who was crouched like a wounded predator. “Do you even understand what you’ve just done?” Volk began, his tone rising.

“You call yourself an Orc—a warrior—but you’ve insulted the very spirit of Mak’Gora. This wasn’t just a fight; it was a test of leadership! A test of worthiness!”

He paced back and forth, his frustration boiling over. “And you? You chose to sully that! You chose to strike me down like a coward! A dishonorable coward!”

Kragath sneered, blood dripping from his mouth. “Honor?” he spat. “What good is honor when you’re dead? You think the humans care about honor? You think they won’t stab you in the back the moment they can?”

Volk stopped pacing, glaring at Kragath. “I’m not a human!” he snapped, his voice reverberating through the clearing. “We are Orcs! We have traditions, principles! Mak’Gora is sacred! It’s a duel to prove strength and resolve, not an excuse for treachery!”

Kragath laughed bitterly, his body trembling from the effort. “Sacred? Tell me, Warchief, how many Mak’Goras have you fought? How many times have you put your life on the line?”

“Enough to know what it means,” Volk replied coldly.

“Enough to know that leadership isn’t just about brute strength. It’s about trust, respect, and unity. Without those, a horde is nothing but a rabble of fools swinging axes at shadows.”

Kragath dragged himself to one knee, his axe clutched weakly in his hand. His breathing was ragged, but his eyes burned with defiance.

“You speak like a human,” he hissed. “Mak’Gora is not about unity. It’s about survival. It’s about killing your opponent before they kill you. That’s the only rule that matters.”

Volk scoffed. “That’s the rule of desperate men. Of scavengers and beasts. You’ve fought in human arenas too long, Kragath. Their corruption has tainted you.”

“Tainted me?” Kragath’s voice rose. He staggered to his feet, his legs shaking but holding firm.

“You think you’re better because you’ve read some scrolls or heard some stories about honor? Let me tell you what Mak’Gora really is—it’s a fight for your life. No rules. No mercy. Only the strong survive. That’s the way of the Orcs!”

Volk shook his head, his expression hardening.

“No, that’s the way of the weak. The way of those too afraid to build something greater. You’re stuck in the past, Kragath, clinging to an outdated idea of strength. The world is changing, and if you don’t adapt, you’ll be left behind.”

Kragath laughed again, though it was laced with pain. “Adapt? By following your so-called honor? By letting my guard down and trusting you to spare me? No. I’ll fight until my last breath, Warchief. That’s the only way I know.”

Kragath roared, summoning every ounce of strength he had left. His axe flared with energy as he lunged at Volk, swinging wildly.

CLANG!

Volk raised his gauntlet, deflecting the blow.

Kragath followed up with a series of strikes, each one faster and more desperate than the last. But Volk was ready.

He dodged and parried with precision, his movements calm and measured.

“You’re done, Kragath,” Volk said, his voice steady. “You can barely stand. This fight is over.”

“Not until one of us is dead!” Kragath bellowed, raising his axe for one final strike.

Volk stepped in close, his gauntlet glowing. He slammed his fist into Kragath’s chest. BOOM!

The impact sent Kragath flying backward. He hit the ground hard, his weapons clattering beside him. Blood pooled beneath him as he struggled to breathe.

Volk walked over, standing above the fallen gladiator. He knelt, pressing the gauntlet against Kragath’s neck. “You’re finished,” he said, his tone cold.

Kragath coughed, blood spilling from his lips. His defiance flickered, replaced by a flicker of fear.

Volk leaned in closer, his voice low. “I told you—I’ll spare you for now. But try something like that again, and I won’t hesitate to end you. Do you understand?”

Kragath nodded weakly, his strength finally giving out.

The gauntlet hummed softly as Volk rose to his feet, turning to address the crowd of Orcs. They were silent, their faces a mix of awe and fear.

“Mak’Gora is over,” Volk declared. “Kragath has lost. The horde moves forward—together.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving Kragath broken but alive.

Meanwhile, Kragath lay sprawled on the blood-soaked dirt, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath.

For a moment, there was only silence, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Then, unexpectedly, a sound emerged—a weak, raspy chuckle.

Volk paused mid-step, turning to glance back at the fallen gladiator.

The chuckle grew louder. It rumbled from Kragath’s chest like the first tremor of an earthquake.

His cracked lips parted, revealing bloodied teeth, and the sound swelled into something deeper—a laugh.

The laugh started as a dry, broken sound, barely audible over the whispers of the gathered Orcs. But it refused to fade. It grew, rumbling in Kragath’s throat like a storm brewing in the distance.

“Huh…” he muttered between shallow breaths, his voice ragged yet defiant. “Heh…heh-heh…ha…ha-ha-ha…”

The Orcs exchanged uneasy glances, their confusion evident. Some stepped back, their instincts telling them something was wrong.

Kragath’s laughter deepened, taking on a guttural edge. His body shook violently, not from pain or exhaustion, but from the force of his mirth. Blood dripped from his split lip, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Ha…ha-ha…HAHAHA!”

The sound echoed through the clearing, bouncing off the surrounding trees.

It was wild, untamed, and unsettling.

The kind of laugh that didn’t just fill the air but dug into your bones, making your skin crawl.

“What’s wrong with him?” an Orc muttered, gripping his weapon tightly.

Another shrugged, his eyes darting nervously between Kragath and Volk. “He’s gone mad…”

But Kragath wasn’t mad. At least, not entirely. His laughter continued, each burst louder and more unhinged than the last. It rose like a crescendo, building toward something unstoppable.

Volk turned fully, his brow furrowing as he watched Kragath convulse on the ground, clutching his stomach. “What’s so funny?” he asked, his tone cold but tinged with curiosity.

Kragath ignored him, his laughter breaking into fits and starts. His voice was raw, cracking under the strain, but still, it persisted.

“You think this is over?” Kragath wheezed between gasps. “You…ha-ha-ha…you really think…ha-ha-ha-ha…you’ve won?”

Volk’s eyes narrowed. “You lost. Accept it.”

“Lost?” Kragath repeated, his laughter roaring back to life. “You don’t understand, Warchief. You’ve…ha-ha-ha…you’ve only just begun to fight.”

The sound grated on the nerves of the surrounding Orcs. One of them, a towering brute with jagged scars crisscrossing his chest, growled low in his throat. “Shut up, Kragath,” he snarled, stepping forward.

Kragath’s laughter didn’t waver. If anything, it grew louder, almost triumphant.

“Enough!” the scarred Orc roared. He stomped toward Kragath, raising a massive foot, and slammed it down onto his chest. THUD!

Kragath grunted but didn’t stop laughing. The sound spilled from his lips, even as blood bubbled up and stained his teeth.

Another Orc, smaller but no less furious, joined in. He swung a heavy fist, smashing it into Kragath’s jaw. The impact echoed like a drumbeat. But Kragath’s laugh only stuttered, resuming even louder than before.

“Why won’t you stop?” the smaller Orc growled, his voice trembling with frustration.

“Hit him again!” another shouted.

They piled onto him, fists and feet raining down in a flurry of violence.

Each blow landed with sickening force—THUD! CRACK! SMACK!—but Kragath remained undeterred.

His laughter filled the air, drowning out the sound of their strikes.

“Enough!” Volk barked, his voice sharp as a blade.

The Orcs hesitated, pulling back reluctantly. But even as they stepped away, Kragath’s body twitched, and his laughter rolled on.

Kragath spat blood onto the ground, his chest heaving as he finally began to quiet. His voice was hoarse, but his words were clear.

“You…ha-ha…you think you’ve won,” he said, his tone laced with defiance. He turned his bloodied face toward Volk, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. “But you…ha-ha-ha…you have no idea.”

The words hung in the air like a curse, chilling the gathered Orcs to their core.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep