The battlefield stood still. The impossible had happened—General Viktor "Bloodfang" Kruger had been struck.
A single, precise blow from Vasily Petrov had sent the Overlord staggering. His undead soldiers, his lieutenants, even Sergeant Rook—all were frozen in disbelief.
Kruger's fingers curled into fists. His veins pulsed with blackened energy, his breath came in short, angry bursts. He slowly raised his gaze, eyes burning with hatred and something deeper—recognition.
"You dare?" Kruger growled, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers through the air.
Petrov stood firm, his expression unreadable, his stance unwavering. The old warlord had seen monsters before. He had made monsters before.
And now, he had returned to kill one.
"You've lost control, Viktor," Petrov said coldly, dusting off his coat. "You were never meant to be the beast. You were meant to command it."
Kruger spat blood onto the ground, grinning. "I command death itself."
Faster than any normal man—a blur of rage and power. His fist shot forward, aimed to crush Petrov's skull.
A whisper of movement—then a brutal counterstrike slammed into Kruger's ribs. A shockwave rippled through his body.
For the second time, Kruger staggered.
Rook's heart thundered in his chest. This shouldn't be happening.
No one had ever made Kruger stumble.
Kruger straightened, his face twisted with something far worse than rage—uncertainty. His muscles flexed, his supernatural body repairing the damage instantly, but the pain still lingered.
Petrov exhaled, his breath steady. "You can still stop this, Viktor. This war doesn't need to end with you buried beneath it."
Kruger snarled. "I don't take orders anymore."
Petrov's gaze darkened. "Then you will fall like all the rest."
Fists met steel, bone cracked against bone, the ground beneath them shattered from the sheer force of their blows. Kruger was a berserker, every attack meant to break and obliterate.
But Petrov? Petrov was the storm.
Every movement was precise, every counterattack sent shockwaves through Kruger's enhanced body.
For the first time in years—Kruger was fighting someone who truly matched him.
Rook could only watch, breathless. This was beyond war. This was something primal.
A battle of two titans.
Blood dripped from Kruger's knuckles. His feral grin never faded.
But for the first time—he felt it.
Then, a sharp whistle echoed through the air.
A missile streaked from the darkness—headed straight for them.
Kruger and Petrov barely had time to react.
The battlefield erupted in a storm of fire and debris.
When the dust cleared—only one figure remained standing.
And it wasn't Kruger.