Gerhardt, bloodied and battered, stumbled across the battlefield, every step a testament to his desperation.

His staff, a once-pristine artifact of power, was now splintered and smeared with grime, shaking in his trembling hands.

His mana reserves were nearly depleted, and his body screamed in agony from the countless wounds carved into his flesh. Yet, his eyes burned with a fierce determination.

“I won’t die here. Not like this. Not to them.” His voice was hoarse, barely audible above the chaos around him.

As he fell to his knees, surrounded by the smoldering ruins of his comrades and their fallen mounts, Gerhardt made a choice that would haunt the battlefield for eternity.

With trembling fingers, he reached into his blood-soaked robes and pulled out a rune-carved dagger, its blade gleaming faintly with forbidden magic.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, he thought grimly, clutching the dagger tightly.

“Mana needs a price,” he whispered to himself, his voice laced with both dread and resolve. “If the price is my own flesh, so be it.”

Without hesitation, he pressed the dagger against his left forearm and carved a deep, precise line into his skin.

Blood poured from the wound, but as it did, an eerie blue glow radiated from the cut.

Gerhardt winced but continued, his lips muttering incantations through the pain.

The runes on the dagger flared to life, consuming the spilled blood and channeling it into his veins, reigniting his mana reserves with a surge of raw, volatile energy.

His left arm, trembling from the strain, began to wither slightly, the flesh receding as if devoured by an unseen force. But Gerhardt ignored the pain.

He raised his staff, now glowing with unstable magic, and unleashed a torrent of elemental energy at the nearest group of Orcs.

Fire, ice, and lightning collided in a devastating explosion, incinerating the attackers and leaving a smoldering crater in their wake.

But it wasn’t enough.

Gerhardt staggered forward, his body screaming in protest.

The loss of blood was making him dizzy, but he gritted his teeth and pressed the dagger against his left thigh next.

This time, the cut was deeper, the glow brighter, and the pain sharper. His leg immediately felt weaker, the muscles shrinking as the life force was drained from them.

“More… I need more!” he growled, his voice growing more feral as desperation overtook reason.

Another spell erupted from his staff, this time a cascading wave of molten earth that surged across the battlefield, swallowing a dozen Ogres in its molten embrace.

The screams of his enemies filled the air, but so did the cries of his own body, which was rapidly deteriorating with every spell cast.

Gerhardt’s right hand was shaking violently now, the dagger barely steady as he brought it to his own shoulder.

This time, the cut wasn’t precise; it was jagged, brutal.

Blood sprayed everywhere as he cried out in agony, the mana pouring into him like a flood threatening to burst its dam.

A massive explosion of energy erupted from his staff, disintegrating an entire battalion of Orcs and sending shockwaves through the battlefield.

Even Volk, perched atop a mound of destruction, turned his head toward the light.

“Still clinging to life, are we?” Volk muttered, a cruel grin spreading across his face.

But Gerhardt didn’t notice. His world was a haze of pain and power, his mind fractured by the overwhelming strain.

He could barely stand, his body now frail and emaciated, his once-proud figure reduced to a gaunt shadow of itself.

As he stumbled, he whispered through bloodied lips, “If my life is the price… then take it all.”

He carved a final rune into his chest, the dagger falling from his hands as he collapsed to his knees.

The rune glowed brighter than any before it, consuming what little strength he had left.

He raised his staff one last time, aiming it toward Volk and the horde.

“I… won’t… fall… alone!”

The battlefield erupted in an enormous explosion of raw magic, a cataclysmic burst that threatened to consume everything in its radius.

Gerhardt, his body barely holding together, let out one final cry of defiance as the light enveloped him.

As the explosion’s light began to fade and the deafening roar dissipated into echoes across the battlefield, a figure emerged from the smoke unscathed.

Volk stepped forward, his muscular form towering over the ruined landscape.

His radioactive aura pulsed faintly, shielding him from the devastation Gerhardt had unleashed.

A wicked grin spread across his face as he looked down at the crumpled figure of the old mage, barely alive and kneeling amidst the smoldering remains of his futile sacrifice.

“Is that all, old man?” Volk’s voice was laced with venomous mockery, deep and resonant, cutting through the silence like a blade.

He took a step closer, his boots crushing the charred remains of the battlefield beneath them. “All that fanfare, all that bloodshed, just for… this?”

Gerhardt, trembling and barely able to lift his head, glared up at Volk through bloodshot eyes.

He tried to speak, but his voice failed him, a wet gurgle escaping his lips instead.

Volk crouched down, his glowing eyes narrowing as he tilted his head.

“You carved up your own body for this pathetic display of power. And for what? To burn a few Orcs? Kill a handful of Ogres? Pathetic.”

He stood again, his mocking laughter booming across the battlefield.

“You call yourself a third-stage mage? A warrior of magic? Look at you now. You’re nothing more than a husk. A sad, shriveled relic of a dying world.”

Volk’s words were like daggers, each one stabbing into Gerhardt’s pride. The old mage gritted his teeth, forcing his head to rise a fraction higher.

“Oh, what’s that?” Volk leaned in closer, cupping a hand to his ear theatrically. “Are you trying to say something? Go on, mage. Let the world hear your dying words.”

Gerhardt spat blood, his trembling hand grasping at his broken staff. He managed to rasp, “You… won’t… win…”

Volk roared with laughter, throwing his head back.

“Won’t win? Do you see this battlefield, old man? Your comrades are dead. Your precious mounts are corpses. And you…” He pointed at Gerhardt, his finger glowing with a faint radioactive light, “are already halfway in the grave.”

The towering Orc circled him slowly, like a predator playing with its prey.

“You thought you could stop me with your ‘sacrifices’? That you could harm me with your desperate little spells? I’ve faced gods, old man. You’re not even a worthy distraction.”

Volk stopped behind Gerhardt, placing a massive hand on the mage’s frail shoulder.

The heat of his touch burned through the mage’s tattered robes, eliciting a weak groan of pain.

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“But don’t worry,” Volk whispered, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “I’ll make this quick. After all, you’ve suffered enough. And I—”

His grin widened, exposing rows of sharp teeth. “—am nothing if not merciful.”

With a sharp shove, Volk sent Gerhardt sprawling to the ground, his body too weak to resist. He stood over him, raising his glowing fist high into the air.

“Any last words, old man? Or should I just end this pitiful charade?”

Volk’s grin faltered slightly as Gerhardt’s battered form began to glow faintly, an eerie light emanating from deep within his chest.

The old mage’s breathing was ragged, and his body trembled with exhaustion, but his eyes… his eyes burned with a defiant determination.

Without a word, Gerhardt clutched his broken staff and drove its splintered end into the ground.

The glow intensified, spreading outwards in a rippling wave. A translucent shield of radiant energy materialized around him, shimmering like molten glass.

Volk’s radioactive aura pulsed as he took a step back, his instincts warning him of the sudden shift.

He frowned, his mocking demeanor replaced by a wary curiosity. “Oh? What’s this? You’re still clinging to life, old man?”

Gerhardt didn’t reply. His lips moved in silent incantation, his focus unyielding.

Sweat poured down his face as veins of light crawled up his arms, converging at his trembling hands.

The shield around him thickened, glowing brighter with each passing second.

Volk narrowed his eyes. “You think hiding behind that little bubble will save you? It won’t. I’ll shatter it just like I shattered your comrades!”

He lunged forward, his fist glowing with a sickly green light as he slammed it into the barrier.

BOOOOM!

The impact sent a shockwave rippling across the battlefield, kicking up dust and debris. But when the dust settled, the shield stood firm, its surface unmarred.

Volk growled, his muscles tensing. He raised both fists, slamming them down together in a devastating double blow. CRAAAACK!

The ground beneath the shield splintered, but the barrier absorbed the attack with an almost taunting resilience.

Inside the shield, Gerhardt’s focus never wavered.

His internal struggle was immense; he had sacrificed something critical within himself—a fragment of his very essence, perhaps his lifeforce or his mana core.

He could feel his body weakening further, his hands shaking uncontrollably as he funneled every ounce of his remaining power into the spell he was conjuring.

Volk snarled, slamming his fists repeatedly against the barrier. “What are you doing in there, old man? Hiding? Cowering? You’re only delaying the inevitable!”

The Orc leader paused, his chest heaving with frustration.

He could feel it now—an ominous energy building within the shield. It wasn’t an attack, not yet. It was something… defensive, protective.

Volk tilted his head, his glowing eyes narrowing. “Ah, I see. You’re not attacking me. You’re stalling.”

A slow grin crept back onto his face as he crossed his arms, standing tall before the glowing barrier.

“Fine. Build your little defense, conjure your little spell. I’ll wait. And when you’re done…” He leaned closer, his voice dripping with menace, “I’ll make sure to destroy every last piece of you.”

Inside the shield, Gerhardt’s voice finally broke the silence, though it was faint, barely audible above the hum of the magic.

“I may not win… but I will ensure you don’t leave this battlefield unscathed.”

Volk’s grin faltered again, just for a moment.

Something in Gerhardt’s tone—an unyielding resolve, a hint of finality—sent a shiver through him.

“Do your worst,” Volk muttered, stepping back.

His fists clenched, his radioactive aura flaring wildly as he prepared for whatever the old man was planning.

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