The orc let out a bellow, rising from the pit of his chest, echoing through the broken hut like the cry of something ancient and primal. With every muscle flexed and teeth bared in fury, he lunged.

[Checking the fate of the sword. It intends to sever your shoulder.] 

[Checking the fate of the sword. It intends to slice your waist.] 

[Checking the fate of the sword. It intends to crush you with brute strength.] [Checking the orc’s fate. Rage and wildness have devoured his reason and calm. Ferocity has emerged.]

On a whim, or perhaps an instinct, the prince had pinched his nose in disgust.

And it worked.

He hadn’t expected it to, but the reaction was immediate. The orc’s fury intensified, his movements growing even more savage.

Of course, the orc didn’t understand the words. But he understood mockery. He understood contempt.

The prince laughed.

“If you smell that bad, the least you could do is wash. Getting mad over it? That’s why you’ll never stop being an orc. You filthy, reeking creature.”

He wondered how the orc would have reacted if he could understand.Between the whirlwind attacks and the scrolling fates dancing before his eyes, the prince still found time to chuckle.

This beast, this chieftain, was actually bothered by an insult. How utterly absurd.

They shouted over each other, a pair of beasts speaking languages they couldn’t understand, but somehow both hearing the insult in every breath.

The orc’s sword came like a storm. Every swing meant to kill. The prince dodged narrowly, parried with all the strength in his arms. Every impact sent tremors through his bones.

His wrists ached. His body staggered.

The orc was strong. Unquestionably.

He hadn’t simply ruled through the frost that now blanketed the air, he’d earned it with strength.

And still, the prince refused help. He could have let the others deal with it. Could have commanded it.

But he didn’t.

Because of what the orc represented.

[The opponent’s fate: Cold creeps steadily and begins to overtake the surroundings!]

Their swords sparked each time they clashed, bursts of fire erupting,only to vanish in the cold.

The hut grew colder. Freezing. Limbs stiffened.

The fire the prince wielded had dulled, reduced to mere embers. It flickered, struggling to survive in the tide of ice.

“Your Highness!”

“We’ll help you!”

Andre and Sol shouted. Their voices shook with worry.

“Stay out of it! You’re interfering!” the prince snapped. His voice rang with fury.

“Fall back to the edge! All of you! That’s an order!”

He drove them back. Not out of pride, but because he knew. This wasn’t just a fight.

This was a statement.

“You orcs claim to love sacred duels. Then here it is. Come at me, you stinking brute.”

He raised Breaker high and charged again.

Every strike from Breaker sent up a chorus of flame and steel. The orc met him head-on with brute force, trying to crush him through sheer might.

The prince aimed for flesh. For blood. For the gap in his enemy’s form.

Their duel was no display of elegance. It was pure, violent survival.

[Checking the fate of this location. The weight of collapse is heaviest here!]

The prince smiled.

He had felt it. The trembling beneath his feet.

To those watching, the prince seemed moments from collapse.

“He’s going to fall! We have to do something!”

“He can’t keep this up alone!”

Andre and Sol were on the verge of defying their orders.

“…Wait,” Alfred murmured. “Let’s watch just a little longer.”

His words were strained, his hands shaking.

Quietly, he released his spirit companion, letting it drift toward the battlefield like a soft breath. It hovered, prepared.

Sol, still bound by duty, summoned his shadows instead. They snaked toward the edges of the hut, ready to strike.

Every mage prepared an incantation. Every knight raised a sword, holding position by sheer will.

“Steady yourselves,” Count Balzac commanded. Arms crossed, jaw tense.

“If we lose our calm, what use are we?”

He didn’t look calm. Not truly.

But his words were iron.

“His Highness placed his trust in us. Let us return that trust.”

Yes, the prince stumbled. His breath was ragged.

But …

“He always recovers. His stance adjusts. His blade doesn’t waver for long.”

“But the frost… It’s growing stronger.”

“His fire is nearly gone.”

The northern knights weren’t wrong.

Balzac frowned. Deeply.

The fire that scorched the entire fortress… Why had it not touched this hut?

Could the orc’s frost truly overpower it?

If that were true, the fire wouldn’t have reached the stronghold’s core at all.

Something was wrong.

Something… calculated.

And then … 

He saw it.

A smile on the prince’s face, a cold, sharp smile.

“…No.”

“Your Highness?”

“Alfred?”

Even Andre and Sol recoiled a step.

That smile only appeared before chaos.

The central and northern knights who had witnessed the prince’s previous… outbursts… tensed in unison.

At that moment, the prince shifted his weight … Planted his foot.

And then … 

“KRAKAKAKAKANG”!

The duel exploded into pure violence.The orc swung with bone-breaking force.

The prince twisted and slid beneath it, countering with Breaker.

Their swords locked.

Every muscle, every tendon strained.

Blood sprayed. Flesh tore.

The battle was no longer technique, it was will.

A struggle of spirit.

And through it all, the prince fought like a hawk.

Not graceful, rather predatory.

When he struck, it was like an eagle diving for a kill.

A winged beast piercing the wind, and finally, as if the eagle had struck the earth …

“CRACK”! 

The ground shuddered.

Even Balzac froze, and so did the orc.

“…GRAAAAGH!”

Breaker found its mark.

The orc’s side split open … Blood gushed.

He fell to a knee, holding the wound shut with one hand. But still, he raised his sword.

He roared.

And then , 

“Look up, fool.” The prince pointed skyward.

A shadow blotted out the light.

Balzac twisted mid-swing, his blade slicing through the roof instead.

Light spilled in.

And with it …

“…Gods.”

A slab of ice … No, a glacier.

Above them, and above everything.

Flames still burned across the stronghold.

And now, the air was filled with wind and heat, rising upward.

Collecting beneath the dome.

That was why neither fire nor wind had been present in the duel.

“…He planned this.”

Balzac’s voice trembled.

“…He set this up during the fight?!”

It should have been over, one swing from him could’ve ended it.

Why … Why would the prince go this far?

And then, the prince turned and smiled.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Ridiculous.

And yet, the orc… understood.

He laughed, as if he accepted it, raised his sword, not to fight, but to receive the glacier.

His frost surged upward, trying to hold it, trying to protect… something, but it wasn’t enough.

His wound split further. His belly opened, and his organs spilled.

The ice continued falling, and yet, the prince did nothing, he only watched.

And finally … 

“THUMP”.

The orc knelt … Arms raised, knees in the bloodied frost.

Like a man surrendering to a god.

His eyes …They glowed red with hate, with fury, with defiance.

And the prince , 

“Give it up. This fight’s over. You were never meant to wield power like this.”

His tone was not cruel, only… bored, and quietly disgusted.