Demos' heart was racing with each step the man took. It beat so loudly, it seemed even the man could hear it.
The man's laughter echoed through the clearing, causing the other four men to turn and stare at Demos. Their faces, etched with battle scars, gleamed with excitement.
The man said, "Ahahahaha! Look at him, brothers!" he exclaimed, pointing at Demos. "He's so scared, his heart is beating like a warrior's in the heat of combat!"
The other men chuckled and snickered, their eyes fixed on Demos. One of them, seemingly the leader, stepped forward. He was a towering figure, with a thick beard and a fierce gaze. His body was covered in battle scars, a testament to his many victories.
"Enough laughter, brothers," the leader growled. "We have a feast to prepare. And our guest is the main course!"
The men cheered and began to close in on Demos. But Demos, fueled by adrenaline and determination, stood his ground.
"Which of you is the leader? I challenge you, leader," Demos declared, his voice steady. "If I defeat you, I'll become the new leader."
The leader sneered, clearly amused by Demos' bravery.
"You think you can defeat me, little one? I am Gorthok, the greatest warrior of our tribe!"
After cutting the vines and setting Demos free, Demos stood tall, his eyes locked onto the tribe leader.
"I am Demos, a Spartan warrior," he declared, his voice firm and commanding. "I challenge you, Gorthok, for the leadership of this tribe."
Gorthok's expression shifted from amusement to curiosity.
"Spartan warrior?" he repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "I have never heard of such a thing. What is this 'Sparta' you speak of?"
Demos smiled, a fierce glint in his eye.
"Sparta is the birthplace of the greatest warriors to have ever lived," he explained.
Gorthok's eyes narrowed, clearly intrigued.
"I will enjoy watching you eat back those words," he said, cracking his knuckles in anticipation.
Demos nodded. "I will not disappoint."
The two men faced each other, eyes locked in a fierce stare. The air was electric with tension, thick with bloodlust and anticipation. They circled one another, shoulders tense, muscles coiled like springs.
Gorthok, fueled by rage and adrenaline, erupted forward with a guttural roar. His massive foot thundered against the ground. Demos, anticipating the bull-like rush, sidestepped at the last second. As Gorthok's momentum carried him forward, Demos twisted and drove a tight, snapping right hook into Gorthok's ribs. The impact landed with a sickening thud.
Gorthok stumbled back, snarling. He spun and swung a massive fist in a wide arc, aiming to cave in Demos' skull. Demos ducked just in time. The wind of the blow cut past his head, powerful enough to rustle his hair.
Demos countered with a flurry—his fists pistoning forward. The first punch cracked Gorthok's cheekbone. A left jab struck his nose, spraying blood. Demos followed with a roundhouse kick, his shin slamming into Gorthok's side with a dull crack.
But Gorthok was relentless.
He absorbed the punishment and surged forward. He blocked Demos' next punch with a crushing forearm, then parried a kick by slamming his elbow down onto Demos' thigh, numbing it. Gorthok's counterblow was savage—his fist hammered into Demos' ribs like a battering ram, and an uppercut snapped Demos' head back.
They collided in a brutal grapple. Legs entangled, they crashed to the ground, rolling in the dirt as fists and elbows flew. Gorthok's knee drove into Demos' stomach; Demos retaliated with a headbutt. Blood poured from both brows.
Demos roared and threw a vicious right cross to Gorthok's jaw, blood and spit flying from his mouth. Gorthok reeled, stumbling—dazed, but not beaten. Blood dripped from his lips, eyes gleaming with hatred.
With animalistic desperation, Gorthok tackled Demos, slamming him to the ground. Dust and blood sprayed as Gorthok's weight crushed him. Arms like iron bars squeezed Demos' chest, choking the air from his lungs.
But Demos refused to yield.
With a roar, veins bulging, he summoned the last of his strength. He twisted and heaved, rolling Gorthok off with a thunderous slam.
They lay there for a breathless moment, blood-soaked and heaving. Demos' eyes, blurred with blood, never left Gorthok's. He spat blood to the side.
Gorthok snarled, face drenched in gore. The three deep claw marks on his face leaked blood to his chest. He staggered upright, swaying. Demos rose, pain stabbing through every limb, fists trembling.
They faced each other once more, chests heaving.
With a bone-shattering bellow, Gorthok lunged. His fists crashed down—one struck Demos' shoulder, another crushed into his ribs. A third blow landed squarely on Demos' face, cartilage shattering. Another crashed into his temple—he dropped like a felled tree.
Demos gasped, spitting out shards of teeth. His face was swollen and bruised. He tried to rise, only to be stomped down again.
Still, he refused to stay down.
With a final, guttural cry, Demos surged upward. He drove a punch into Gorthok's throat. Another followed to the temple. A third—raw, primal—landed on Gorthok's jaw. A sharp crack echoed.
Demos didn't stop.
He grabbed Gorthok's head and plunged his thumbs into his eyes. Gorthok shrieked, blood pouring from his sockets. Demos' breath was ragged, his jaw broken, but his wrath was pure.
With a final haymaker, Demos drove his fist into Gorthok's jaw. The bone cracked like dry timber. Gorthok collapsed, limbs twitching, his body landing in the dirt—motionless.
Demos stood over him, drenched in blood—his own and Gorthok's. His chest heaved. He stood tall. Victorious.
"It's over," Demos declared, his voice hoarse. "I'm the victor."
The tribesmen, who had been watching in awe, nodded. They acknowledged Demos as the new leader.
But as soon as he declared victory, Demos' body gave out. He fell, vision blurring, struggling to stay conscious.
The warriors carefully lifted Demos and Gorthok and carried them to a nearby cave. The cave was cramped and dimly lit, the air thick with sweat and blood.
They laid the warriors on the cold stone. The tribe's healer, a wise woman named Akira, began tending to their wounds.
She cleaned Demos' wounds, applying a poultice to his broken jaw. She worked equally carefully on Gorthok, cleaning and soothing his battered face.
The tribe gathered, their faces lit by the faint moonlight through the cave entrance.
"What shall we do with him?" one warrior asked, nodding at Gorthok. "He has brought shame to our tribe."
"We should banish him," another said. "Let him fend for himself."
But Akira shook her head.
"We cannot banish him," she said. "Gorthok is one of us. We must help him to heal—and to find his way again."
The tribe nodded, eyes fixed on Demos and Gorthok.
Three Days Later
Demos woke up to see a system notification hovering in front of him:
[System Task Complete]
Just as Demos was about to learn more, he heard a noise to his left.
He realized he was still in the cave—and his wounds were healing at a rate impossible for the human eye to follow. Then he noticed it.
An unfamiliar person was walking toward him.