The Warchief laughed, and the sound rolled across the battlefield like thunder breaking against stone. It was loud, rough, and filled with a wild confidence that refused to bend, even in the face of something that did not make sense to him.
"You were bleeding profusely," he said, his voice carrying a harsh edge as he stared at Clay with burning eyes. "Do you really think you're still invincible? How is it? Not bored anymore?"
Clay lifted his hand and wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his fingers. The red stain smeared across his skin, yet his expression remained calm, almost uninterested, as though the pain had already been pushed aside and forgotten.
"A little," Clay replied, his tone light and unbothered. "But I hope you have more."
For a brief moment, silence hung in the air.
Then the Warchief grinned, his teeth showing as his lips stretched wide.
"Then," he said, his voice lowering into something more dangerous, "let's do it again!"
