Sanctuary: Safe Haven

Vorgrim—Canna's second born and the general of the shock troops of the sanctuary—stood tall, his red skin gleaming under the dim light of the arena. He wasn't built for mass destruction like Mortem, Canna's firstborn, whose undead armies could decimate villages if he wanted. No, Vorgrim's strength lay in his raw power, his unmatched skills in close combat.

He was born to fight, to conquer—one opponent at a time.

In the sanctuary arena, Vorgrim was the undisputed champion. Though Mortem thrived in large-scale battles with his necromantic forces, Vorgrim excelled in one-on-one duels. He was a warrior in the purest sense, forged from the blood of the Voragons, a race of ancient, relentless conquerors.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

They were the first race in Sepra to discover martial arts, the first to train with weapons and hone their bodies for combat. And they were ruthless, known to conquer entire nations just for the thrill of fighting powerful opponents.

It was said that the Voragons had been wiped out long ago, their savagery leading them to challenge forces they couldn't defeat. But the tales were fragmented, and even Canna didn't have the full story of their downfall. What mattered now was that Vorgrim was the last of his kind—a relic of a bygone era, standing before the saint of Clan Varran, ready to prove his mettle once more.

Vorgrim's eyes gleamed with the fire of battle as he regarded the saint. The elder had shed his aura of calm and now stood ready, his muscles taut, his fists clenched. Vorgrim, in a show of respect, tossed aside his own weapons, letting them clatter to the floor of the arena. This was to be a battle of fists, and Vorgrim would face the saint as a warrior—no weapons, no tricks.

"Warrior, prepare." Vorgrim's voice rumbled like distant thunder as he raised his fists, stepping forward with unshakable confidence.

The saint felt a ripple of unease run through him. Vorgrim was only a great-calamity, but the aura he projected was something else entirely. His presence was overwhelming, the weight of centuries of battle experience clinging to him like a shroud. Still, the saint pushed the feeling aside. No matter how strong this newcomer was, he was still just a great-calamity.

The elder, with his saint rank, was far more powerful. He would obliterate Canna's red-skinned subordinate and end this farce.

With another thunderstrike, the fight began.

Vorgrim moved first, his fists a blur as he closed the distance between them. He didn't rely on raw strength alone—every strike was calculated, a deadly combination of speed, precision, and power honed over countless battles. His punches came in swift, brutal arcs, aiming for the saint's vital points with unerring accuracy.

The saint responded in kind, his fists meeting Vorgrim's with the force of a crashing wave. The arena trembled under the power of their blows, each impact sending shockwaves through the ground. Fist met fist, and the sound was like steel clashing against steel.

Vorgrim grunted as his knuckles collided with the saint's body—his opponent's fists were as hard as metal, likely enhanced by some martial skill. But the Vorgrim didn't waver. He pressed the attack, moving with the grace and savagery of a beast, his movements fluid and relentless. Continue reading stories on empire

The saint threw a heavy punch toward Vorgrim's midsection, but the red-skinned warrior dodged it with ease, countering with a devastating uppercut that sent the saint staggering back. Vorgrim followed up with a spinning kick, his foot crashing into the saint's side with a force that would have broken lesser men in half.

The crowd watched in awe. They had expected the saint to crush Vorgrim in mere moments, but the two were evenly matched. The saint was stronger, faster, but Vorgrim's experience and tactical mind allowed him to keep up, meeting every strike with a counter, every blow with a dodge or parry.

Canna, seated on a conjured chair at the far end of the arena, watched the battle unfold with a faint smile on his lips. He knew Vorgrim could handle this. The Voragon had faced countless foes in the arena, from beastly monsters to seasoned warriors. And this saint, for all his power, was just another challenger.

The saint, however, was growing frustrated. His punches became heavier, faster. He could feel himself being pushed back, and his pride wouldn't allow it. With a roar, he activated one of his strongest skills—his body grew larger, his fists glowing with a golden light as his speed and strength increased dramatically.

The saint lunged forward, his enhanced strength sending shockwaves through the air as he aimed a punch straight at Vorgrim's chest. But Vorgrim anticipated the move, ducking under the blow and countering with a blow to the ribs that made the saint grunt in pain.

The fight had escalated into a brutal brawl, both fighters landing devastating blows that would have crippled anyone else. But Vorgrim was not slowing down. If anything, he was getting stronger, his attacks more precise as he adapted to the saint's new strength.

__________

Meanwhile, Varya was barking orders through her communication stone, her voice filled with frustration. Minutes had passed, and yet no one had responded to her calls. Usually, there would be an immediate reply, especially in an emergency like this, but now there was only silence.

Her instincts suddenly screamed at her to dodge, and she barely managed to sidestep in time to avoid a bone spear that had been aimed directly at her head. She looked up, her eyes narrowing at the sound of clacking bones in front of her.

Mortem, Canna's firstborn, materialized from the shadows, his skeletal form towering over her, his menacing staff at the ready.

Hovering above, Noctis had cast a spell that blocked Varya's communications, ensuring she would receive no help. Mortem's mission was clear: Capture Varya. It was a direct order from Canna, and Mortem would not fail.

Varya stared at the skeletal figure before her, weighing her options.

"You won't take me that easily, monster," Varya hissed, summoning her sword and taking a fighting stance.

Mortem's soulless eyes gleamed in the dim light, and without a word, he charged at her, his staff raised high, the very air around him crackling with dark energy.